“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.
“I mean, I’m not some weirdo,” he presses. But he’s sort of acting like a weirdo, and doesn’t seem able to stop himself. And that damn mattress! He does probably reek of piss. He backtracks a step, putting a bit more distance between himself and the back of Avery’s cutoff shorts, which fit her perfectly.
She spins around to face him, her face expressionless. “Can I help you find something here, or . . . ?”
“Maybe I’m just browsing.”
“Fine. Browse away. But don’t mess anything up.”
“What am I, a toddler?”
Avery smirks. “Chocolate all over your face, and you smell like you peed your pants. If the shoe fits . . .”
“Okay, I won’t touch anything. You can assure your boss the inventory won’t be dirtied by my filth.”
“I am the boss.” She cocks her head. “This is my store.”
Cameron opens his mouth, but to his surprise, can’t find a comeback. She can’t be much older than he is. All he has to his name is a disgusting camper, and she has an entire store.
“Look, I know your type.” Her voice has an edge to it now. She folds her arms tightly. “I don’t know what you’re after, but you played Jess for a favor. I know it.”
“Why do you care? You two don’t exactly have a neighborly relationship.”
“I care because I can’t stand players.” Avery scans him up and down. “Who exactly are you, anyway? I’ve never seen you around before.”
“I was just trying to get that realtor’s help,” Cameron says, then after a pause adds, “I’m trying to find my dad.”
“Oh.” Avery’s voice softens a tiny bit and her arms relax to her sides, which improves Cameron’s view of her spectacular little chest. She drags in a breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to come out swinging. My day got off to a cold start.”
“I know the feeling, believe me.” Cameron smiles, and Avery melts a little more, extending her hand to clasp his as he introduces himself. As he lets go, his goddamn neck lets out another one of its bone-on-bone cracks.
Avery winces at the sound. “Ouch. You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. Slept weird last night.” He regrets the words as soon as they come out. Is this what passes for a pickup line in your thirties? Complaining about back pain? Of course, he doesn’t add that the source of his ailment is the world’s nastiest camper. Warm light streams through the shop’s window as the sun continues to climb the midmorning sky. It occurs to Cameron he should’ve hosed off the mattress this morning before he left; it could’ve dried in the day’s heat. Why do these things never occur to him in the moment?
“Messed-up neck, then. I’ve got something for that. Just a sec.” Avery ducks behind the counter and pops up a second later and hands him a small container. It’s some sort of cream, with a bright orange price tag affixed to the lid. $19.95. “It’s totally natural,” she explains. “I use it whenever a long session on my board leaves me sore.”
Cameron feels a single brow inch up. Twenty bucks for organic Vaseline. He forces a weak smile. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“It’s on the house.”
“Really, it’s okay.”
“Will you just take it?” An actual grin cracks Avery’s face as she thrusts the little pot toward him. “I’m a sucker for injured creatures.”
When Cameron walks out a little while later, his neck is slick with overpriced balm and Avery’s number is programmed in his phone.
ETHAN IS SITTING on his front porch when Cameron pulls into the driveway. Cameron heads toward the house, well aware of the cheeseball grin plastered on his face.
“Someone called for you bit ago,” Ethan says. “From some airline? Left a number to call back when you got home.”
“Thanks, Ethan.” Cameron’s pulse quickens. His duffel bag. Good thing he added Ethan’s landline to his claim last time he checked the status. His phone battery lasts about two seconds these days. The thought of replacing his phone has been out of the question, but with his jewelry-containing bag on the way and a job, he’ll check out the new model they released this spring, the one with six cameras or whatever. The one that can practically cook dinner for you.
Still grinning, he ducks into the camper and dials.
“JoyJet baggage services,” a woman answers, sounding anything but joyful.
Cameron gives his claim number. “So, when will my bag be delivered?”
“One moment, sir.” She types on a keyboard for what feels like an hour. The keystrokes echo through his phone speaker: click-click-click. Is she writing a novel? Finally, she says, “Yes, we did find your lost item.”