Chapter 7 Alligator Bites
Alligator Bites
Poppy
I’ve been in Florida less than a day and I’m about to die via bloody alligator death.
I can see the news headline now: Disgraced Influencer Dead in Freak Alligator Accident.
I flail for the surface. Why did I wear this dress? These shoes? My leg brushes against something rough, and I shriek, snorting water, bracing for the moment I’m torn in half.
Instead, something thick and muscular wraps around my waist. My heart, already racing, nearly jumps out of my chest. I wriggle
in its grasp. What the hell is it? A water python? A giant octopus? I refuse to be strangled to death by a squid.
I slam my heel behind me and hear a decidedly human-like grunt. Before I can escape, I’m dragged to the surface and onto the
dock. I turn my head to the side, coughing up seawater. By some miracle, my Dior sunglasses are still on my face.
My savior splays over me, chest heaving in time with mine.
Green eyes. Tattoos. Jack.
We stare at each other, breath slowing. Water drips from his nose onto my throat.
His face tightens. “Poppy?”
Despite the sunshine, I’m shivering. I push up the sunglasses. “Hi?”
His dark expression doesn’t change. Neither does his position. He feels as warm as a furnace where he’s pinning me to the dock, which is nice, but I might die of suffocation. I count the drips of water dotting my throat. Five now. Six. He looks close to strangling me. “Stop—crushing—me.”
He springs away. I sit up, shaking out my thankfully intact limbs. I had visions of bloody legs and chewed-off fingers, but
apparently, we made it out without a scratch. Not exactly how I anticipated running into Jack again, but I’ll take it. I raise
an eyebrow, and he reluctantly holds out a hand to help me to my feet. My fingers tingle where he’s touching.
I peer at the blue-green water, sparkling under the sunlight. “Did you see the alligator?”
“A gator? You sure you weren’t looking at your reflection?”
My mouth drops open. “Rude. That was definitely an alligator.”
“Trust me, if that was a gator, you’d know. Besides, there aren’t too many around this part of the Indian River Lagoon. We’re
right by an inlet.” When I just blink, he looks skyward, as if searching for patience. “Brackish water because of the ocean.
They don’t stay in it for long; they prefer fresh. You’d more likely see one in a lake.”
“I didn’t realize you moonlit as an alligator wrangler. Or a lifeguard.”
“I don’t.”
“And yet here you are, rescuing me from death by alligator—”
“—not a gator—”
“—or drowning,” I continue, smiling sweetly. “Such a gentleman, Hartman.”
If anything, his scowl deepens. He crosses his arms over his chest. For some reason, I can’t quite ignore the way his soaking
wet T-shirt clings to his broad chest.
“I thought you were an octopus, you know. Out to murder me.” I mimic the way his arm tightened around my stomach. “I was prepared
to fight my way out.”
“Your lack of knowledge about the ocean is alarming.”
“I’m not sure that’s the burn you think it is.”
A heavy sigh. “What are you doing here?”
“Is that the restaurant back there? It’s in a nice spot.” I shiver again as I squeeze water out of my hair. “Do you have a towel or something?”
He turns on his heel and stomps down the dock, disappearing into a creaky looking houseboat with peeling grayish paint. I’m
desperately curious to follow—the houseboat looks quaint, if rough around the edges—but I don’t want to get thrown back into
the water. A minute later, he comes out wearing dry clothes, a beach towel and faded T-shirt in hand.
He practically shoves them at me. “Change inside the restaurant.”
“Is the houseboat yours?”
He shoos me down the dock like I’m a wayward sheep that strayed from the herd. I’d keep asking questions, but this soaked
dress is super uncomfortable and my feet are chaffing in the wet heels, so I slip inside the restaurant. The door bangs shut
behind me.
My breath catches.
This place is beautiful.
It’s dusty, old, and worn, but underneath the grime, I see what it must’ve been like in the past. A gleaming, wood-topped
bar. Large windows and vaulted ceilings accented by wooden beams. A nautical vibe, but not in a cheap, gimmicky way. It feels
like I just stepped into an abandoned castle, a hint of faded magic lingering in the air. It’s not hard to see that with some
love, it could come alive again.
If I had any doubt that this is the Sailfish, that’s taken care of by the stained-glass art behind the bar, depicting a fish
with a huge dorsal fin jumping out of the ocean.
For a moment, I imagine it bustling. Filled with light and music and patrons enjoying the best meal they’ve had that week,
that year; hell, in their lives. I don’t plan on saying it to Jack’s face anytime soon, but he’s every bit as talented as
they say.
If he resurrects this restaurant, he’ll have no problem sliding back into the fine dining scene. And if I put my stamp on it, my family will have no choice but to take my career seriously. The past few days have been a whirlwind of activity,
but the constant was thinking about my father finally being proud of something I accomplished.
I could be like Julia, helping Dad with his business. Or like Mom, finding my own angle into the culinary industry. Finally fitting in, worthy of the Winfield name.
I wiggle out of my wet clothes. I can’t stand the feeling of wet hair on the back of my neck, so I use the towel to wrap it.
I’m in a thong and bralette—essentially a bathing suit, soaking wet like this—and I’m sure Jack means for me to use his T-shirt
as a dress.
I grin. He might’ve saved me from a bloody alligator death, but that doesn’t mean I can’t needle him a little.
Just as I predicted, the moment he sees me bare except for my underwear, his jaw clenches with annoyance. He averts his gaze.
“I gave you a shirt.”
“This old thing? It smells like fish.”
“Put it on.”
“I think I’d rather work on my tan.”
He twitches at my flippant tone. “Just tell me why you’re here.”
On second thought, it’s probably a bad idea to be mostly naked while I’m trying to convince him to let me stick around and
help with the Sailfish. I should have worn, like, a pantsuit. Never mind that I don’t even own a pantsuit. Or that pantsuits
aren’t waterproof.
“Poppy,” he barks.
“I’m thinking.”
“Think faster.”
I suck in a breath. “Well . . .”
He fixes me with a look that promises another dunking in the obviously alligator-infested water if I don’t start talking. I straighten my shoulders. I can do this. I can make myself useful around
the restaurant. Teach him a thing or two about building a social media presence. I rehearsed my pitch on the plane ride down,
whispering under my breath until the woman sitting next to me was glaring daggers.
I take a deep breath. Curl my bare feet, rocking back and forth. “You know that thing you said about me angling for a job?”