The Last Ferryman

The ferry engine coughed like an old man with emphysema. Grace barely noticed anymore... it had been making that sound for three months, and she didn't have the money to fix it.

She wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving grease stains that wouldn't come out no matter how many times she washed them. The morning fog was thick over the river, turning everything gray and lonely. Just how she liked it.

"Grace! You got a passenger!"

She looked up. Rita was waving from the dock, her bright yellow raincoat the only spot of color in the whole damn town. Grace squinted through the mist.

A man stood next to Rita. Tall. Dark suit that probably cost more than Grace made in six months. He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding a leather briefcase. Even from here, she could tell he didn't belong here.

Grace groaned. Probably some government inspector coming to tell her the ferry wasn't up to code. As if she didn't already know.

She guided the boat to the dock, the wood creaking under her boots as she jumped off to tie the ropes. The man was watching her. She could feel his eyes tracking every movement.

"Morning," she muttered, not looking at him.

"Good morning." His voice was deep, smooth. The kind of voice that made you pay attention whether you wanted to or not.

Grace straightened up and finally met his eyes. Her stomach did a weird flip.

He was... Jesus. Dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes so blue they almost didn't look real. The suit fit him perfectly, showing off broad shoulders and a body that clearly spent time in a gym. Everything about him screamed money and power.

Everything she usually hated.

"You heading across?" she asked, keeping her voice flat.

"I am." He stepped onto the ferry without waiting for permission, moving with the kind of confidence that came from always getting what you wanted.

Grace bit back a comment and untied the ropes. Rita gave her a look... wide eyes and a raised eyebrow that said who the hell is that? Grace shrugged and climbed back behind the wheel.

The engine sputtered to life. The man had taken a seat on one of the worn wooden benches, but he wasn't looking at his phone like most passengers. He was looking at the town disappearing into the fog behind them.

"First time here?" Grace asked, because the silence was getting weird.

"Yes."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Business." He turned to look at her. "Though I'm finding the view more interesting than I expected."

Grace's cheeks heated. Was he... flirting? No. Men like him didn't flirt with women like her... women with engine grease under their fingernails and permanent exhaustion in their eyes.

"Town's slowly dying," she said bluntly. "If you're looking to invest, you're about five years too late."

"Maybe I like a challenge."

She snorted. "You look like the type who does."

His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "And what type is that?"

"Rich. Bored. Thinks he can fix things that aren't his problem."

"Interesting assessment." He stood up and walked toward her, each step deliberate. Grace's grip tightened on the wheel.

He stopped close enough that she could smell his cologne... expensive, woodsy, the kind that probably had a French name. "What if I told you I have a very personal interest in this town?"

"I'd say you're full of shit then."

This time he did smile. A real one. It transformed his whole face, made him look younger, almost... dangerous.

"You're not what I expected," he said quietly.

"Yeah, well. Life's full of disappointments."

Grace focused on steering, but she was hyper-aware of him standing there. Watching. The crossing usually took twelve minutes. It felt like an hour.

When they finally reached the other side, she tied off the boat and held out her hand. "Four dollars."

He pulled out his leather wallet and handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

Grace stared at it. "I don't have change for this."

"Keep it."

"I don't need your charity."

"It's not charity. Consider it payment for the conversation." He picked up his briefcase and stepped onto the dock. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again, Miss...?"

"Grace."

"Grace." He said her name like he was tasting it. "I'm Dominic Cross."

He held out his hand. She didn't want to take it. Every instinct screamed that this man was trouble. But she reached out anyway, and his hand closed around hers... warm, firm, certain.

The handshake lasted a second too long.

"Welcome to hell, Mr. Cross," she said, pulling away.

He laughed, a low sound that did things to her she absolutely did not want to think about. "I've been to worse."

Grace watched him walk away, his suit jacket perfect even in the humidity, his stride confident like he owned the place.

Rita appeared beside her, breathing hard from running down the dock. "Who was that?"

"Trouble," Grace muttered.

"Good trouble or bad trouble?"

Grace looked down at the hundred-dollar bill in her hand, then back at Dominic's retreating figure.

"Haven't decided yet."