Читать книгу Sing - Vivi Greene - Страница 13

THE HARBOR IS busy, bustling with fishermen in orange pants and suspenders loading and unloading gear and traps from a line of bobbing boats. We park in a half-empty lot, and as we get out of the car, a brisk ocean breeze whips my hair from my face.

I shiver. “I wish I’d known you made plans,” I mutter, rubbing the sides of my bare arms. “I would have worn something warmer.”