“Is that okay, Charlie?”

I’d been lost in Boss-mugland. “Huh?”

He came over, a key in hand. “You’re in charge of the basketball courts, the outside and inside ones. I don’t know what they’ll need, but make sure they don’t take our equipment or damage anything. You’re there to watch everything, and help with whatever they need—towels or snacks or whatever. You’re in charge of that too.”

I stared at him. Huh?

Basketball courts…

“It’s a basketball camp?”

Trent smothered a laugh beside me.

What had I just signed?

But it was gone. Dickhead Boss had already taken it.

“Yeah. It’s a basketball camp.”

Both guys were watching me, silent, waiting for something. No doubt waiting for me to clue the hell in on what was going on.

“Who’s coming?”

I started going over my list of ideas as I asked. It could be anyone. The Coyotes? Fuck. That’d be a dream job. Sit back and watch them play all day? Reyson got traded a few years ago. Marley before that… I ran down the list of who I thought was still on the team. But what if it wasn’t them? It could be a private school. Or a special league. Or… The possibilities were endless.

“Who is it?” I asked again.

Keith smirked. “I’m not telling you. That’s what you get for not reading the form.”

A surge of anger rushed through me. “How did you ever escape the #MeToo movement?”

Okay. Maybe not so random right there.

Keith ignored my question, his gaze on the front of my shirt. He smirked.

Oh, you—I started to raise a fist in the air, but Trent checked me.

He shoved my hand down, slamming his side to mine and hiding my fist behind us. His laugh was forced, as was his smile. “That sounds great, Keith. Thank you.” He cleared his throat, stretching his neck a little. “So, uh, where are we all staying?”

Keith was glowering at where our hands would’ve been, but rather than comment, he just flicked his eyes back up. “You’re in the main lodge,” he told Trent. “You got room 222.” He turned to me, his eyes hardening. “You, missy, got the fish cabin.”

The fish cabin?

“Huh?”

“Oh.” Another forced laugh from Trent as he shifted to face me, letting go of my fist. His hand came down on my shoulder, as if he was holding me back. “I told him you were writing a book, so he thought the fish cabin would be a good idea.”

Keith’s lips were mashed together, his dimple showing (I hated his dimple). His shoulders shook with repressed laughter.

The prick.

The fish cabin had been given that name for a reason. That’s what it had been used for. Cleaning fish. They’d stopped using it for that purpose after a local game warden threatened to report the camp. He’d been half-joking, but the next week a camper threw up from the fumes, so Keith declared it abandoned.

Until now, apparently.

I’ve mentioned he’s a dickhead, right?

Fine. Whatever. I gave him a closed-mouth smile, though it was painful as hell to my cheeks. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

He held up his hands. “I was just thinking about your writing. It’s the most private place on the island.”

For a reason.

He laughed. “Besides, it’s not that bad anymore. We’ve had it cleared out over the last few summers, so just spray some of that nice-smelling stuff you girls wear and it should be as good as new.”

“I’ll make do.”

The fish cabin was at the tip of the island, closest to where the bridge and road came on to the island. My cabin would be north of the main lodge in the center of the island, and to the west of the village that had the nicest cabins. That was Morningside. There was a patch of trees between the main lodge and the basketball courts to the south, so my walk would be a nice long one each morning.

“What about the staff headquarters?” I asked.

That was a building in Morningside that the staff used mostly during weekends. It was a bit more relaxed than the rest of the camp facilities, but I knew they had jazzed it up recently. I saw pictures of it on social media.

“It’s not available. All the rooms are booked up.”

The definition of asshole: exhibit A. Keith, such a bitch boss. He’d put me in the smelliest cabin, farthest from everyone I knew, and the closest cabins to me would be booked with campers—campers I still hadn’t identified. Lovely.

“Where’s Helen?”

At least she’d be a welcome change. In her early sixties, she was the main receptionist at camp. She didn’t live too far away from the island, so it was an easy drive back and forth. Plus, she hated Keith as much as I did. We’d bonded over it, and I missed her.

A flash of guilt settled in my gut.

She’d been another one I stopped coming back to visit, stopped checking in with. Crap. The last I knew, Helen’s husband had medical problems. He could be dead by now.

Way to go, Charlie. Way to drop the ball on everyone.

Keith’s nose wrinkled and he rested his hands on his stomach. “Helen won’t be here for the three weeks.”

“What? Why?”

Trent nudged my elbow, nodding toward the pile of NDAs on Keith’s desk. I got his implication. Helen sucked at keeping secrets—hence a very old friendship with her. My uncle had visited me from Missouri one time. He was going through the area and wanted to say hello. Keith made him sign an NDA.