Page 24 of Unmoored: How to Fail at Hating the Boss

Quincy’s pretty brows come together in concern as I’m staring off into the distance.

I snap out of it and give her a smile. “Yes. Never better. Now, let’s call out the boat names and numbers and make sure everyone’s ready, and you fill them into the logbook. Your handwriting is nicer than mine.”

“Thanks?” Quincy says. I detect a slight shake of her head as she takes the logbook from me.

Together, we hand out the numbered pennants to each boat captain, then point out the starting line flags that stretch across the water so all the boaters know where to line up.

She does her job dutifully and doesn’t look up from the logbook until we’re done.

This is going to be a long day.

From the finish line—a buoy anchored in the choppy waters about two nautical miles from the marina—I watch through my binoculars as the sailboats take off at the sound of the starter pistol, provided by one of the other marina workers.

The two of us are stuck together in the middle of the lake, with heavy clouds ringing the ridge to my left. The humidity is so bad that my shirt is clinging to me.

Quincy looks hot and bored. In fact, she’s been more or less silent since we boarded the boat and anchored at the finish line.

I offer, “When this is over, we could head over to the sandbar for a swim.”

“I didn’t bring my swimsuit.”

“No need for a suit. I was just thinking we could dip in and out.”

She stares at me, and I rest the binoculars on my chest. “The sandbar is gonna be lousy with drunks today. Hardly the place I’d want to skinny dip.”

I wasn’t meaning a skinny dip, but now she’s got me biting back a groan. “Not talking about taking off our clothes, Quincy,” and immediately I realize I sound like a scandalized prude. Who gives a fuck if she thought I meant naked swimming?

She rears back from me. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend my ultra-professional boss with my whorish suggestion.”

“I’m sorry. You can skinny dip if you want to.”

“Well, I don’t want to.”

“Fine.”

“Why are you acting so weird?”

I’m momentarily distracted as the radio makes a noise. It’s Susan, I think, but I can’t hear what she says. If it’s urgent, she’ll try again soon.

I turn my attention back to Quincy. “What?”

”You’ve been acting different all morning," Quincy says, squinting at the distant boats.

A few of them have taken in their oars and raised their sails, catching the sudden wind that has kicked up.

I hand her the binoculars, but she waves me off. I hang them back around my neck.

“I thought you wanted me to act professional. I felt embarrassed after my block-headed decision to prance around in a towel.”

She smirks. “You weren’t prancing. I thought you were annoyed with me for wanting to be at work early.”

“I wasn’t annoyed.” My eyes stay on the lead boat cutting through the water. “I thought you’d gotten the ick.”

“No! No. That was me protecting myself,” Quincy says.

The relief I feel is so fucking real, but at the same time, I hate that she felt she had to keep her guard up with me. “From what?”

I drop the binoculars again and turn to fully face her, planting my legs in the increasingly violent bobbing of the speedboat we’re in. She keels a little to the left, and I reach out to steady her.