His pidgin accent reminded her of her time in Kane‘ohe as an undergrad, subtle yet so distinct.
“Business.”
He laughed as he set two paper cups on the counter. “What kine business you in?”
Sharks, she almost said, then caught herself. That was certain to open a big can of worms and she wasn’t in the mood for that. “Research.”
“Research for what?”
“A book.”
It was partly true. She had anideafor a book, and journals and notebooks full of notes, but had never quite started. A memoir. But first she needed to remember.
“A Hemingway type, huh? That’s gotta be the best spot for writing. No one around for miles to bother you.”
Minnow felt her right cheek heating up and sensed someone at the far end of the bar listening in on their conversation. But she kept her eyes on George, who was about to pour some cream into the coffee.
She held up a hand. “Black, please.”
He motioned toward the back table. “Care for any food, then? You look like you could use some plumping up.”
It was true. Since breaking it off with Max, she had lost seven pounds on her already thin frame. Still, she hated when people pointed it out.
“Thanks, but I have to get going.”
“Not without our famous mango muffins. Woody would never forgive me. I’ll pack a few to go for you so you can grind ’um later,” he said, taking off for the kitchen.
Minnow turned slightly to see where the boat was but instead made eye contact with the man at the end of the bar. He looked to be alone and had a newspaper spread out in front of him, which he quickly glanced back at. She tried to look away but found that she could not, and stood rooted to the floorboards. His gold-tipped hair came out of his hat in loose pieces, and his face was dusted in freckles. The way he stared at the paper, a little too intently, made her think he wasn’t really reading it, merely pretending to.
Then he looked up at her again and fixed his eyes on hers. Yellow-green, like kelp on a sunny morning. She felt like she was being studied, the same way she would have studied a new species of shark or any number of undersea creatures.
“Hey,” he finally said, no smile.
“Hi.”
He wore a long-sleeved T-shirt, red surf shorts and rubber slippers, and seemed out of place. Maybe he was a lifeguard, early for work.
“What’s your book about?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard. “My book?”
“You told George you were writing a book.”
She laughed self-consciously. “Oh, right. Well I haven’t actually started it yet, I’m still in the brainstorming phase.”
“What’s it about?” he asked again, not rude but not friendly.
His face was all angles, as though whittled by the wind. And he was handsome. The kind of handsome that usually came with a boatload of trouble.
“A memoir. About my life,” she said, grasping at words and wondering where her brain had gone. “Nothing that interesting.”
One side of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Sounds like a guaranteed bestseller.”
The way he said it, all sleepy-eyed and nonchalant, irritated her. “Actually, I think it could be a bestseller, not that it’s any of your business.”
She turned to leave, but her eyes caught a word in bold at the top of his newspaper.
Shark.
