Chapter 26
chapter twenty-six
Wendy
Iwake up, and it’s dark because the windows are boarded.
The wind and rain are gone, and I hear seagulls in the distance, like nothing has changed.
Carter’s arm is heavy across my waist. His chest is warm against my back, and his breathing hasn’t changed. But his thumb moves in a small circle against my hip.
Last night comes back in pieces. I remember the Fireball and poker game with seashells.
“My full name is Dyson Carter Banks.”
The articles flash in my mind, and then I see photos of me with Carter—I mean, Dyson.
He shifts. His arm starts to slide off my waist, and I catch his wrist.
“Not yet.”
His arm tightens around me, and he presses his mouth against the back of my shoulder.
I’m angry, I’m confused, but really, I’m numb from the whirlwind of emotions I’ve experienced since he walked through the door of the B&B, looking at everything in the room but me.
His hand moves from my hip to my stomach, and I pull his hand lower.
“Wendy,” he growls in my ear.
I roll onto my back and look at him. “You promised me until August 3 too.”
“Treating me like your summer slut?” he asks.
“Don’t talk.”
His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my underwear, and my hips roll forward against his hand. He knows what I like because he’s spent six weeks learning me. When we’re together like this, names, finances, and job titles don’t matter. He finds the rhythm I need.
I grab a fist of sheets as his fingers work in slow circles.
“More,” I demand.
His teeth catch my earlobe, and the sound I make would embarrass me if anyone heard.
Two digits push inside me, and his thumb stays where I need it. The comforter rustles with movement as my breaths grow ragged. Dyson gives me everything I need without being told.
The orgasm hits, and I don’t hold back with my moans. I almost say Carter and stop myself halfway through.
Our eyes lock as I catch my breath.
“Wendy?” Gran yells. “Did you call for me?”
I slap my hand over my mouth. Dyson’s forehead drops against my shoulder, and his body shakes with a muffled laugh. I elbow him in the ribs.
“I’m fine!” I yell. “Just …”
“Take your time, honey. I’m trying to figure out this damn French press! I swear only prestigious jerks know how to use it.”
I tilt my head at him. “Maybe you can help her with that.”
It earns me a smirk. “I prefer it when other people make my coffee for me.”
“You did tell me you were spoiled,” I say, replaying every single word he’s ever said to me.
“And I told you I always get what I want too.” He moves hair from my face. “Proof I didn’t lie about everything.”
“No. Just some really important things.”
“You can be mad at me, but it won’t change anything for me. I’ve learned to be patient, Wendy. I’m not letting you walk away.” He slides out of bed and leaves my room, taking the stairs to his.
I let out a breath, staring at the ceiling. “Fuck.”
I get dressed. When my foot hits the bottom stair, I see our pile of clothes on the floor, the cards and seashells on the table, and the empty bottle of Fireball.
Gran is in the kitchen, watching water boil. She’s wearing her daisy rain boots and pink silk housecoat. Her silver hair is pinned up in a bun that looks like it survived the storm better than the B&B did.
“Good morning,” I say, offering a smile.
Gran doesn’t look up from the stove. “Mmhmm.”
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“Sweetheart, it looks like two adults drank cheap whiskey in their underwear during a tropical storm and played cards with seashells.” She pulls a skillet from the cabinet and strikes another match. “I’m seventy-two years old. I’ve seen and done worse.”
“Gran.”
“You want some eggs?”
“Sure,” I tell her.
Dyson comes downstairs and walks outside without saying a word.
She turns to me. “Everything okay?”
“Of course,” I say, knowing I can’t have this discussion with her today.
Gran hums under her breath and cracks eggs into a bowl. In another pan, she butters bread and fries it.
A minute later, the lights in the kitchen flicker on, and the fridge starts humming. Gran looks up at the ceiling like she just witnessed a miracle.
“He got it running. Wow, that thing hasn’t worked in two years.” She pours the French-pressed coffee into three mugs and slides one to the empty chair. “I’m adding handyman to his résumé.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Dyson walks in and goes straight to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. He dries them on the towel hanging from the oven and joins us at the table.
“The generator will power the lights and the fridge,” he says, picking up the coffee Gran poured for him. “It can’t handle the AC though, which means we need to pull the boards off the windows soon, or this place is going to be a sauna.”
“Agreed,” I say.
Gran places egg sandwiches in front of us. She sits at the head of the table with her own plate and takes a bite, watching us like a wildlife documentary.
Dyson eats without looking up, and I focus on the tablecloth. The coffee is good.
“All right.” Gran sets her sandwich down. “What is going on with you two?”
“Nothing at all,” I say.
“Don’t nothing at all me.” She looks at Dyson, then at me. “Did you have sex and it ruined everything?”
The eggs catch in my throat. I cough so hard that my eyes water. Dyson doesn’t react.
“Gran, we didn’t—”
“Those things happen. There was this one time I hooked up with—”
“I am begging you to stop talking.”
“I’m just saying. It’s normal.”
“Great,” I say.
Gran takes another bite of her sandwich and looks at Dyson. “It’s okay, honey. You two will get through this.”
“No comment,” he says.
“Smart man.” When all of our plates are cleaned, Gran collects them. “I’m going to the bungalow. I feel a migraine coming on. Stress does that to me.”
“I’ll take care of the dishes,” Dyson tells her.
“You’re a doll.” She leaves through the front door, and then we’re alone again.
Dyson washes the three plates, then sets them in the rack.
“We should start working on removing the boards from the window before it gets hot,” I tell him.
“Agree.”
We work through the first floor without talking.
He runs the drill, and I hold each sheet of plywood as he backs the screws out.
Daylight floods the rooms one at a time, and the building feels airy again.
But it also puts a spotlight on everything.
When we make it to the Captain’s Room, I notice new water stains on the ceiling.
I let out a deep breath, knowing that means we need a roof patch, maybe even a replacement at this point. The last quote I got was fifty grand.
I stand in his room longer than I should, staring out at the water. It’s rough and gray-green and littered with debris.
We check every room on the second floor. It doesn’t seem like there is any damage, but that means nothing when a roof has a leak.
I open the windows, letting the cross breeze move through the building. It instantly cools down by at least ten degrees. Salt and sea mix with a smell that only exists after a storm. I stand with my eyes closed and let the wind hit my face.
“Think I want to see the island,” I tell him. “To know what we’re dealing with. The B&B will survive.”
“Whatever you’d like to do.”
Gran meets us at the gate of her bungalow, and the three of us take the beach path. Dyson clears branches as we go, dragging the bigger ones to the side. The humidity after the storm is brutal.
The boardwalk took a beating from the rising water. Planks are buckled and splintered. Near the pier, a whole section is missing. Cocktails & Chaos has a ripped awning, and a few of the foldable tables are upside down in the sand. Many of the farmers markets stalls collapsed on themselves.
Some areas of Coconut Beach look like nothing happened.
I glance over at Dyson to say something when I notice the woman outside the bakery watching us. She leans toward the man beside her and says something behind her hand. He glances over, and then they both look away when I say hi.
That’s Jenny and Jerry. They’ve never acted that way toward me.
We keep walking, and two girls at the coffee shop stop talking when we pass. One of them has her phone out and tilts it slightly in our direction. The other whispers to her.
“Am I having a stroke, or are people acting weird today?” Gran says to me.
“People are always on edge after a storm,” I tell her, but I know it’s not that.
Most are paying attention to the man walking beside me.
A guy I’ve seen at Cocktails & Chaos a few times does a double take at us. “Sorry to bother you. Are you Dyson Banks?”
His posture straightens, and that’s when he realizes his little secret isn’t sealed shut anymore.
“I am,” he says.
The man extends his hand, and Dyson shakes it.
“I heard you were on the island, but I thought it was a rumor.”
“It’s really me. Hope your property held up okay.”
“We did all right. You take care now.”
The man walks away. Dyson turns back to us. Gran is looking at him with an expression I can’t read. I’m looking at him with one I’m sure he can.
“Who is Dyson?” my grandmother asks.
“We can’t have this conversation here,” I whisper, glancing around, knowing our every move is being watched. “We need to go.”
The walk to the B&B is a blur. Every group of people we pass is followed by looks and whispers.
By the time we get back to the B&B, I’m annoyed.
When we’re close to Grandma’s place, she turns to Dyson. “Ready to explain?”
He smiles. “Oh, right. So, I’m Dyson Carter Banks. CEO of Banks Finance.”
“Okay?” she asks. “Is that it? Are you married?”
“Not yet,” he tells her.
I walk away from this conversation because I can’t handle it. Gran took it like it was no big deal, like he was chatting about the weather. Meanwhile, I’m drowning in betrayal.
Inside, I grab the notebook off the desk and start writing down everything that needs to be done right now. My hand moves fast because if I stop writing, I’ll start thinking about the way Gran said, “Is that it?” like Dyson Carter Banks didn’t lie to everyone.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the name and the money don’t change who he is at the kitchen table. But they change who he is everywhere else. Today is proof of that.
Dyson walks through the front door. “She took it really well.”
“Yeah,” I say sarcastically. “It’s almost like it isn’t a big deal.”
“Maybe it isn’t.”
I set the pen down. “Do you think it is?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. Then the bastard has the audacity to smirk.
“I’m really starting to like this sassy, angry version of you.”
My brows lift. “Are you trying to piss me off?”
“No, I did that already.” He isn’t acting any different now that I know. “I’m going to donate money to help fix the island.”
And there it is. The checkbook. The thing every wealthy man reaches for when the conversation gets uncomfortable.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I care and because I can.”
The arrogance of that sentence aggravates me. But he’s not performing generosity for an audience. He’s stating a fact the way he’d state the weather. He has money. People need help. It’s the most obvious thing to him.
“I’m not impressed by your money.”
“I know.” The corner of his mouth lifts.
“It’s one of your best qualities. Most people treat it like a commodity.
You treat it like the curse it is.” He pushes off the doorframe.
“I’m not asking your permission, Wendy. Those people don’t care what my last name is.
They care about getting their businesses back. ”
He’s right, and I hate it. Many small business owners would take a check from the Devil himself if it meant reopening during the busy month of the season.
I stare at him. He stares back. The breeze moves through the open windows, and the curtains flap.
“Let me do what I’m good at.”
“Which is?”
“Problem-solving.”
He walks toward the back door.
Halfway there, he turns. “For the record, the curse isn’t the money. It’s what people become when they find out I have it.”
He walks out before I can respond.
I close my eyes.
“Fuck,” I whisper for the second time today.