Dean winks at me before striding back to the front of the boat, shrugging on his own vest.
“Safety first, Sunshine,” he calls over his shoulder.
Seagulls scream overhead as we motor out of the marina. Dean has a map pulled up on a screen and he studies it as we get up to speed, the boat bouncing over the waves.
“Jake said you’re trying to get some kind of grant for Wychwood Island?” Dean calls. The wind pulls my hair out of my neatly pinned bun, whipping it around my face, and I have to hold it in a ponytail to keep it out of my mouth.
“Research grant,” I shout over the roar of the wind. The boat heaves over a large swell and my stomach drops, a wave of nausea washing over me. This does not bode well for the rest of the trip.
A month ago, the old historian at the town museum passed away. My mom called me up that afternoon, alternating between weeping over Fred’s passing and gleefully begging me to apply for his position.
“You’d be running your own museum, sweetheart. Think how nice that would be. And the museum needs some modernization, you could do that. Fred never was very good with technology. Oh, poor Fred!”
She wasn’t wrong. The appeal of running my own facility, even a tiny one, was more than I could resist. The museum board, which is conveniently filled with my mother’s bingo buddies, offered me the position about seven minutes after I applied on the town website. Apparently, nepotism is alive and well in Sugar Creek.
The boat lifts and does another sickening drop over the back of a wave. My insides twist, nausea overwhelming every other sensation. Dean glances at me, brows furrowed.
“You okay back there? You look a little green around—”
I don’t catch whatever colorful euphemism he offers because, at that exact moment, my stomach tries to exit my body through my esophagus.
2
Dean
Ihaven’t seen little Sutton O’Brien in years, and damn if she didn’t grow up hot. The curves might be new, but that spitfire attitude is just as I remembered it. Sutton and my sister Kenna were joined at the hip as kids, but she never thought much of me.
On the rare occasion I could pull Sutton’s attention away from her books, it only ever earned me a glare. Although, a glare from Sutton was always more fun than fuck-me eyes from anyone else.
But Sutton isn’t glaring now. In fact, she looks white as a sheet, her eyes wide and unfocused. I run whale watching excursions all day, every day so I know the expression of someone who forgot their Dramamine.
“You okay back there? You look a little green around the—”
Sutton whips around and kneels on the bench, leaning out over the water as she loses her breakfast.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter, slowing the boat to a stop. The wind is kicking her hair up in red wisps around her face. She’s trying to hold it back while clinging to the railing and tossing her cookies, but it’s not going well, so I do the gentlemanly thing. I gather the silky strands and hold it out of her face while she dry heaves over the side of my boat.
“Don’t look at me,” she moans.
“You think I haven’t seen people upchuck before?” I let my fingers dig into her hair just a little. “Holding back hair is fifty percent of the job, Sutton.”
“Don’t pull my hair, Dean. You know I hate that.”
“How can you be so sure? I haven’t pulled it in at least a decade. Maybe you’ll like it better this time.”
Sutton squints up at me, green eyes wide and disbelieving. “Are youreallymaking dirty jokes while I vomit?”
“Well, I figured you were nearly done, so…” I shrug and grin at her.
She rolls her eyes, reaching up to push my hand away.
“How thoughtful,” she deadpans. Her fingers slide over mine as she takes her hair back. I let her go, trying to ignore the prickle at the back of my neck at her touch. Shaking out my hand, I go to the cooler and pull out a cold Dr. Pepper, holding it out to her. She stares at it, shaking her head.
“I don’t drink soda.”
“It’ll make you feel better, Sunshine. Just take it.”
Sutton sighs, but takes the can anyway.