Free Tidal Patterns (Golden Shores Book 1) by Rachelle Paige Page A

now that he was her boss, pursuing anything was definitely out of the question. He’d have to keep a discreet and professional distance.
    He peered out over the water again with longing. He’d love to be out on the water. He’d kayaked some when he’d first come to Jekyll Island and he hadn’t been someone’s right hand man. In the early days, he’d had plenty of time for happy hours after work and beach days. It only took him a few years to become indispensible. He hadn’t understood the mixed blessing of job security. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone out in his kayak and he still hadn’t found the time to learn to paddle board either. Phil had. Phil had become practically a master at it and posted photos on social media constantly.
    Yawning, he turned back to the hotel. His workday gained another couple of hours with this news. He stomped up the stairs and down the hall; he didn’t care who heard. He turned the knob and pushed open his office door and settled in behind his desk. He texted Phil.
    Can you or Trish go let Scooter out and feed him? Have to be here late. I’ll stop by and tell you why on my way home.
    Sure. Came Phil’s response within seconds.
    He hated missing out on his nightly beach run, but it couldn’t be helped. Now that he had the job, he needed to triple check the new contracts to make sure that he hadn’t accidentally screwed his new department. If Frank had thought about it, he would have told him about the job after he’d received the new contracts. But he hadn’t so Mark intended to capitalize on the opportunity. He didn’t let himself move for the next three hours, not until his eyes crossed from reading too much fine print without a magnifying glass and the sun had gone down.
    Grabbing his briefcase, his phone, and the contracts he turned off the lights and locked his office. The cleaning crew’s shift had begun, and Mark walked into Frank’s open office to drop the contracts off on top of his keyboard. With a wave to the man vacuuming the carpet, he turned and left the building as quickly as possible.
    He needed a drink. He turned over the engine and drove off towards Phil’s bar. He parked in the alley and let himself in through the back. For a weekday, the crowd size was impressive. Nearly every table and stool was occupied. He navigated his way to the bar, careful not to jostle anyone or walk in between a conversation. He found a free stool at the end of the bar, plopped down, and waited for Phil to acknowledge him.
    Phil saw everything. His peripheral vision was probably as good as David Beckham’s and came in handy for tending bar and making sure the customers were topped off and happy. After a few seconds, Phil made eye contact and then did a double take and walked over.
    “Hey! What’s going on? Is everything okay?” Phil asked.
    “Yeah, yeah. It’s fine. I had to stay and finish some work because I’m moving up. I got the job,” Mark announced.
    “Congrats! This is huge!” Phil exclaimed. He reached over and clapped him on the back. Phil walked to the shelf at the back wall of the bar, pulled down the twenty-one year old Macallan, and poured him a drink.
    “Yeah, thanks.”
    He took the tumbler from his friend’s outstretched hand and swirled the amber liquid for a minute. He hated to waste a good drink on a bad mood.
    “You’re not pleased?” Phil asked, pulling away to return to his post. He grabbed a bar cloth and a few pint glasses and began drying them.
    “I don’t know. This is a promotion for me and a great opportunity. But…” he said, he took a long sip from his scotch.
    “Maybe it’s the first step towards moving on,” Phil offered.
    “Spoken like a true barkeep. You sure have developed a knack for this line of work,” he replied, eager to change the subject.
    Is he talking about Cynthia? What does he mean, moving on?
    Mark didn’t want to start talking about himself too much, for fear of what he might reveal to Phil