Our eyes lock as I catch my breath.
“Wendy?” Gran yells. “Did you call for me?”
I slap my hand over my mouth. Dyson’s forehead drops against my shoulder, and his body shakes with a muffled laugh. I elbow him in the ribs.
“I’m fine!” I yell. “Just …”
“Take your time, honey. I’m trying to figure out this damn French press! I swear only prestigious jerks know how to use it.”
I tilt my head at him. “Maybe you can help her with that.”
It earns me a smirk. “I prefer it when other people make my coffee for me.”
“You did tell me you were spoiled,” I say, replaying every single word he’s ever said to me.
“And I told you I always get what I want too.” He moves hair from my face. “Proof I didn’t lie abouteverything.”
“No. Just some really important things.”
“You can be mad at me, but it won’t change anything for me. I’ve learned to be patient, Wendy. I’m not letting you walk away.” He slides out of bed and leaves my room, taking the stairs to his.
I let out a breath, staring at the ceiling. “Fuck.”
I get dressed. When my foot hits the bottom stair, I see our pile of clothes on the floor, the cards and seashells on the table, and the empty bottle of Fireball.
Gran is in the kitchen, watching water boil. She’s wearing her daisy rain boots and pink silk housecoat. Her silver hair is pinned up in a bun that looks like it survived the storm better than the B&B did.
“Good morning,” I say, offering a smile.
Gran doesn’t look up from the stove. “Mmhmm.”
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“Sweetheart, it looks like two adults drank cheap whiskey in their underwear during a tropical storm and played cards with seashells.” She pulls a skillet from the cabinet and strikes another match. “I’m seventy-two years old. I’ve seen and done worse.”
“Gran.”
“You want some eggs?”
“Sure,” I tell her.
Dyson comes downstairs and walks outside without saying a word.
She turns to me. “Everything okay?”
“Of course,” I say, knowing I can’t have this discussion with her today.
Gran hums under her breath and cracks eggs into a bowl. In another pan, she butters bread and fries it.
A minute later, the lights in the kitchen flicker on, and the fridge starts humming. Gran looks up at the ceiling like she just witnessed a miracle.
“He got it running. Wow, that thing hasn’t worked in two years.” She pours the French-pressed coffee into three mugs and slides one to the empty chair. “I’m adding handyman to his résumé.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Dyson walks in and goes straight to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. He dries them on the towel hanging from the oven and joins us at the table.
“The generator will power the lights and the fridge,” he says, picking up the coffee Gran poured for him. “It can’t handle the AC though, which means we need to pull the boards off the windows soon, or this place is going to be a sauna.”
