I push the money toward her before I can chicken out and race through the front door. “So that is why I’d like to charter a boat. Strictly a business transaction. For my portfolio.”

She leans over an old microphone that stands on her desk, presses a button, and shouts, “LUCKY.”

Oops. I seem to have gotten him in trouble.

Or maybe both of us.

I think I’ve made a huge mistake.

His mother holds up a finger, walks around the counter in impressively high heels, and storms through the back door. For a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of one of the work bays and a mechanic soldering something onto a small speedboat that’s sitting up on a lift. Classic rock music. Laughter. Hammering. The blue harbor. The door shuts behind her.

Okay, I could leave now. Make an excuse later. Only, she might walk over to the Nook, and then it would be—not good. Nope. I’m stuck here. Gotta wait it out.

It only takes a minute before the door flings open again. This time, his mother returns with Lucky in tow … and a few pairs of curious eyes gawking in the background.

A smear of oil marks both the bridge of Lucky’s nose and high on one cheek like the eye black grease paint of a professional quarterback. He looks wide-eyed and off-balance. Maybe a little bit furious. Maybe a lot bit furious. I forgot about his muscular arms and hands. The intimidating swagger.

Right now, he’s looking a lot more like Actual Bad Boy than Wannabe Bad Boy.

Maybe I should’ve thought this through.

So hot in here … so, so hot.

“Saint-Martin,” he says in a tight voice.

“Karras,” I answer, discreetly pulling my sweat-logged shirt away from my sticky skin. Then I turn away from him and smile at his mother, who’s sort of jog-walking in heels around the counter, her shoes making a mesmerizing click-click-click sound on the tile floor.

“Okay, we’re all up to speed now,” she says, “Let me look at the calendar, sweetie.”

“Mom,” he complains.

“You’re going to help Miss Josie,” she says, holding up my cash and waving it.

My scheme actually worked? It worked! YES!

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles.

“No swearing in front of customers,” she says.

“She’s not a customer, Mama. She’s just Josie.” Whee! I’m just Josie! That probably shouldn’t make me so gleeful, but it does. “And I’m not a boat prostitute for hire.”

“A job is a job,” she says.

“No job is too small,” I remind him.