The Spark

Port Lavender didn't just have weather; it had a mood. And that mood was usually "damp regret."

Isla Vance wiped a smear of 10W-30 oil from her cheek, leaving a black streak in its place. She glared at the rusted outboard motor clamped to her workbench. It was 6:00 PM on a Tuesday, the air in the shop was thick with the smell of diesel and low tide, and she was officially done with boats.

"One more month," she muttered to the intake manifold. "One more month, and I’m in a landlocked state studying structural engineering. No salt. No sand. No tourists."

Vance Marine was a cavernous, cluttered barn at the end of Pier 4. It was the best repair shop in Maine, mostly because Isla was the only mechanic within fifty miles who could diagnose a fuel injection problem by ear. It was also her prison until the fall semester started.

She reached for the hanging light pull to close up shop. The bulb buzzed—a dying, frantic sound.

The bell above the main door jingled.

"We're closed!" Isla shouted without turning around. "If you hit a lobster trap, leave it on the dock. If you’re a tourist looking for the bathroom, it’s at the clam shack."

"I hit a pylon, actually. And I’m looking for a miracle."

The voice was rich, amused, and decidedly not from a local fisherman.

Isla turned around. Her breath hitched in her throat, a traitorous reaction she immediately resented.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the grey fog rolling off the Atlantic, was a boy. He was soaking wet. His board shorts were clinging to his legs, dripping saltwater onto her concrete floor. He was shirtless, displaying a torso that looked like it had been carved out of teak wood and sunshine—lean muscle, broad shoulders, and a tan that spoke of months on the water.

He was holding a twisted piece of metal that used to be a propeller shaft.

"You're dripping on my inventory," Isla said, crossing her arms.

"Sorry," the boy grinned. It was a blinding, golden-retriever grin. He shook his hair, sending a spray of water flying like a wet dog. "I’m Leo. People call me Knots."

"People call you an idiot if you hit a pylon in the harbor, Knots," Isla deadpanned. She walked over to him, wiping her hands on a rag. "Let me see the damage."

Leo Sterling. She recognized him now. The Sterling family owned the massive estate on the bluffs. They came every summer for the regatta, bringing their money, their noise, and their entitlement. Leo was the heir apparent—the sailing prodigy who had been on the cover of *Yachting Monthly*.

He held out the twisted metal shaft.

"My dad is going to kill me," Leo admitted, his charm faltering just a fraction to reveal genuine panic. "I took the dinghy out to check the buoys. I got distracted."

"Distracted by what? A mirror?" Isla reached out to take the part.

As her fingers brushed against his palm, it happened.

*SNAP.*

A bolt of static electricity—loud as a whip crack—arced between them. It wasn't a little zap. It was a jolt that traveled up Isla’s arm and rattled her teeth.

Simultaneously, the overhead shop lights flickered violently, dimmed, and then surged back to blinding brightness.

Isla yanked her hand back, clutching her wrist. "Ouch! What the hell?"

Leo was rubbing his hand, looking at her with wide, startled eyes. The playful smirk was gone. "Did you feel that?"

"I think everyone in the zip code felt that," Isla snapped. "You’re a walking hazard. Are you wearing rubber soles?"

"Barefoot," Leo said, looking down at his feet, then back up at her. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face. "I guess we have a spark."

Isla rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. "That line is terrible. Give me the part."

She snatched the metal from him, careful not to touch his skin again. She examined the shear. It was a clean break, but the alloy was expensive.

"I can’t fix this tonight," she said. "I have to mill a new pin. Come back tomorrow."

"I can’t," Leo stepped closer. He smelled like rain and expensive cologne that was fighting a losing battle against the Atlantic Ocean. "My dad gets here in two days. If the tender isn't fixed, he’ll bench me for the regatta. I need it done now. Tonight."

"I don't do overtime for tourists."

"I'll pay double," Leo said. "Triple. And... I’ll help."

Isla looked at him. He was shivering slightly from the cold. He looked desperate. And, despite her better judgment, she felt a strange, magnetic tug in her chest. It was like gravity, pulling her toward him.

"You don't know a wrench from a winch," Isla scoffed.

"Try me," Leo challenged, his blue eyes locking onto hers. "I’m good with my hands."

The air in the shop suddenly felt very hot and very heavy. The static was gone, replaced by a low-frequency hum of tension that made the hair on Isla’s arms stand up.

"Fine," Isla pointed to the back room. "Get a shirt from the lost-and-found box. You’re distracting me."

Leo’s grin returned, full force. "Aye aye, Captain."

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