The first thing I felt was the wood.
Hot dock planks against my palms. Splinters. Salt. Then pain in my hip a second later, sharp enough to steal my breath before I could even understand why I was on the ground.
One second, I had been standing beside the polished bow of the most beautiful yacht I had ever seen up close, my fingers resting lightly against the varnished wood like I was touching a cathedral. The next, a woman in a white suit had driven her heel into my side and sent me sprawling across the dock like I was something she wanted scrubbed away.
“Don’t put your filthy hands on that boat,” she snapped.
Her voice was not wild.
