Ding-dong!
He jerks his head around to see a girl standing, fists clenched, just inside the real estate office door. Her hair is soaking wet. She’s hot, easily the most attractive he’s seen in Sowell Bay. Somehow, her furious expression makes her even hotter.
The girl calls, “Jess!” in a dull, exasperated way that makes Cameron think this is a repeated occurrence. Still admiring the intruder, he congratulates himself for guessing the realtor’s nickname correctly.
He flings a thumb toward the back room. “She’s back there.”
“Okay. Any idea when she’ll be back?” Her voice is tinged with impatience. She crosses her arms over her chest, which jams her small but perky boobs toward her tank top’s neckline, and in an instant Cameron finds himself shifting in the chair. What is he, twelve years old? But, really, it has been three weeks since Katie.
He sets his jaw. “I dunno? Soon?”
“What is she doing?”
“Um, serving me? Her . . . client?”
The girl barks a laugh and steps toward him. She smells like sunscreen. “You’re a client?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because Jessica Snell sells multimillion-dollar homes? You reek worse than a stadium bathroom during the fourth quarter of a Seahawks game. Also, you have something brown—which I honestly hope, for your sake, is chocolate—smeared on your chin.”
Cameron’s hand flies up, remembering the chocolate-coated protein bar he had for breakfast. There’s hardly a goddamn functioning mirror in the camper. How would he have known?
“Okay, so I’m not here to buy some mansion, but Jess is helping me out with something.”
“Whatever,” she mutters. She runs a hand through her sopping hair, then lifts the wavy mass from her neck, revealing a pink bikini strap knotted at the nape of her neck.
The girl tilts her chin toward the back room and yells again, “JESS!”
“Good lord, Avery.” Snell strides up the hallway, her face once again set into that all-too-natural scowl.
Avery doesn’t mince words. “You messed up the hot water again.”
“I lowered the temperature on the tank.”
“Lowered it to what, subarctic?”
“I’m just trying to reduce our utility bill.”
“I’d rather give a few bucks to the gas company than freeze my ass off in the shower!”
Girl. Shower. Cameron tries to summon another image, literally anything else, and lands on the Welina Mobile Park’s chlamydia problem.
Jessica Snell plants her hands on her hips. “Well, most people don’t shower at their place of business.”
“Oh, come on,” Avery says, with a prickly laugh. “You know I paddle in the morning and rinse off before I open the store. I just froze my ass off.”
Jessica Snell juts her chin at the younger woman, who Cameron has by now deduced is associated with the shop next door. He remembers seeing a surf shop there. Snell sniffs as she says, “Nowhere does the lease guarantee an endless supply of hot water.”
“I guess the lease depends on neighbors to be decent humans.” Avery casts Cameron a hopeful look, like he might make a heroic interference on her behalf.
But there’s that paper in the realtor’s hand: a road map to his maybe deadbeat father. He shrugs impartially.
Avery glowers briefly at Cameron, then glares at Snell. “Whatever. I’ll pay the extra. Keep the hot water on high.” With a whiff of her coconut scent and another obnoxious door chime, she huffs out, slamming the office door.
“Sorry.” A nervous smile spreads over the agent’s face.
“No worries.”
“Well, good news. I found an address for Simon Brinks.” Handing over the paper, she adds softly, “Good luck, and I’ll keep you in my prayers. I hope your reunion with your father is filled with joy.”
Cameron thanks her again and tucks the paper in his pocket.
“IT WAS CHOCOLATE.” Cameron strolls across the short stretch of sidewalk to where Avery is setting up a sandwich-board sign outside the surfing store, or whatever this place is.
“What?” She squints at him, holding up a hand to block the bright morning light.
“That brown stuff on my face. It wasn’t actual shit. It was chocolate.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” Her voice is bone-dry.
“Well, you seemed overly invested in my state of being back there.”
“Okay.” She dusts her hands and strides toward the open door of the store. SOWELL BAY PADDLE SHOP, the logo emblazoned on the front window says. As he follows her through the door, he’s greeted by neat rows of tall, thick boards on one side of the room, and plastic kayaks and canoes stacked against the opposite wall.