Page 12 of Everything You Hate
I whistle for Captain, who’s terrorizing the chickens, and head for my truck.
The bird swoops down and lands on my shoulder with a squawk. “Fuck off, feather duster,” he says cheerfully.
“Knew I’d regret saying that.”
“Abort, abort!” he replies.
“Wish I could,” I mutter as I climb into my truck.
The drive back to the marina is quiet. Captain settles on the dashboard, preening his feathers and occasionally muttering obscenities under his breath. I focus on the road, but my mind keeps circling back to the sharp intelligence behind Scarlett Crawford’s blue eyes, and the TV-ready smile that looked as hollow as she felt when I caught her.
I don’t trust her.
Not for a second.
But I’m also not sure I trust myself around her, and that’s a problem I haven’t had in a long time.
Chapter Three
Scarlett
The Tidewater Resort looks like a modern art museum that committed a hate crime against good taste.
I stand at the bottom of the sweeping drive, my suitcase dripping onto the manicured gravel, and stare up at the glass-and-concrete monolith Malcolm Merrick apparently calls a hotel. It perches on the hill above Port Haven like a predator, all sharp angles and gleaming surfaces, the antithesis of everything below it—the weathered storefronts, the buzzing neon diner sign, the salt-stained dock where I left my dignity bobbing in the water.
A valet materializes and takes my suitcase without a flicker when water drips onto his white gloves.
“Ms. Crawford. Welcome to the Tidewater.” He makes my name sound like something he memorized off a briefing sheet. “Mr. Merrick is expecting you.”
I smooth my damp blazer and try not to think about the state of my underwear. The Prada suitcase proved its waterproof claims; everything inside has the soft, sad texture of clothes thatwere submerged and then dried in transit. I’m wearing the least wrinkled option, which is still wrinkled enough to signalwoman who recently went swimming with her luggage.
The lobby hits me with air-conditioned chill and the scent of money. White marble, floor-to-ceiling windows over the sound, abstract sculptures that cost more than my last year’s rent. The woman behind the front desk gives me the same rehearsed smile the valet used.
They’ve been told I’m coming. They’ve been told to be nice.
Malcolm Merrick’s office is on the top floor. The elevator gives me thirty seconds with my reflection in the brass doors. My hair has dried into a haystack and my mascara has migrated south, giving me the faintly tragic look of a woman who cried at a movie. I finger-comb the worst of it and paste on the camera smile.
The doors open directly into his office. No reception. No assistant. You arrive where he is.
Malcolm rises from behind a desk the size of my first apartment. Tall, fit for a man pushing sixty, salt-and-pepper hair, a jawline that belongs on currency. His handshake is firm. His suit is immaculate.
“Scarlett Crawford.” His voice is deep and unhurried, a voice built for quieting rooms. “A genuine pleasure. Thank you for coming all this way.”
“Thank you for the invitation. And the accommodations.”
“Please.” He gestures to the low leather chairs by the windows. Then, as I sit: “Though I confess you’ve caught us out. We had you arriving tomorrow.”
“I moved my flight. I wanted a day to walk around before the work started.”
“Initiative.” He says it warmly. He doesn’t sit down for another second and a half. “We’d have sent a car. We’d have arranged your afternoon.”
“I managed.”
“So I hear.” He settles across from me at last. “Sit. Something to drink? Coffee, tea, something stronger?”
“Water’s fine.”
He pours it himself, from a crystal carafe, without calling anyone.
