Page 66 of Forbidden Kisses
Grace watched him go. Noah was right. The guy wasn’t a true fisherman. This was probably just a summer job to him, unlike the rest of the Sawyers. Unlike her. She liked working here. She didn’t want the tension she’d caused between herself and Noah to affect her role in the business. What if she had to stop working here?
Fear bubbled to the surface.
What have I done?
Maybe she was just as good at destroying things as her mother was.
—
Jack had powered through the day, working with Tristan on their latest project. Then he’d returned home and continued working on the small boat he was constructing in his garage. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with it yet. Or if the thing would even float when he was done.
Now he was showered and heading over to Castaways for a beer.
His phone rang in his pocket. Tristan’s number crossed his caller ID. “What’s up?” he asked, pulling the phone to his ear.
“You tell me? Did you call social services on my dad?”
Jack’s foot lifted off the gas pedal. Weren’t those calls supposed to be anonymous? “What happened?” Jack asked, not committing to anything.
“I told you that stuff in confidence. I thought we were, you know, friends.”
“I’m an adult and you’re still a kid, Tristan. I know you don’t see it that way right now.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been talking to me about how to be a man and now you’re calling me a kid? I’m calling your bullshit.”
Jack took a steadying breath. “What happened?” He turned into a grocery store parking lot and parked so that he could attend to his call.
“Some social worker came to my house and asked me and my dad a bunch of questions. That’s what happened. And now I’m being kicked out of my own home. Dad is pissed and he wants me gone.”
“You’re a kid. He can’t do that.”
“Well, he is. And my friend says the room I was going to rent is now being rented by someone else. I’m homeless and it’s all your fault.” The kid’s voice softened.
“Did he hit you again?” Jack asked, suddenly worried. He tried to think of where Tristan lived, but wasn’t sure. “Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough? Just forget it. I’m going to go man up, like you taught me. Maybe someone could teach you a thing or two about being a man.”
Jack’s jaw hardened as the phone clicked and he heard silence. He cursed as he tossed his cellphone to the passenger seat. Why was everything suddenly going to shit in his life? Noah wasn’t talking to him, Grace was upset, and now Tristan hated his guts and was apparently homeless because he’d tipped off social services. But he hadn’t had a choice. He cared about the teen.
Jack beat a hand across his steering wheel, then cursed again as pain seared through the side of his wrist. He sucked in a breath and blew it out, then pulled his truck back onto the road, heading in a different direction. He’d thought he would stay away from Grace at the office today, on the off-chance that Noah was there. Seeing them together at the scene of the crime might not help things. But screw it. Things couldn’t possibly get worse, so he might as well see Grace, because she made things better in his world.
Before pulling in, he made sure Noah’s truck wasn’t around. Then he parked and headed inside. Grace wasn’t at her desk. She wasn’t in the bathroom or the supply room, either. Jack walked over to her desk and took a seat to wait for her. She’d probably stepped outside for air.
Jack tapped the mouse pad on the company laptop to cut the screen saver and check his email. Grace’s personal email account was up, which was fine by him. The Sawyer Seafood Company was a relaxed work place. As long as people did their job, they were allowed to check their email and social media when they had the chance. He moved the cursor to minimize the current screen, then paused when he saw an open email from a sender named Garrison Tomlin.
Jack stared at the name for a moment, trying to remember where he knew it from. He knew he shouldn’t, but he continued to read.
Dear Miss Donner,
The boat isn’t for sale.
Regards,
G. Tomlin
Jack read the email again. What boat wasn’t for sale? He clicked the previous email—the one that had prompted Mr. Tomlin’s response, again knowing that he was nosing in business that wasn’t his.
Dear Mr. Tomlin,
