“And came in third place!” I exclaim.
He doesn’t sound impressed. “Out of four teams...”
I shrug. “Still counts as an achievement.”
“You answered every single literature question wrong,” he points out.
“Those were trick questions,” I counter. “No one actually reads Moby Dick all the way through you know.”
“Well I did...”
“Liar.” I shove his shoulder lightly. He catches my hand before I can pull it back, his fingers wrapping around mine for just a second before releasing.
That was... nothing.
Just a playful thing.
Doesn’t mean anything.
“This island’s got better restaurants though,” he continues, like that hand-catch didn’t just happen. “I’ve found some good spots since I’ve been here.”
“Oh?” That piques my attention. I’m always a sucker for good food. And he knows it. “Recommendations?”
“There’s a place near Governor’s Harbour. Family-run. Best conch fritters I’ve ever had.”
I purse my lips. “Bold claim.”
“I stand by it.”
I resist the urge to shove him again. “You’re a venture capitalist. You probably eat at Michelin-starred restaurants.”
“Which is how I know good food when I taste it,” he counters.
Fair point.
The bottle’s empty now. He sets it aside in the sand, and somehow we’ve shifted closer. You know, the kind of gradual closing of distance that happens when you’re not really paying attention.
Or when you’re paying too much attention to the wrong things.
“The water here is warmer than Coney Island,” I observe, because I need to say something that isn’t “why are we sitting so close?”
“Of course it is,” he replies. “One’s in New York, the other in the Bahamas.”
He’s looking at me now. Not at the ocean. At me.
Quick!
Say something else.
Redirect.
“How’s the villa?” I ask. “The one you’re staying at?”
“It’s good,” he replies. “Exactly what I need.”
“Big?” I say. I’m basically grasping at straws now.
“Too big for one person,” he says, his voice sounding lower than before.
