Page 21 of Everything You Hate
“Since when do you play bodyguard?” Curt’s grin turns sly, mean. “You of all people, Kinsella. Half this harbor won’t set foot on your boat, and you’re out here defending some washed-up?—”
“We’re done here, Curt.”
That’s all Dean says. His voice is low, final, and he presses his hand to the small of my back, guiding me up the dock.
Curt calls something after us. The wind whips away the words, but the tone of it is ugly, and Dean tightens up beside me. His palm presses a fraction harder against my back as he steers me up the ramp, but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t give Curt the satisfaction of a fight.
His hand doesn’t drop away until we are inside the Haven Tours office. Abel is nowhere to be seen, but Captain is there, preening his feathers from the top of the filing cabinet, and he tilts his head at me with what I swear is sympathy.
“Rude,” he announces.
Tell me about it.
My hands are shaking. I stuff them into the pockets of my jacket before Dean notices.
“That guy.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect. “Curt. Is he— should I be worried about him?”
“No.” He’s already moving toward the back room, like he can’t get away from me fast enough. “Curt Malloy’s a mean drunk with a grudge. He’s an asshole.”
“Asshole,” Captain echoes. “Asshole! Rude asshole!”
Dean glances over at his parrot with narrowed eyes before adding, “What Curt said has got nothing to do with you. Wait a few minutes before you leave. He won’t bother you again.”
But it feels like it had everything to do with me.
I hate that my public meltdown is my legacy. Nobody remembers I was once a good reporter who covered interesting, difficult, and meaningful stories. They only remember the morning show. The meltdown.
Dean could have let Curt have his fun. He could have stood there and watched the way everyone else on that dock did, and no one would have blamed him.
But he didn’t. Even though he obviously dislikes me. Even though he thinks I’m exactly the kind of woman Curt painted me as—washed-up, entitled, famous for the wrong reasons.
This man is a puzzle.
And I’ve never been able to resist a puzzle.
“Dean?”
He pauses at the door, one hand on the frame, and for just a second his shoulders drop.
“I want to book another tour.”
Chapter Five
Dean
“Why the hell would you want to do that?”
It’s not an answer. She asked to book another tour, and I’ve thrown a question back at her, which even I know is stalling, but it buys me a second, and I need the second.
“You spent half the tour the color of pea soup.” I turn back to face her, arms crossed, a scowl on my face I couldn’t soften even if I wanted to. “One good wave and you’d have splatter-painted my deck.”
She doesn’t back down. Of course she doesn’t. She’s planted in the middle of my office with wind-whipped hair, looking about as steady as a woman can look after the day she’s had, and she just tips her chin. “I’ll take a Dramamine. Book me the next one.”
The smart thing is to say no. Flat, final.
Ask anyone in this marina why you don’t want to be on my boat, Hollywood.
The office door bangs open before I can decide whether to say it out loud.
