I take it.
The pilot greets him by name and hands us headsets. The cabin is small and has that new-car leather smell that drips of luxury. Dyson buckles my harness because my fingers have given up on cooperating.
His knuckles graze my collarbone, and my breathing hitches. I stare at his mouth as he licks his lips.
The rotors spin, and he leans over to kiss me.
My stomach drops as we lift off. I squeeze his hand as we rise above the tree line. Coconut Beach spreads out beneath us, but I’ve never seen it from this angle. From up here, the B&B looks small beside the mighty Grand Palm. The boardwalk stretches along the coast.
The helicopter banks left. When the horizon tilts, my stomach goes with it. I press my back against the seat and grab the harness strap with my free hand. Dyson’s thumb draws circles on my knuckles, and I focus on that instead of being way up here.
As we cross the channel between the islands, the water changes color. The shallows around Coconut Beach are turquoise and sandy, but out here, it transforms into navy and then almost black, where the bottom drops away. Schools of fish move beneath the surface like silver clouds.
A boat cuts a white line across the blue, and the wake fans out behind it in a V that dissolves into nothing.
I turn my head and see Turtle Island is rising out of the water. The trees are darker, the forests denser. The beaches are narrower here. Clear water surrounds land.
The helicopter drops altitude, and my ears pop. We sweep low over a cove of water, and I don’t want to blink in case I miss something.
“Beautiful,” he says into the headset.
I glance at him, and he’s looking directly at me. He’s wearing the same expression that he had at the bottom of the stairs at the B&B.
The helicopter lowers onto a private pad, surrounded by palm trees. The rotors wind down, and the silence after is noticeable. When the doors open and we step out, all I hear is the wind in the trees. It’s followed by the puttering of a golf cart coming down a crushed-shell driveway.
“Mr. Banks,” the guy says breathlessly. He doesn’t look like he’s old enough to drink. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be late. I got?—”
“It’s okay,” Dyson says with a laugh. “We just arrived.”
He lets out a long sigh. “Thank you. I swear my dad would fire me if I fucked this up.”
“The evening isn’t over yet.”
“Oh, of course. Yes, sir. Right this way.”
He leads us to the golf cart, and we climb onto the back of it.
The kid drives like he’s transporting royalty, which I guess he is, and keeps glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure we’re still there.
The path opens up to a private beach, and I stop breathing.
A two-story house sits directly on the water. It has a flat roof and windows for walls. The boardwalk surrounding it is lined with lanterns, each one lit, casting a warm glow. He grins as we climb off the cart. He places his hand on the small of my back, leading me forward.
“This is incredible,” I whisper.
The pier leads to a wide deck that wraps around the structure. There’s an infinity pool that looks like it continues forever. On the oversize deck, facing the ocean, there’s a table covered in white linen with candles clustered in the center. The deck extends past the table into a private infinity pool that spills into the horizon line so the water and the sky bleed together.
The guy from the golf cart reappears with our bags and takes them inside. Through the glass walls, I can see the bedroom facing the water. I’m already excited to wake up here and experience it during the day.
Dyson continues to guide me forward. We approach a man in a chef’s coat as he stands behind an outdoor kitchen, built from stone and dark wood. There’s a live flame on the grill, prep stations lined with fresh ingredients, and the smell of garlic and butter. He nods at Dyson.
“Chef Armand,” Dyson says.
“Mr. Banks. Very nice to see you again. Ms. Winslow, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He has a slight accent I can’t place. It might be French. “Your amuse-bouche will be ready in ten minutes. May I offer you champagne while you settle in?”
A woman appears from inside the house with a bottle of champagne and fills our glasses. It’s cold and dry, and the bubbles tickle my nose.
“I can’t believe any of this,” I say when we’re alone.
