“I could buy that”—she nodded—“if I wasn’t convinced thatsomeof life’s experiences are vastly overrated.”
“Maybe that’s true. Or maybe you’re simply in denial.”
She sniffed. The couple at the table behind them had ordered a dozen raw Gulf oysters, and their briny scent tunneled up her nose. “Denial is underrated. Besides, it’s only denial if you end up being wrong.”
“Good god.” Winston groaned. “Now I remember why we broke up. You’re as stubborn as a mule.”
“That’s not why we broke up. We broke up because you went to school in Miami and got all googly-eyed over some girl named Rosa.”
He had the grace to wince. And if she wasn’t mistaken, maybe blush a little. It was hard to tell given the depth of his tan. “Rosa was a symptom of our breakup. Not the disease.”
“Oh? And what was the disease?”
“You didn’t want me,” he said simply. “Not likethatanyway.” Now it was Chrissy’s turn to wince and blush. To which Winston added, “Don’t feel bad. The chemistry wasn’t there.”
She leaned back on the barstool and wiggled her eyebrows. “But it was there with Rosa?”
“Oh yeah.” His expression went dreamy. “I buttered that biscuit so many times I’m surprised Rosa—”
She lifted her hand. “Please spare me another trip down memory lane where you rhapsodize about you and Rosa’s sex life. I get it. You two were crazy hot for each other.” When Winston gifted her with a half smile that was wholly amused, she cocked her head. “Whatever happened there anyway? You never said.”
“What happens to so many college sweethearts.” He hitched a shoulder. “She got a job in Tallahassee, and the Keys are in my blood.”
“Why’d you come back home?”Chrissy remembered asking him over beers while helping him move into a one-bedroom apartment above a souvenir shop on Duval Street.“Won’t you miss the bright lights of the big city?”
“Miami was a ton of fun, but it was too noisy,”he’d told her.“There are too many cars. Everyone seems pissed and in a hurry and lays on their horns. I missed the quiet here. The slower pace.”
She certainly understood that. Conchs—the nickname given to people native to Key West—only ever honkedto warn other motorists of the chicken, scooter, or drunk guy crossing the road. There was no road rage on the island. In fact, the concept was inconceivable.
In her estimation, Key West was paradise. And not only because of the sand and the sun and the palm trees swaying in the wind. It was because the locals didn’t look up or down on anyone because of what they had or wore or drove. The idea of “whatever makes you happy” was pretty much the philosophy folks lived by. And most Conchs accomplished less by Friday than mainlanders did by six PM on a Monday.
“You should look her up,” Chrissy told Winston now. “Maybe she’s through with north Florida. Maybe she’s still single and ready to mingle and—”
Her phone screen lit up with the reminder that it was time to meet Wolf for drinks. For some reason, the whitefish she’d had for dinner reanimated inside her stomach and started swimming around.
“Speaking of someone who’s single and ready to mingle.” Winston glanced pointedly at her phone.
“I told you this isn’t a date.” She wagged a finger. “Wolf and I are friends.”
He laughed. “If by friends you mean horny as hell for each other, then sure.”
“I might want his hot bod, but come on. Give me some credit. The last thing that man is is relationship material.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You can’t judge the guy by that one night.”
She frowned. “Sure I can. He’s a tomcat, a player. But even if he wasn’t, can you see him settling down here with me in the Keys when his whole life has been one grand adventure? No.” She shook her head vehemently. “Wolf isn’t the one.”
Funny. She wasn’t certain who she was trying to convince more. Winston? Or herself?
He stood from the barstool and offered her a hand. “Come on, then. I’ll walk you over to meet your…friend.”
She decided not call him on his total misread of the situation. He’d simply accuse her of being in denial again. Instead, she looped her arm through his and breathed deeply of the island breeze after they exited the restaurant and strolled down the street toward the marina.
Cloud cover made the night inky black. The air felt close, like invisible hands were pressing against her skin. It gave her an uneasy feeling.
“Storm’s moving in,” Winston observed as the wind picked up and tousled his curly brown hair. He had one of those classic profiles that shoutedboy-next-door—which he’d quite literally been when they were young.
Too bad he was right about their lack of chemistry. He wasexactlythe kind of guy who’d settle down with the house and the wife and the kids. The kind of guy to coach soccer and drive to dance lessons. To be blissfully middleclass and live the American dream and—
