Chapter 12 Vivien
Vivien stared at Peter’s text, trying to corral all the mixed emotions his words elicited, unable to just grab one and feel it.
Peter: Found your bridge guy. Quinn Hargrove, scrap metal multimillionaire.
He commissioned the safety assessment and pushed the demo through all channels.
Turns out a deputy knows him because he frequents a bar called Breakwater near HarborWalk.
Goes there every Friday for happy hour. Wanna ambush?
Could meet you there after Connor’s doc appt. LMK
First there was satisfaction—Peter got a name. A living person after days of dead ends, voicemail, and closed doors on the subject of the Left Coast Bridge. But there was also disappointment…a scrap metal multimillionaire? He wouldn’t be easily swayed.
She also had a tinge of…hope. Was this a “date” with Peter? Was this a chance to finally have that conversation, or would he come directly from the doctor and bring Connor? And, yikes, Holly. Hope disintegrated at the thought.
What would she say to this Quinn guy if she did meet him? Whatever it was, she had to say it fast, since the demo date was approaching.
At the light, she typed in “Breakwater Bar” and got the address on her GPS—twenty minutes.
If she went home, changed, waited for Peter, and met him there—it might be well after Quinn Hargrove’s “happy hour” window.
She replied with a quick “meet you there” and followed the GPS, tapping the steering wheel impatiently as she sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the blistering late afternoon heat.
Yes, she’d rather go home to the Summer House, snag a G&T, and fall in the pool until Jonah magically made them all a dream dinner.
Actually, she’d like to do all that with Peter by her side and finish the night with a moonlight stroll on the beach, having their heart-to-heart talk and deciding they were better together.
Instead, she was headed to the Breakwater Bar & Grill, a casual restaurant that was frequented more by locals than tourists.
After she found a parking spot—another ten minutes in the car she’d never get back—she walked into the packed bar, trying to decide if Quinn Hargrove would be inside or out. The outside tables were slammed, and she realized she had no idea how to find a man she’d never met.
Inside, she found two empty stools at the end of the bar and ordered that gin and tonic she’d been thinking about. While she waited, she took out her phone and typed “Quinn Hargrove images,” and instantly quite a few pictures popped up.
She got a quick snapshot of someone around sixty, salt-and-pepper thinning hair, and what looked like a broad chest—or maybe a big paunch.
Hard to tell. The links looked like he had lots of community involvement in the 30A area and was the president and owner of a local company called Hargrove Salvage & Materials.
She skimmed a short home page on their website, highlighting a specialty in the secure and environmentally friendly removal of “aging coastal structures for public safety, traffic efficiency, modern amenities, and increased tourism.”
Basically, he eliminated history for the sake of progress and the almighty dollar. Probably made a killing doing that in Destin.
Looking up from her phone, she scanned the bar and…found him.
Dang, that was easy. As she stared at him, he sipped a drink and held her eye contact for a good three seconds, then he lifted an eyebrow in her general direction.
She gave a tight smile as the bartender returned with her drink and a check.
Now what? Talk to him alone? Ask innocent questions? Make sure he—
Her phone buzzed and a text box flashed.
Peter: Complication. Might not make it. Sorry.
On a sigh, she let the disappointment give a hard and swift kick. What was the complication? Dinner with…his family? Hating that she was jealous and sad, she reached for her glass just as the bartender scooped up the paper check.
“This one’s been covered by the gentleman down by the taps,” he said.
“Oh.” She blinked in surprise, then shifted her gaze right back to ol’ Quinn Hargrove, who beamed at her.
Well, if this wasn’t kismet, she didn’t know what was.
She picked up the glass, nodded her thanks to him, and took a sip.
Quinn was up in a flash, headed right toward her. She watched as he walked, studying him. Definitely sixty, maybe more, but he’d been to the gym and possibly the plastic surgeon since that last picture she saw.
At first glance, he wasn’t unattractive. Not her type, though.
Her second glance came as he stood next to her and looked her right in the eyes.
“I have never seen you in here before,” he said, his voice low and unmistakably flirtatious. “Welcome.”
She turned on the barstool to face him, her brain whirring with how to handle this unexpected encounter. She took a breath, conjured up her brightest smile, and extended her hand to keep it professional.
No matter what, she wouldn’t lie. She’d just…learn.
“Vivien Lawson,” she said. “It’s my first time.”
He shook a little too hard, his gray-blue eyes taking a not-so-quick trip over her. “Beautiful name, Vivien. Like…the Gone With the Wind actress.”
“That’s who I’m named after.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she assured him. “My mother has a dog named Aunt Pittypat.”
He laughed, hard and from his barrel chest. “I love it.”
“And who are you?” she asked, as if she hadn’t just Googled the man five minutes ago.
“Quinn Hargrove.”
No one would call him handsome, but she sensed an underlying energy that probably made him magnetic. And successful, even if his ill-gotten gains came from demolishing memories and landmarks.
“I take it you’re a regular, Mr. Hargrove?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Mr. Hargrove makes me feel old. So does being a regular at a bar. Call me Quinn and I’ll pretend it’s my first time, too.”
“Too late for that and you can’t lie. About anything.” She added a smile. “That’s my bar rule.”
He chuckled and took a of sip of what smelled like whiskey. “You have rules, huh? Okay.” He waited a beat, as if sizing her up or maybe trying to think of something to say. “You a boat person? Or just here for the ambience?”
“Just the ambience tonight.”
“Smart woman. Boats are money pits. Ask me how I know.”
She lifted a brow. “You own a boat.”
“Three of them. Small, medium, and stupid but impressive.”
She wasn’t impressed, but smiled. “Is boating your profession?”
“Nah. I’m the clean-up guy,” he said easily. “I get rid of things people don’t want to look at anymore. And, honey, I’ve made millions off people’s dead dreams.”
She tried not to cringe at the term of endearment or the social faux pas of talking income. Her mother would “bless his heart” and walk away.
But he’d opened the door to the very reason she was sitting in this overcrowded bar on a Friday happy hour.
“How does one…clean up dreams?” she asked.
He chuckled. “You make it sound depressing, but it’s not. I own a salvage company. What do you do, Vivien?”
“I also clean up people’s dreams, and kind of make them come true.”
He drew back. “Ooh, I’m intrigued.”
“I’m an interior designer.”
“Oh, that’s—”
“Not as interesting as a salvage company,” she assured him. “I’m sorry I’m not familiar with that business. Please tell me more.”
“Well, I’d love to.” He gestured to the empty seat next to her. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He settled on the stool and put his drink on the bar. “I’d love to make it sound glamorous and impress you, Vivien, but what I do is take the trash from a building demo and dispose of it. I’m a glorified garbage man.”
She smiled and pointed to a Patek Philippe watch she knew cost upwards of fifty thousand. Her ex-husband used to lust for one. “I’ve never seen one of those on my trash collector.”
He gave a slow grin. “I didn’t say it wasn’t profitable.”
So he was tearing down the bridge for money. Somehow, she managed a smile. “I see. Are your projects all local?”
“Oh, I do work all over Florida. You smell coastal air…” He inhaled noisily and fluttered his fingers in front of his nose as if testing the aroma of wine. “I smell oxidation, sodium chloride, and mold spores. And to me? That smells like money.”
She took a drink and let him continue.
“Florida is a gold mine of garbage, Vivien. Just look around—anything metal is pitted and green, stainless steel is corroded, and don’t get me started on wood.
That’s not after a hurricane—that’s after a summer.
This place is one step away from uninhabitable, but that, my dear, is what keeps me in business. ”
He gave an arrogant tip of his head, waiting a beat for her to be amazed by his prowess and ingenuity.
She dug up a “Wow” and took another sip, trying to figure out how to get him to talk about the bridge.
“Do you have any current projects around here?” she asked.
“Several,” he said. “I’m taking down an old shrimping dock behind a bait shop off Harbor Road and a few signs along the beach. Of course, my star event is the Left Coast Bridge.”
Her heart stopped. “The…old bridge that joins the jetties?” She tried hard not to sound excited.
“Have you seen that mess?” He chuckled. “That’ll buy me a new watch.” He leaned an inch closer. “Or you, if you play your cards right.”
Ew. She wasn’t playing cards, just trying not to show them. “Why are you taking the bridge down?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral. “Is it…hurting anyone?”
“My eyes,” he said on a snort. “Tourists don’t want to look at that.”
“I don’t think it’s that ugly,” she said. “It could be…cleaned up and stay standing.”
“Where’s the profit in that?” he asked, a little stunned by the suggestion, then he nodded. “Okay. I got you. Li’l bit of a tree hugger, are we?”
“No, I—”
“I’ll tell you what I told the city council, some fishing authority, the county commission, and a dimwit at the local newspaper—that bridge is an environmental flashpoint. You can’t see under the waterline.”
“But you can—”