“Probably already started.”
She reaches forward and grabs my hand. “What does this mean for us?”
“No decisions until August 3.”
chapter twenty-eight
Wendy
Dyson texts me at four in the afternoon while I’m elbow deep at the front desk, dealing with the swarm of reservations we’ve received over the past week. The patches have been made to the roof, and the ceiling was repaired in the Captain’s Room. It’s been a few weeks since the tropical storm, but things are back to normal. My new normal, whatever that means. Not sure I know anymore.
The front door opens, and a delivery person enters, carrying several boxes with white ribbons tied around them. A guy follows behind her with a bouquet of hibiscus flowers.
“Can you sign for me?” the woman asks.
“Sure.” I scratch my signature across the tablet.
The hibiscus flowers are bright pink and orange and smell incredible. Attached is an envelope with my name written across the outside in a handwriting that’s too familiar. Dyson.
Go on a date with me tonight. Be ready by 7 p.m.
I stare at the letter and grow excited.
I’ve been learning more about Dyson, his life, and what he’s gone through. It’s hard for me to believe the things I’ve read or half of what he tells me. I smile. He’s a grumpy little Care Bear.
I open the first box and pull out a black dress. It’s lighter than I expected, like it will breathe and move with my body like a second skin. The neckline is a deep V that stops right at the line between classy and dangerous, and the hemline falls to mid-thigh. I refuse to look at the tag because I know it’s expensive.
The second box is smaller.
I lift the lid and peel back the paper and see a pair of black heels with thin ankle straps and bottoms that are unmistakably red. I pick one up and turn it over in my hand. The leather is smooth, and the stitching is flawless. This man bought me Louboutins to wear on an island where I spend most of my time barefoot with sand between my toes. I slide one on, and the fit is perfect; of course it is.
A month ago, this would’ve sent me into a spiral about rich men buying things to keep women close. Tonight, all I can think about is the look on his face when I walk downstairs, wearing them.
Wendy
Dyson …
Banks
See you at 7?
Wendy
You didn’t have to do this.
Banks
I did. Let me spoil you, pretty girl.
Wendy
You make me feel special.
Banks
Because you are.
Banks
