Chapter 4
chapter four
Carter
The beach is empty at five thirty in the morning, and I run the shore like I own this island.
My shoeless feet hit the packed sand near the waterline, and it’s firm enough for me to keep a pace without sinking.
The air coming off the ocean is cool, and the sky is purple at the edges, where the sun hasn’t fully committed to rising yet.
I love mornings before the world wakes up.
Yesterday, I mapped this run, and today, I’m taking the same route because routine is the only thing that’s ever kept me sane. Even in New York, I get up every morning and run three miles through Central Park. Locations change, but my habits don’t.
My brain still hasn’t clocked that I’m supposed to be relaxing because even out here, I’m mentally running quarterly projections for the Whitsworth account that Gideon is handling without me.
It’s one of the largest financial accounts I’ve acquired recently.
I trust him, but also that account was my personal project.
I push harder until my lungs burn, then check my watch and loop back toward the B&B because room service starts today. The thought has me grinning.
By the time I’m taking the stairs to the Captain’s Room, my legs are trembling.
I strip down and step into the shower. The water pressure is terrible, which I’m accepting as part of the charm of Seaside.
The showerhead sputters twice before pushing out a lukewarm stream that takes almost a minute to get hot and then it’s scalding.
“Shit.” I have to step back and adjust both sides before I can stand under it.
After washing off the sweat, I step out and dry off. Water pools at my feet and soaks through the thin towel that’s supposed to capture it.
“A fucking rug would be nice,” I mutter, standing on the cool tiles. I grab a towel that has a wave embroidered on the edge and wrap it around my waist.
The knock comes at six fifty even though I scheduled it for seven on the dot.
She’s early.
Not by much, but enough for me to notice. Punctuality is a language I speak fluently, and in my world, people who show up before they’re expected are the ones who take their work seriously. It’s a small thing that earns my respect.
“Come in,” I say.
The door is unlocked, and I’m not rushing to dress for her benefit.
A moment passes, and Wendy enters, balancing a tray with breakfast in one hand and a stack of fresh sheets tucked under her other arm.
She’s wearing a teal polo with Seaside Bed & Breakfast embroidered on the chest. Her dark, wavy hair is pulled back into a high ponytail.
This is Working Wendy, who is nothing like the woman I saw two nights ago on the dance floor at Cocktails & Chaos.
When she notices I’m in nothing but a towel, she stops walking.
Her eyes go to my face, then drop to my chest, before coming back up.
Drips of water fall from my hair and run down my body.
The whole sequence takes about three seconds, which is just long enough for me to notice.
Her lips part, and her grip tightens on the tray before she sets the food and coffee down on the desk beside the balcony doors.
“Do you need privacy? To get dressed?” she asks, not glancing in my direction.
“No.” I move closer, picking up the steaming mug, blowing across the top.
“Have it your way.” She turns her back to me, then goes to the bed to strip it.
“Is there something more you wanted to say?” I ask, reading her like a book.
“No thanks.” She strips the pillowcases.
“You’re lying.”
Wendy looks over at me. “If I speak freely, you’ll be offended, and I can’t have that.”
She yanks the fitted sheet off the mattress and tosses everything on the floor before grabbing the new one. At one point, she tucks it so hard that the fabric snaps. She’s annoyed.
I take a bite of toast. “You believe I’m easily offended.”
“I’ve met your type.” She smooths the fabric down with a speed that tells me she’s done this a thousand times.
My type. She said it like she already sorted me into a box, filed it away, and sealed it shut.
I want to ask questions, but I don’t. Can’t stand this awkward phase of getting to know someone.
She reaches for the flat sheet and spreads it across the far side. As she bends over to tuck the far corner, her polo rides up her back. A strip of tan skin is on full display. When I realize I’m staring, I force myself to stop.
I’ve sat across from models at charity galas and heiresses at fundraisers, and each of them had me running for the hills. Not Wendy. She doesn’t give a shit about me, which only intrigues me further.
“I’d like a fresh comforter as well,” I say, not quite wanting her to go yet.
She pauses, brushing loose strands of dark hair from her face. “Daily?”
“Yes. And since you’re taking requests, I’d like a rug for the bathroom.”
Wendy blinks at me a few times, her eyes zeroed in on mine. Her jaw clenches tight, and I think she might lose her shit. “Anything else?”
“A bottle of tequila and chocolate.”
She tilts her head. “I’m not your personal shopper, Mr. Banks.”
“No problem. I’ll contact Gale, and I’m sure she’ll take care of it for me. She did say if I needed anything at all to ring her.”
Wendy grits her teeth harder. “Fine.”
I move to the dresser, grabbing my wallet and pulling out five hundred dollars.
She blinks down, taking a hundred and handing the other four bills back. “You’re so out of touch.”
I narrow my eyes, not taking the money. “Excuse me? I want the best of everything. Grab the most expensive bottle of tequila they have.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” I say.
“Okay. I’ll be right back with a new comforter.” She’s direct and straight to the point.
When she’s gone, I drag my hand over my face. Get it together.
I pull on shorts and a T-shirt and open the balcony doors with my coffee in hand. This is a game of cat and mouse that I shouldn’t play. I can’t. But I want to, just to see how it plays out.
A few minutes later, there’s a light tap on the door.
“Enter,” I say over my shoulder, snagging a piece of crispy bacon.
“Wow, you found clothes.” It comes out sarcastically as she walks in with her ponytail swinging. She spreads the fresh comforter across the bed and smooths it flat, then tucks the edges under the pillows with the same precision she gave the sheets. She doesn’t glance in my direction.
“I expected you at seven.” I look down at my watch. “Which is now.”
“Punctuality is important, especially when I have a list of thirty other things to do today. But as long as Mr. Banks is happy, that’s all that matters.” She folds the top edge down and steps back to check her work.
On her way out, she slows near the balcony doorway, where I’m standing. I’m very aware of the intrigue in her eyes when she looks at me. Her hair glows golden in the morning sun.
“Do you need anything else before I go?” Wendy asks, and I realize I’m staring.
“That’s all. Thanks for everything.”
“You’re welcome.” Her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t give me a smile.
She’s lingering. “Why did you choose to stay at Seaside?”
I meet her eyes. “My assistant chose this place because it was small. Big hotels with a lot of people aren’t my style. I prefer smaller establishments because I don’t have to interact with quite as many people.”
“Are you a fugitive? Are you on the run?”
This almost makes me laugh. “Only in my mind.”
She tilts her head and studies me for a second. “I want to apologize for yesterday at breakfast. They—”
“No need. I can handle myself. You haven’t met my mother.”
“You don’t understand what the Bees are capable of. They look like very sweet, tipsy old women, but watch out. They always have ulterior motives and like to play matchmaker.”
I find her warning cute.
“Thanks for the heads-up, but I don’t need it.” I sip my coffee and lean against the railing of the balcony. “What’s your name? You never gave it to me.”
Cal told me, but I need to hear it from her.
She breathes in. “Wendy Winslow. And before you ask, Gale is my grandmother. I’m helping her this summer because my parents moved to Canada.”
I feel like there’s more to this story, but I don’t ask. “Well, Wendy Winslow, it’s very nice to meet you.”
Being thirty feet away from one another in a crowded bar is one thing.
Now that we’re three feet apart, it’s a totally different situation.
I pretend she doesn’t affect me, but fail, especially when our eyes meet.
They’re lighter than I remember, more golden than brown.
Up close, I can see a few freckles across her nose.
“I really think it’s best if you don’t do that.” She instantly clocks me.
“Enlighten me,” I say with my brows raised.
“Whatever this is.” She gestures between us. “You can’t keep looking at me like that.”
I try to play dumb, hating how she can see through me.
My face stays neutral as I drink more of my coffee.
I’m a guest with a semi-fake name, paying thirty thousand dollars to disappear in a B&B that no one wants to stay at.
The last thing I need is a cute little complication with freckles and a high ponytail who can read me better than people I’ve known for years.
“Do you care to explain?” Even though I’m aware it’s a warning.
She’s unamused by me. “Tequila and chocolate preference?”
“Surprise me.”
“You shouldn’t let your breakfast get cold. If Rose is cooking and you’re forcing me to deliver it to you like I’m your personal assistant, then you should eat it.”
I should respond to that comment, but don’t. Not everything deserves a comment or a reaction.
She grabs the tray from the desk and walks toward me. Our fingers brush as she hands it to me, and she pulls away, tucking her hands into her pockets. Then I see the slightest change in her breath.
“See you at six fifty tomorrow?” I ask, setting the tray on the table beside the lounger.
“Seven. On the dot. Have a great day, Mr. Banks.” Wendy takes one last glance at me before she grabs the towels from my bathroom. “I’ll bring you fresh ones later.”
“Thank you,” I offer.
She smiles, and I give her a small one in return. My heart does this stupid somersault thing and I know I’m in fucking trouble. Seconds later, the door clicks closed, and she’s gone.
The last half of my coffee tastes sweeter than it should, and the eggs are barely warm, but I don’t care.
I sit in the chair and finish eating. Below me, normal people are on vacation, doing normal things, while I’m up here, thinking about a woman who sees straight through me.
Within ten minutes, she delivered breakfast, made my bed, and told me to keep my distance.
Wendy drew a line, and a stubborn part of me wants to cross it.
I’ve built a career reading people, and she’s the first person in a long time I can’t figure out with ease. Her body says one thing, but her mouth says another.
I clear my plate, listening to the seagulls and the waves. In the distance, someone laughs, and it’s followed by a bicycle bell. Then I smile.
Maybe being in Coconut Beach for the summer is exactly what I need.