Chapter 11
chapter eleven
Carter
Sleep barely happened. I got two hours max last night.
The look on Wendy’s face and her words replayed on a loop. She laid out rules like a contract, and I told her I’d think about it, which bought me exactly one night to figure out why every part of me wants to say yes and every rational thought in my head screams no.
The yes is simple because she’s the first person in years who makes me want to take a chance. The no is more complicated.
My name isn’t Carter Banks. It’s Dyson Carter Banks, and I run a company my great-grandfather built.
My net worth would change the way she looks at me permanently.
She clocked my watch on day one, which is why I stopped wearing it.
She called me out of touch to my face when I handed her five hundred dollars for tequila and chocolate.
She told me the corporation targeting this property preys on the vulnerable and thought I worked for them.
Just from things she’s said and how she’s acted, I’m guessing she views wealth in a not-so-flattering way. I wish I knew why.
If I say yes to this fling, I’m afraid of building this relationship on a lie. If I say no, I lose an opportunity to know her. Then again, it’s only until August 3.
By six, I give up on rest and go for a run. I run four miles on the shoreline in the dark.
My brain scans the scenario from every angle, the same way it does for billion-dollar acquisitions. Risk, exposure, exit strategy are a must. Then again, no deal I’ve ever considered closing has made my heart pound at two in the morning.
After I push myself nearly to the limit, I shower, dress, and take the stairs down to the dining room. Gale sits at the head of the table with her two friends, Birdie and Lucille. Mimosas are already poured, and notebooks are open.
Rose hums in the kitchen over something that smells like sausage and sugar. The candle burns by the staircase, and the bright sun casts through the windows, making the room warm.
Wendy stands behind the front desk in a light-purple Seaside polo with her hair in that high ponytail that I like so much.
She types on the computer without glancing up.
When my feet hit the bottom floor, she continues about her business.
Her face stays neutral, and she gives me absolutely nothing. It’s almost like I dreamed last night.
Wendy’s too good at this. A real ballbuster.
When I find the courage to speak to her, Gale waves me over.
“Good morning, Carter!” Gale says. “Come have breakfast with us. Rose really outdid herself today.”
I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a seat in Wendy’s line of sight. She looks up for a second as I sit, and my body buzzes.
“How’s your stay in Coconut Beach been so far?” Birdie asks.
I need to befriend the Bees, get on their good side, so then they’re Team Carter or Dyson whenever shit gets out of control—because it always does.
“I’ve enjoyed every second. It almost feels like home.”
“Really? Almost?” Lucille tilts her head. “The Captain’s Room has the best mattress in the house. I should know. I’ve tested every single one.”
“She’s not kidding,” Gale tells me, wearing a cheeky grin. Today, her gray hair is braided. “She’s rated them all by firmness. The Captain’s Room has the best score so far.”
“Wow,” I say. “So, you’re the Goldilocks of Seaside?”
Lucille snickers. “You could say that.” She picks up her mimosa with a pinkie out. “You should be sleeping like a baby up there. The entire room has perfect feng shui.”
Across the room, Wendy’s mouth twitches, and she almost cracks a grin.
Rose brings a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs with sausage patties, toast, and fruit. Gale talks about hurricane season and how she has a feeling it’s going to be intense this year. Birdie argues the Weather Channel says it should be a mild season. Lucille takes notes but also makes logical points.
Wendy moves from the desk to the kitchen and passes behind my chair. The smell of her sweet perfume reaches me before she does. She doesn’t slow down or even acknowledge me.
Birdie gives a detailed theory about barometric pressure, and I try to listen but my mind wanders to Wendy.
She returns with an orange juice pitcher and refills Gale’s glass.
“Only halfway, sweetie. Gotta leave room for the champagne.”
Wendy nods.
When she leans across the table, her forearm passes within an inch of my shoulder. There’s no contact, just the ghost of it.
“More coffee?” she asks, and her brown eyes land on mine.
The gold flecks are bright in the sun, and the mug instantly gets heavier in my hand.
“Please.”
She grabs the carafe and pours the steaming liquid into my mug. Her wrist is close enough to reach.
“Are we starting surf lessons today?” I ask.
The Bees perk up, and Gale giggles.
“Surf lessons?” Lucille asks with her brows lifted.
“Thought you’d given up on that,” Wendy tells me begrudgingly.
“Not a chance,” I say. “Can we meet on the beach in an hour?”
Gale turns to Wendy, and I know I’ve backed her into a corner, but I don’t care. I need to be alone with her.
“Fine.” Wendy walks without a second glance.
I think she thought she might get out of it. Not a chance in hell.
After breakfast, I help Rose clear the plates from the table. The Bees ask several personal questions that I dodge with ease. Thankfully, all the media training I’ve gone through over the years makes dealing with them child’s play.
“It’s been a pleasure, ladies,” I say with a grin. “I have a surf lesson.”
“Same time tomorrow?” Gale asks.
“Potentially. Depends on how I feel.” I give her a wink and move up the stairs.
The three of them start whispering when I’m out of earshot. I wonder what they know.
I change into some board shorts and walk onto the balcony. Wendy is already on the beach below, standing by two surfboards by the waterline. Regardless of what I decide about the summer-fling proposition, lessons are happening.
I shake my nerves away and head down to the beach. She’s waxing the board with her dark hair in a braid. The short-sleeved black surfer top and the tiny bikini bottoms have me thinking things I shouldn’t. She looks … gorgeous.
“You’re late,” she says without looking up.
“Actually, I have two minutes.”
She moves over to lay the board flat on the sand but avoids eye contact. “Before we get in the water, we need to practice pop ups. It’s a fundamental maneuver that you need to understand. Just remember. Hands. Toes. Jump.”
I cross my arms over my chest as she demonstrates.
She lies with her stomach down on the board that’s raised on a few rubber rings. Her palms are by her chest, and then she’s up and on her feet. Her body does it so naturally that it almost seems easy. I know better.
“It’s one fluid motion. Notice where my hands are?” She moves to her feet. “That’s where my feet land. Your feet should land soft and balanced. Keep your shoulders open. See how my body is neutral and I can move forward or backward? Notice my back leg and the positioning?”
I nod. “Understood.”
She gets back down on her stomach and does it again. “See? Loose. Fluid. Free of movement. It will help you move around on the water. Now your turn.”
I lie flat, and Wendy stands over me.
“Keep your shoulders neutral on the board,” she instructs. “Hand. Toes. Jump.”
My feet swing under my body, and I stand.
“Again.”
I do it.
“Again,” she says, moving her board closer to mine and doing it with me.
After a few more times, we move on.
“Okay, now we’re going to practice paddling.”
She shows me the movement.
“Head left, head right. Watch the waves. When I call it, we’ll do a pop up, then advance to the next level.”
I fake paddle with my hands cupped, like she showed me. Seconds later, she’s counting down, and then we’re both landing on our feet. The movement is clean. My body has been trained for this since I became a marathon runner.
“Not terrible,” she says. Her hand presses against my calf to adjust my foot. The muscle tenses, and she holds the position longer than an instructor would. “Palms. Toes. Pop up. Where your hands are is the sweet spot on the board. It’s where you’ll want to land for the best balance.”
Wendy crouches beside me and taps where my hands are. “Feet here.”
When our eyes meet, heat rolls through me.
“You’ve got this. Now, on the count of three,” she says.
Palms. Toes. Up.
We spend the next hour on dry ground, and I absorb every instruction she gives. We work through pop ups, paddle form, and board positioning until it’s drilled into me. Wendy moves to the side and hands me a bottle of water.
Once I drink half of it, she bends over and picks up the board. “Ready to get in?”
“If you think I’m ready.”
“We’re going for it.”
The waves roll in, and I watch the white water.
I’ve run this shoreline every sunrise since I arrived.
I’ve watched it from the balcony through every shade of blue and gold.
The sound is the only thing that has stopped my brain from spinning, but I haven’t been in past my ankles.
Water has always made me anxious. Currents move however they want.
The ocean is an environment that can never be controlled.
Wendy is already waist deep when she turns back. She looks at me, seeing I’m having a mini breakdown. I wait for the question that every person asks me, but it doesn’t come.
“The break is gentle today.” She gives me the same confident tone she used to correct my stance. “We’ll stay in the white water. I’m right here.”
There’s no pep talk or concern on her face. She took one look at me and understood, then adjusted her approach without making a big deal about it.
“You can swim, right?” she asks with a laugh.
“Yes, I can fucking swim,” I tell her, walking in.
“Great. It’s a requirement.”