Page 163 of The Holiday Clause
Preferring these little vanity excursions over the long trips he used to take with the fishery, Greyson reflected on those icy winters, long gone and hardly missed, but it was nice to stretch his sea legs every once in a while.
The Sable Rose rocked in its slip, tethered like a patient ghost to her berth. Scrubbed down, polished, and adorned with strands of pine garland and red buoys for her ceremonial voyage. Which reminded him…
Shading his eyes from the setting sun, Greyson scanned the vacant marina. “Where the fuck is Ralph?”
There was no sign of the flaming redhead anywhere along the docks.
Hauling himself back onto the decking with practiced ease, he hugged Wren to offer some shelter from the wind. “Soon as they get here, we can go.”
“I’m fine, Grey. I’ve lived in this weather all my life. Go do what you need to do.”
He kissed her nose, tasting the salt spray already misting her skin, and climbed back on the ship. Every move came as second nature. His hands traveled on instinct, checking lines, flipping levers, testing the throttle. Salt and diesel lived in his blood. He could handle a fishing boat in a blizzard with his eyes shut. Buttoday, he had a co-captain, so he took extra care to make sure nothing went wrong.
“Greyson,” Mayor Locke yelled, his stuffed belly bouncing as he jogged down the dock plank in his red velvet suit. Staggering to a stop when he reached their slip, he shaded his eyes to identify the additional passenger. “Wren? Well, this is a surprise.”
Wren’s rosy cheeks darkened as she waved. “Hi, Mayor Locke.”
Climbing the plank to board, the mayor grinned. “It’s not often we get a female to join us. My wife wouldn’t dare go out in this weather.”
Smiling, she followed the mayor aboard. “I’m honored.”
“Take my hand.” Greyson guided her onto the ship with possessive care. “It’s warmest in the sun.”
The mayor pulled at his snow white beard to keep it from whipping into his face and held out a large thermos. “Erica sent me with some mulled cider to keep us warm. Have some.”
“I thought you were more of a milk and cookies sort of guy,” Wren teased, eyeing his Santa suit.
“Cookies are fine, but I prefer my thermos with a bit of rum—especially for a cold day at sea.” Looking around the marina, he frowned. “Where the hell is Ralph? If he’s not here in the next ten, Larry theLobstah’sgoing to be hauling himself into Hideaway Harbor on a dinghy. I have a reputation to uphold,” the mayor said, adjusting his wide, black leather belt. “Santa’s always on time.”
Wren eyed his protruding belly. “That pillow must be warm.”
“It definitely helps.”
Checking a few more dials, Greyson continued to search the marina for their red-headed lobster. Leave it to Ralph to miss his one big commitment this holiday. “Come on, Ralph,” he muttered under his breath.
Pointing to the parking lot, Wren announced, “I see him.”
Ralph struggled through another day of his small-town life, teetering like a drunken sailor as he jumped into the lobster suit and stumbled between the parked cars. When he situated the top-heavy headpiece, he nearly fell off the edge of the dock.
“Should someone help him?” Concern scrunched Wren’s nose.
“Put the mask on after you get on the boat,” Mayor Locke yelled, but his words got swallowed by the wind.
“What a dumbass,” Greyson mumbled, deciding it was better not to watch.
Waddling down to the slip, Ralph nearly bit it on the last plank. His massive lobster costume dragged with every awkward step. The oversized claws—cheap foam wrapped in painted duct tape—hung limp at his sides as he struggled to carry the gigantic headpiece. One antenna had collapsed from the skirmish on the shore.
“Sorry, I’m late. My mom needed help finding her big winter coat.” Common knowledge held that Ralph lived with his mother, and likely always would.
“About time.” Greyson brought the radio crackling to life, more than ready to get this show on the road. He didn’t wait for a response as he clicked the receiver on. “Silver Spoon, this is Anchor One, are you there?”
Wren grinned and came to stand by his side where the action was. “Silver Spoon?”
“Soren.”
“Ah. And Logan is…?”
“Tadpole.”
