Page 8 of A Shore Fling
“I’m David. You must be looking for the boat keys.”
I nod. “Yes, please.”
He opens a book and scrolls his finger down the page. “Okay. You’re on the list.” He rises, moving from behind the desk, and crosses the room to open a metal cabinet. When he closes the doors, he jangles a ring of keys on his finger. “Here you go.” He delivers them to me.
“Thank you.”
“Let me walk you down to the slip.”
“That would be great,” I say, smiling.
I follow him outside, and we start toward the pier. Once we hit the wooden planks, the wheels on my suitcase bump along with enough force to dislocate my shoulder, but he doesn’t offer to help me. Oh well, I’ve got this. I may be out of the city and out of my element, but I’m the same independent woman who’s used to taking care of herself.
We continue to move across the pier, and when we’re almost to the end, he stops next to a sleek white and red motorboat that says Sea Ray on the side. It looks expensive and bigger than I imagined. For the first time since I left my apartment this morning, I feel a sense of anxiety. Staring at the boat, I will it to shrink. I was expecting a small fishing tin can with a couple of benches and a motor on the back—not an actual high-speed motorboat.
“How big is this?” I ask.
“Only twenty-one feet.”
Only?
David takes my suitcase from me, setting it down inside before he climbs in. “Hand me your duffel bag.”
I smirk at Moreau’s five-thousand-dollar Italian leather bag being referred to that way. My dad would have a breakdown if he were here.
“Take my hand and carefully step up.” David taps the swim deck.
I do as he says, making it safely aboard with the boat rocking beneath my feet. It takes a bit to adjust to the motion, but he doesn’t seem to be having the same problem. He opens up a bench seat and removes an orange life jacket that looks like it’s as old as me. “You need to wear this.”
Pulling it over my head, I snap the two clips on the front closed.
“Ever driven a boat before?” he asks.
“Never. I’m from New York City. I barely ever drive because I hate dealing with the traffic.”
“But you have your driver’s license?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He shrugs. “Good enough.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. If you can handle a car in New York City, a boat should be easy in comparison.”
I sure hope he’s serious.
He points to the console. “Throttle’s here. There’s forward, neutral, and reverse.” His gaze flicks in my direction to make sure I’m paying attention. “You always start in neutral. This switch is the trim, but you don’t need to touch that.”
“What does that do?”
“It raises or lowers the bow to optimize performance, fuel efficiency, and comfort.”
“Well, I’ll just pretend that button doesn’t exist.”
“Here’s the ignition and the steering wheel,” he continues.
“I know what those two things are. Yay for me.” I pump my fist, but David doesn’t seem as impressed.
