He chuckled. “You make it sound depressing, but it’s not. I own a salvage company. What do you do, Vivien?”
“I also clean up people’s dreams, and kind of make them come true.”
He drew back. “Ooh, I’m intrigued.”
“I’m an interior designer.”
“Oh, that’s?—”
“Not as interesting as a salvage company,” she assured him. “I’m sorry I’m not familiar with that business. Please tell me more.”
“Well, I’d love to.” He gestured to the empty seat next to her. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He settled on the stool and put his drink on the bar. “I’d love to make it sound glamorous and impress you, Vivien, but what I do is take the trash from a building demo and dispose of it. I’m a glorified garbage man.”
She smiled and pointed to a Patek Philippe watch she knew cost upwards of fifty thousand. Her ex-husband used to lust for one. “I’ve never seen one of those on my trash collector.”
He gave a slow grin. “I didn’t say it wasn’t profitable.”
So he was tearing down the bridge for money. Somehow, she managed a smile. “I see. Are your projects all local?”
“Oh, I do work all over Florida. You smell coastal air…” He inhaled noisily and fluttered his fingers in front of his nose as if testing the aroma of wine. “I smell oxidation, sodium chloride, and mold spores. And to me? That smells likemoney.”
She took a drink and let him continue.
“Florida is a gold mine of garbage, Vivien. Just look around—anything metal is pitted and green, stainless steel is corroded, and don’t get me started on wood. That’s not after a hurricane—that’s after a summer. This place is one step away from uninhabitable, but that, my dear, is what keeps me in business.”
He gave an arrogant tip of his head, waiting a beat for her to be amazed by his prowess and ingenuity.
She dug up a “Wow” and took another sip, trying to figure out how to get him to talk about the bridge.
“Do you have any current projects around here?” she asked.
“Several,” he said. “I’m taking down an old shrimping dock behind a bait shop off Harbor Road and a few signs along the beach. Of course, my star event is the Left Coast Bridge.”
Her heart stopped. “The…old bridge that joins the jetties?” She tried hard not to sound excited.
“Have you seen that mess?” He chuckled. “That’ll buy me a new watch.” He leaned an inch closer. “Or you, if you play your cards right.”
Ew. She wasn’t playing cards, just trying not to show them. “Why are you taking the bridge down?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral. “Is it…hurting anyone?”
“My eyes,” he said on a snort. “Tourists don’t want to look at that.”
“I don’t think it’s that ugly,” she said. “It could be…cleaned up and stay standing.”
“Where’s the profit in that?” he asked, a little stunned by the suggestion, then he nodded. “Okay. I got you. Li’l bit of a tree hugger, are we?”
“No, I?—”
“I’ll tell you what I told the city council, some fishing authority, the county commission, and a dimwit at the local newspaper—that bridge is an environmental flashpoint. You can’t see under the waterline.”
“But you can?—”
He swiped his hand, cutting her off. “Those pylons disrupt tidal flow. They trap debris. They choke off seagrass beds. You get algae blooms, erosion, stagnation. It’s not just ugly—it’s unhealthy. The Gulf doesn’t need another artificial barrier from the 1970s rotting into it.”
She sipped her drink and let him continue, her dislike for the man increasing with every fake word.
