Chapter 9
chapter nine
Carter
I’ve been tossing and turning since four, unable to sleep. The stairs, her mouth, the softness in her voice when she said, “Good night,” have been on a loop. Wendy barely gave me two seconds of herself. That was the exact moment I knew I was fucked.
How? Why? I don’t know what this means. Being here is temporary.
A few minutes before seven, I get up and stretch, then open the door before she can knock. Wendy’s climbing the stairs with a tray in one hand. Her eyes focus on everything but me.
“Morning.”
She slips past me, her arm grazing mine, and the heat follows long after she moves to the desk and sets the tray down. Is she testing me?
“I need to grab fresh linens from the dryer. I’ll be right back.”
She strips the bed fast, pillowcases first, then sheets and blankets, and tucks everything under her arm. Wendy is out the door before I can say anything. When she returns, I’m at a loss for words because what the hell do I even say without coming off too strong? I’m rusty at this.
“Have a good day, Carter,” she says as she finishes making the bed.
Somehow, she’s done before I can think of anything clever to say.
“You too,” I offer.
The door shuts behind her.
“I’m an idiot,” I whisper, shaking my head.
I pick up my phone, ready to text a few of my friends to ask for advice.
Jameson Cross is a classic playboy and could give me an up-to-date rundown of what my next moves should be.
Then again, I do have Prince Louis of Montclaire, the master of women himself, who would happily give pointers.
However, that would mean explaining this constant sizzle that happens when I’m close to a woman I’ve known for a week and a half.
I don’t think I’m ready to have that conversation with anyone, not even myself.
I stand in silence while steam rises from the coffee. Needing fresh air, I move the tray outside and eat on the balcony with my book. Part of me wants to go downstairs and ask her if she felt what I did or if I’m imagining the electricity between us.
For the rest of the day, I read and allow my mind to wander even if those thoughts lead to the woman downstairs.
By dinner, I’m tired of being in the Captain’s Room and crave a change of scenery.
I eat at Iggy’s Grill at a bar top that faces the water. The shore is the centerpiece of every experience in Coconut Beach, and I understand why. Crystal-blue water and cloudless skies make it impossible to look away.
Fish tacos arrive on a paper-lined tray with charred lime wedges and a cup of slaw on the side. Grilled mahi sits, blackened at the edges, with chipotle crema on a warm tortilla.
My first bite is messy, and sauce drips everywhere, but I don’t care.
Juice runs down my chin, followed by the crunch of cabbage underneath.
I’ve paid three hundred dollars for a plate in Manhattan that wasn’t half this good.
The cold citrus pale ale, brewed on the mainland, cuts through the spice perfectly.
The bartender wipes the counter in slow circles and doesn’t try to make conversation, which I appreciate.
After another bite, I lean back on the stool and check my watch. It’s just past eight. Wendy told me she’d be painting tonight at ten o’clock and also mentioned I wasn’t invited.
I squeeze lime over the second taco, and the juice mixes with the hearty flavors. It’s easy to get lost in Coconut Beach and imagine nothing else exists outside of here.
She kissed me.
Wendy closed the gap and walked away, leaving me gutted. It wasn’t ordinary.
Both tacos are gone in minutes, and I order a second beer. The bartender pulls it from the cooler and pops the cap without asking if I want a glass. Cold spreads down my throat on the first gulp. I peel the label on the bottle, and the condensation makes it come off in wet strips.
Tonight, I should stay in my room. Finish the book I started this morning and let the kiss exist as a onetime thing we’ll both pretend didn’t happen. That’s the smart play, and I’ve built a career on those.
The copper on the water deepens to amber as the sun drops lower. I leave a few hundred dollars on the bar, more than enough to cover my tab, and walk back toward the B&B along the beach route. Sand gets in my shoes, and I don’t stop to shake it out.
By nine forty-five, I’ve showered and changed, standing at the door in the Captain’s Room with my hand on the knob. I take the stairs down.
Two trays of white paint wait, along with an extra roller propped against the wall. Wendy is on the step stool, rolling the first coat along the top of the wall, in an old T-shirt and paint-stained jean shorts. Her dark, wavy hair is twisted up, and a smear of white is streaked across her forearm.
“Thought I wasn’t invited,” I say, licking my lips while trying to hold back my grin, but I fail.
“Had a sneaky feeling you’re not the type to listen.” She smirks, but doesn’t turn toward me.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she loves having me watch her.
“You’re right.” I grab the roller.
She looks over at me, her eyes sliding down my body. “You’re painting in that?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “You can stop eye-fucking me now.”
Wendy’s mouth falls open, and then she closes it. Her pulse beats in her neck. “Um, I’m not.”
“Just making sure,” I say, removing my shirt.
She keeps her eyes zeroed in on mine, not allowing her gaze to wander. Right now, this woman is completely in control.
“Abs don’t impress me, Banks. Do you realize where we are? They’re basically a requirement in Coconut Beach.”
“Glad to know I fit in.” I toss the material on the stairs, then start at the opposite end of the hall, putting space between us.
The spongy sound of latex rolling on drywall fills the area. Being around her shouldn’t be this easy.
“We should talk about it,” she finally says, keeping her eyes focused on the corner she’s painting, where the two tall walls meet.
“About?”
“Last night. It can’t happen again.” She dips the roller and keeps her strokes as even as her tone.
“Understood,” I say.
“Great. Glad that’s out of the way.”
“Can you explain why?”
“You’re a guest, Carter.”
“That’s the only reason? Because if so, I can leave.”
She shakes her head. “That’s absurd. My grandmother would flip. Even if you scurry off to Grand Palm, it’s still a no. You and I are not happening.”
I narrow my eyes at her, then smile. “Okay.”
“I’m serious,” she says between gritted teeth.
“All I said was okay.”
“Yeah, but you smiled like you don’t believe me.”
“Maybe you don’t believe yourself and you’re projecting your insecurities on me.”
She scoffs. “Are you a therapist?”
“No. But sometimes, I feel like one,” I tell her. “I’m a great listener. I’m also very good at clocking people.”
I focus on keeping my layers smooth and straight.
Wendy moves the step stool and climbs back up without saying another word.
She paints the top half of the wall in long, even strokes, and I cover the lower half.
Twenty minutes pass, and they drag longer than any eight-hour board meeting I’ve ever sat through.
The stool creaks again, and she’s closer than she was.
Her bare legs are at my eye level, so I focus near the baseboards.
“Gran wanted coral,” she eventually says, completely changing the subject.
“This is white.”
“We played a game of Rochambeau, and I won, so I chose this.”
“Really?”
“I’m a champion. And Gran can never pass up a bet.” She pushes the roller through the tray again and rushes to the wall before paint drips. “I used to think some of the best decisions were made by chance.”
“It’s a nice thought.”
Her mouth curves upward, and the tension in my shoulders loosens. She’s amused, and that’s always a good sign.
Around eleven, she asks about the thriller books on my nightstand, and I tell her the plot twist in the first one was so bad that I almost threw it off the balcony. She laughs, and the sound carries upward. How many nights left do I have to hear it?
By eleven thirty, the first coat is finished. We stand back and survey our work. She has paint on her arms and a streak across her upper thigh. I have it on my hands and somehow on my chest.
“We’ll let this coat dry overnight,” she says, wiping her hands on a rag. “Second coat tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here.”
“You don’t have to keep helping,” she tells me.
“I know.”
She hands me the rag, and our fingers brush together. “Keep it up, and I’ll have to put you on the payroll.”
“Ah, yeah. I’m on vacation, remember?”
Two hours of careful conversation, and we’re right back at the edge of the line we just agreed to respect. Our eyes meet, and I take a step away from her.
“Good night, Wendy.”
She chews on the corner of her lip. “Good night, Carter.”
I take the stairs and walk away from her this time, but I’m tempted to turn around and taste her lips again. I might be addicted.
The next morning, the sunrise turns the water pink. Wendy crosses the yard below, carrying chemicals for the hot tub from the supply shed, and my grip tightens on the balcony railing before I can stop it. She doesn’t look up, which is probably on purpose.
At seven, she knocks. The tray is set down, sheets are changed, and then she’s gone. The woman who kissed me doesn’t exist before dark.
Around noon, I go downstairs for water. She’s in the lobby at the front counter, sorting through a stack of mail. I stop next to her, and my hip presses against the counter beside her stool. She looks up from the mail.
“Are you busy?” I ask.
“What does it look like?” She turns on the stool, and her knees brush my thigh. Her cheeks flush, and this close, the freckles across the bridge of her nose stand out. Her fingers twitch once toward mine before she pulls them into her lap.
“Want to join me for lunch?”
Her eyes hold mine, and neither of us is doing a damn thing about it.
“No thanks.”
“Wow. Tough crowd,” I say. “I would’ve paid.”
She rolls her eyes. “City boy.”
“Excuse me?”