Chapter 28
chapter twenty-eight
Wendy
Dyson texts me at four in the afternoon while I’m elbow deep at the front desk, dealing with the swarm of reservations we’ve received over the past week.
The patches have been made to the roof, and the ceiling was repaired in the Captain’s Room.
It’s been a few weeks since the tropical storm, but things are back to normal.
My new normal, whatever that means. Not sure I know anymore.
The front door opens, and a delivery person enters, carrying several boxes with white ribbons tied around them. A guy follows behind her with a bouquet of hibiscus flowers.
“Can you sign for me?” the woman asks.
“Sure.” I scratch my signature across the tablet.
The hibiscus flowers are bright pink and orange and smell incredible. Attached is an envelope with my name written across the outside in a handwriting that’s too familiar. Dyson.
Go on a date with me tonight. Be ready by 7 p.m.
I stare at the letter and grow excited.
I’ve been learning more about Dyson, his life, and what he’s gone through. It’s hard for me to believe the things I’ve read or half of what he tells me. I smile. He’s a grumpy little Care Bear.
I open the first box and pull out a black dress.
It’s lighter than I expected, like it will breathe and move with my body like a second skin.
The neckline is a deep V that stops right at the line between classy and dangerous, and the hemline falls to mid-thigh.
I refuse to look at the tag because I know it’s expensive.
The second box is smaller.
I lift the lid and peel back the paper and see a pair of black heels with thin ankle straps and bottoms that are unmistakably red.
I pick one up and turn it over in my hand.
The leather is smooth, and the stitching is flawless.
This man bought me Louboutins to wear on an island where I spend most of my time barefoot with sand between my toes.
I slide one on, and the fit is perfect; of course it is.
A month ago, this would’ve sent me into a spiral about rich men buying things to keep women close. Tonight, all I can think about is the look on his face when I walk downstairs, wearing them.
Wendy
Dyson …
Banks
See you at 7?
Wendy
You didn’t have to do this.
Banks
I did. Let me spoil you, pretty girl.
Wendy
You make me feel special.
Banks
Because you are.
Banks
Oh, and pack an overnight bag.
I smile so hard that my face hurts.
At five, I quickly close the laptop and put a sign up on the counter.
I text Gran to let her know I’ll be out tonight.
She responds with a simple, Have fun! even though I know what their plans are.
Tonight, the Bees are getting together to spy on Mia, after Lucille suggested it this morning at breakfast. I wanted to ask questions but decided to stay out of it.
I go upstairs and shower, taking my time because I can’t remember the last time I’ve been on a real date.
Years. Adam didn’t try, which is so fucking sad to think about.
I shave my legs and use my body scrub. I dry my hair and leave it down because he likes it that way.
He’s never said so, but his fingers find their way through it when we’re close.
He tucks it behind my ear or twists it in his finger.
The dress fits like he had me measured in my sleep.
The silk sits against my body without pulling or bunching, and the V-neck is exactly the right amount of recklessness.
I step into the Louboutins and gain three inches, noticing how my entire posture changes.
I put on mascara, some red lipstick, and a pair of gold earrings I borrowed from Josie two months ago. Whoops.
When I look in the mirror, I don’t get that overwhelming dread that I don’t belong with him, even if some people on the internet think that. It’s never been about his money or his position or who he knows. Those are things we never talk about because they don’t matter enough to discuss.
At six fifty, I walk down the stairs with a small duffel in my hand. I packed several outfits because I have no clue where we’re going. With Dyson, guessing is impossible.
The stairs open up, and Dyson is already there, waiting for me dressed in navy slacks and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair is pushed back, and he smells like trouble. He looks up at me, and I swear he stops breathing.
His mouth opens and closes as he drinks me in. Those blue eyes trail from my eyes to my lips, down to my feet and back up again.
“Hi,” I say, chuckling. “You’re staring.”
“You’re gorgeous.” He moves toward me, tilting my chin up to his face. “I’m so lucky.”
I blink up at him, giving him a soft smile. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be staying at the B&B tonight and ordering a pizza.”
“We can’t have that,” he says, leaning in and brushing his lips against mine.
When I pull away, the look on his face is worth every second I spent getting ready.
He grabs my hand and leads me outside, where a car is sitting.
“Wow, you can drive?” I smirk. “Most guys like you …”
“Oh, fuck off,” he says.
Gran’s sitting at a picnic table, watching us.
“Ooh la la. Lookin’ good, kiddos!” she yells, raising her wineglass.
“Good night, Gran!” I call back, my face on fire. “Be back tomorrow.”
“Use protection! Or don’t. I’d like to meet my great-grandkids.”
“Gran!” I walk faster.
“Knock her up.”
Dyson laughs so hard that he has to stop and bend over with his hands on his knees.
“Don’t encourage this,” I say. “If you laugh, she’ll keep going.”
He opens the door for me, and I slide inside. As he drives, I glance over at him, smiling.
“Don’t say it,” he says.
“I’m just shocked a nepo baby can drive a car—that’s all.”
A few miles away, he parks, and we get out. We take the old beach path past the old Coast Guard station, and that’s when I see a helicopter on a helipad. I stop walking.
“Jump off a bridge with me?” he asks, reaching out for my hand.
I take it.
The pilot greets him by name and hands us headsets. The cabin is small and has that new-car leather smell that drips of luxury. Dyson buckles my harness because my fingers have given up on cooperating.
His knuckles graze my collarbone, and my breathing hitches. I stare at his mouth as he licks his lips.
The rotors spin, and he leans over to kiss me.
My stomach drops as we lift off. I squeeze his hand as we rise above the tree line. Coconut Beach spreads out beneath us, but I’ve never seen it from this angle. From up here, the B&B looks small beside the mighty Grand Palm. The boardwalk stretches along the coast.
The helicopter banks left. When the horizon tilts, my stomach goes with it. I press my back against the seat and grab the harness strap with my free hand. Dyson’s thumb draws circles on my knuckles, and I focus on that instead of being way up here.
As we cross the channel between the islands, the water changes color. The shallows around Coconut Beach are turquoise and sandy, but out here, it transforms into navy and then almost black, where the bottom drops away. Schools of fish move beneath the surface like silver clouds.
A boat cuts a white line across the blue, and the wake fans out behind it in a V that dissolves into nothing.
I turn my head and see Turtle Island is rising out of the water. The trees are darker, the forests denser. The beaches are narrower here. Clear water surrounds land.
The helicopter drops altitude, and my ears pop. We sweep low over a cove of water, and I don’t want to blink in case I miss something.
“Beautiful,” he says into the headset.
I glance at him, and he’s looking directly at me. He’s wearing the same expression that he had at the bottom of the stairs at the B&B.
The helicopter lowers onto a private pad, surrounded by palm trees. The rotors wind down, and the silence after is noticeable. When the doors open and we step out, all I hear is the wind in the trees. It’s followed by the puttering of a golf cart coming down a crushed-shell driveway.
“Mr. Banks,” the guy says breathlessly. He doesn’t look like he’s old enough to drink. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be late. I got—”
“It’s okay,” Dyson says with a laugh. “We just arrived.”
He lets out a long sigh. “Thank you. I swear my dad would fire me if I fucked this up.”
“The evening isn’t over yet.”
“Oh, of course. Yes, sir. Right this way.”
He leads us to the golf cart, and we climb onto the back of it.
The kid drives like he’s transporting royalty, which I guess he is, and keeps glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure we’re still there.
The path opens up to a private beach, and I stop breathing.
A two-story house sits directly on the water. It has a flat roof and windows for walls. The boardwalk surrounding it is lined with lanterns, each one lit, casting a warm glow. He grins as we climb off the cart. He places his hand on the small of my back, leading me forward.
“This is incredible,” I whisper.
The pier leads to a wide deck that wraps around the structure.
There’s an infinity pool that looks like it continues forever.
On the oversize deck, facing the ocean, there’s a table covered in white linen with candles clustered in the center.
The deck extends past the table into a private infinity pool that spills into the horizon line so the water and the sky bleed together.
The guy from the golf cart reappears with our bags and takes them inside. Through the glass walls, I can see the bedroom facing the water. I’m already excited to wake up here and experience it during the day.
Dyson continues to guide me forward. We approach a man in a chef’s coat as he stands behind an outdoor kitchen, built from stone and dark wood. There’s a live flame on the grill, prep stations lined with fresh ingredients, and the smell of garlic and butter. He nods at Dyson.
“Chef Armand,” Dyson says.