Page 61 of Marrying the Nanny

The kind who never realized that complaining was just that.

Umi, the head of accounting, eased his door open and squinched her face with apology. “He wants to speak to the owner.”

“Is he a fisherman? Because that’s Trys.”

“He’s on his yacht and asked for a repair.”

“Then he should talk to Logan.”

“I’m getting the sense that’s who his issue is with.”

Seriously?

Reid hauled his butt off his chair and walked out to the counter where a barrel-chested man with a lined, tanned face and a white cap stood. His trophy wife hovered behind him, blonde, big-breasted, and quick to sweep Reid with a considering gaze.

Reid bit back a sigh, recognizing these people even though he had never met them.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“You’re the owner?”

“One of them.”

“I want to complain about a couple of your workers.”

“Which ones?”

The woman started to open her mouth, but the man rattled on. “Your mechanic and his boy.”

“Boy?” Reid folded his arms. Randy was still in Nanaimo and he was six-one with a beard. He was hard to dismiss as a boy. “Are you talking about Sophie?” He was being deliberately obtuse.

“I’m talking about the fella he sent to install my fuel filter, the one who started flirting with my wife.” He thumbed at the woman who was examining her bedazzled nails. “He told her we have fractures in the fiberglass that need bodywork. They’re cosmetic. I’ll polish them out myself when we get to Juneau.”

“Great. You should do that.” Reid glanced at the clock. Not even 10 a.m. The season hadn’t properly started. Why was this happening?

“I told him I wanted the mechanic. I’ve seen my share of these third-world hucksters in Mexico and I know—”

“Whoa. What now?” Reid’s hackles rose.

“I know when I’m being hustled.” The man tapped his finger on the counter. “I came to get a fuel filter and that’s all I want. No upsell. Now I don’t even have that!”

“Are we talking about Logan and Trystan?” He looked between the man and the woman, then at Umi, whose eyes were big enough to swallow her face.

“Trystan Fraser, right?” The woman brightened. “I knew that was him. From the show. I told you.” She touched her husband’s arm, but he shook her off.

“Logan. Right. That was the nametag on the mechanic’s coveralls,” the man said. “He sent the other one, though. He tried to sell me a new hull and when I told him that he should mind his own business and call the mechanic over, this Logan comes along and doesn’t even speak to me. He says to the other one that it’s too early for beer and does he want breakfast. Now they’re in the pub. What the hell kind of operation is this? I want my fuel filter!”

Reid pinched the bridge of his nose. He was angry. Livid that Trystan was still hearing racist bullshit like this. Incensed that Joe Holidaymaker was going to discharge his sewage opinion of Raven’s Cove at every port from here to Juneau without looking in a mirror to see what a piece of shit he was himself.

Mostly he was furious that he couldn’t say anything because—

Actually, he could. Wilf might have torn a strip off him for back-talking, but he was the owner now.

“Let me get this straight.” Reid planted his hands wide on the counter between him and the man. “You called my brother a third-world huckster, and you said that to me and our other brother? Now you want me to go fire both of them even though they’re co-owners? And you’re angry that Trystan, who makes his living by surviving in the wilderness—she can help you look him up”—he nodded at the woman—“suggested you repair the hull of your boat before something catastrophic happens? He’s saving your life, you dumbass.”

“You really think you’ve got a captive market here, don’t you?” the man blustered. “You think you can get away with anything.”

Reid wanted to punch him in the face, he really did.

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