Chapter 7
CARTER
“Come in,” I say from the balcony, replaying our time together last night.
The door opens and closes, but I force myself to stay focused on the ocean.
“Good morning,” she says with the same professional tone from check-in day.
“Morning.”
The tray of breakfast and coffee is slid onto the desk, followed by the snap of fresh sheets being unfolded.
She gives no comment about last night. It’s almost as if I dreamed the whole thing.
The fitted sheet pops against the mattress, and she’s moving faster, like she can’t wait to escape me.
A few minutes later, she picks up the used linens from the floor and grabs my used towels.
“Do you need anything else?” she asks from the doorway, holding them.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Have a great day, Mr. Banks.”
The door clicks shut before I can respond. Her footsteps move down the hallway. This morning was a quick in and out, with no room to chat about anything else. I should be grateful she’s making this easy. Maybe I read her wrong.
I take my breakfast on the balcony, thinking back to how she was eating raspberry chocolate from my fingers. The distance between that and now is, well, night and day, I suppose.
By ten, I’ve read four more chapters without retaining a word, so I grab the mermaid key chain and leave. The Captain’s Room walls are starting to close in, like the ones in my corner office. I pass no one on my way out.
The boardwalk is packed today. Families push strollers while couples walk with matching sunglasses and shopping bags from stores on Main Street. A guy plays guitar on the sand with his case open. I toss a twenty in the case because he sounds good. It earns me a smile and a harder strum.
I eat lunch near the pier, where a local talks me into ordering a grilled mahi sandwich and a locally brewed beer called Sunrise Beach. It’s better than half the restaurants in Midtown.
The guy beside me asks if I’m visiting, and when I explain I’m here for the summer, he tells me about hidden gems to check out around the island.
Apparently, there’s a secret trail with a waterfall called Hidden Cove that only the locals visit.
When he leaves, he shakes my hand like we’re old friends.
In my world, a handshake is a prelude to a pitch; a favor is usually a deposit on an IOU; and kindness without a motive is a concept I understand intellectually, but have never experienced, except for here.
Nobody on this island knows my net worth or that I run a trillion-dollar company my great-grandfather built. Right now, I’m just a guy in board shorts, eating a fish sandwich. I blend in, and no one questions it. I just hope it stays that way.
On the walk back to the B&B, I pass a mint-green VW van parked at the end of the boardwalk with its side doors propped open and bookshelves built into the walls.
A sign on the side reads Salty Pages in bright letters.
A mini goldendoodle sleeps on a fluffy animal bed near the front tire.
I’m glad to know there’s a bookstore within walking distance because I will need more to read when I finish my thrillers.
Past the tourist shops, the boardwalk opens up to some bait shops. In the distance, I think I see a farmers market.
“Mr. Banks,” a deep voice says from behind me.
I turn, and a tall guy with dark, wavy hair stands a few feet away, wearing all black even though it’s ninety degrees outside. He’s younger than me by at least ten years and is built like he works out regularly. His amber eyes are locked on mine.
This is Ryder Mills, who helps run a wealth management company in New York. I’ve known him for a few years, and he’s one of the few people outside my inner circle who’d recognize me without a suit.
“Ryder,” I say, keeping my voice low as I glance around. “Did someone send you?”
“No. I grew up here. Paranoid much?” He crosses his arms, and his watch catches the sun. “Are you hiding from someone?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not hiding. I’m on vacation.”
“In Coconut Beach? I thought St. Barts was more your style.” His tone is almost bored.
A family walks past, and I wait until they’re out of earshot of our conversation. “Look, I need this to stay between us. Nobody here knows who I am, and they cannot find out.”
“Why?”
“The paps will show up within forty-eight hours, and I’ll lose my peace and quiet. I need this time to just be so I can work through my burnout.”
Ryder studies me. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you.”
He cracks a smile. “No one here would care.”
That almost makes me laugh. “I’m not worried about anyone who’s on the island. I don’t want anyone outside of the island to know I’m here, if you know what I mean. If it gets out, my summer will be ruined.”
“Understood. How long will you be here?” Ryder asks.
“Until the beginning of August.”
He nods once. “If you need anything, you know how to reach me. I’m staying right past the bed-and-breakfast.” He slides his hands into his pockets. “Enjoy your sabbatical. Be careful, Dyson. A lot of people who visit Coconut Beach never leave.”
“Oh, I’m going by Carter Banks while here.”
“Carter. Got it. Some advice: stay out of trouble and don’t get on anyone’s radar. Especially not this group of old women called the Bees.”
“Why?” I ask.
He walks away without looking back. “They’re like private investigators.”
His stride is long and even, and he slides through the crowd like the tourists aren’t there.
Ryder is gone in seconds.
Someone on this island knows exactly who I am. Thankfully, Ryder is trustworthy.
Then I think back to Wendy and how she warned me about the gang of grandmas who hang out at the B&B.
The walk back along the beach takes twenty minutes.
I shower, change, and sit on the balcony to settle my mind.
By seven, I grab my wallet and the mermaid key chain because the alternative is another evening of pretending not to think about Wendy while my brain simultaneously crunches numbers for accounts I’m not dealing with anymore. I need an escape.
Once the sun sets, the pier becomes different. I head back to where I was earlier to grab another beer and some nachos. The lunch crowd is gone, and most of the families are tucked in for the night.
When I’m halfway through my pilsner, Wendy walks up to the counter three seats down. She’s wearing a tank top, shorts, and her dark hair down.
“Long day?” I ask because I’m incapable of letting her be this close without speaking.
The surprise on her face is real. She glances at the empty seat beside me.
This morning, she was short with me. Now, she’s deciding if she wants to sit down or not. If she doesn’t, I’ll take it as a hint.
After a few seconds, she smiles, then moves.
“Horrible day. A pipe burst at noon,” she says, pulling a drink menu toward her. “It wasn’t a slow leak. Water was everywhere.”
“Did you call someone?”
“Hell no,” she says. “I watched a YouTube video and drove to the hardware store twice. Then I spent two hours repairing the PVC.” She orders grilled shrimp tacos and a margarita with a lime. “Bet you’re shocked that I’m a handyman too. Or at least trying to become one.”
“I’m impressed,” I say, knowing I’d have picked up the phone and called someone to do it.
“I don’t like asking for help,” she says. “Eldest daughter and a Virgo.”
“Shit,” I whisper. “Thank you for the warning. Double red flags.”
This makes her laugh. “You’re right.”
I order another beer, and she has another margarita. Eventually, her food comes, and she eats with her hands, not caring about the mess. Our elbows and legs are too close, and the space between us is warm.
“Can I ask you something?” She wipes her hands on a napkin.
“I suppose.”
“When’s the last time you relaxed?”
“Define relaxed.”
“No phone. No plans. No running. Just living like this?” Her brown eyes are steadily planted on me.
“I don’t know.” The answer is honest. “What about you?”
She shrugs. “Last night.”
That confession makes me feral inside, and I try my darnedest to push that away. “Fuck, same.”
“What’s wrong with us?” she asks, and it sounds genuine.
“Very good question,” I say, keeping my eyes forward because if our eyes meet again, I might do something foolish, like kiss her. “Let me know when you figure it out.”
She picks up her margarita and takes a long drink. A pelican lands on a post ten feet from us and watches us like we owe rent for being in its space.
I can’t fucking help myself, and I steal a glance at her from my peripheral vision. It’s the contemplation on her face that takes my breath away.
She slightly turns on the stool to face me, and her knee presses against the outside of my thigh. Neither of us moves. “For what it’s worth, even though you’re a pain in my ass, you’re growing on me.”
Laughter falls from my lips. “Oh, damn. We can’t have that. Might have to turn up my asshole attitude.”
“You mean to tell me there are more notches to it?” She’s smirking.
“Oh, babe. You haven’t seen anything.”
The bartender collects her plate, interrupting our moment. Just like that, it’s gone. She glances at the time on her phone.
“I’ll take my check,” she tells the bartender.
“I’ve got it,” I say, telling him to put it on my tab.
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m aware. Thanks for joining me.”
“Don’t make this a habit,” she says, licking her lips as she stares at mine. A second passes between us, and then she stands, pushing the stool underneath the bar. “See you later, Carter.”
Before she walks away, she gives me a smile. I finish the beer and pay, wishing I had walked her back.