“I wanted the last two days of agreement to be memorable.” He takes a sip.
In forty-eight hours, Dyson’s reservation will end. We haven’t discussed the future once after promising we’d give each other our answer on the third.
The water beneath us turns from turquoise to amber as the sun drops. A sea turtle surfaces ten feet from the pier, takes abreath, and dives back under. Ripples spread across the glassy water until they disappear.
Chef Armand moves toward us, carrying two plates. “The amuse-bouche is a single seared scallop on top of mango puree with a drizzle of raspberry. Enjoy.”
He places it in front of us and returns to his area.
I take a bite, and flavors explode in my mouth. I close my eyes and moan.
“Keep it up, and I’m having you for dinner,” Dyson whispers.
“No way I’m missing the main course. Save room for dessert.” I wink.
The string lights glow above us, and the candles flicker in the light breeze. Our plates are cleared, and champagne is refilled. We’re brought another plate, and this time, it’s grilled lobster tail with a coconut lime butter. Every plate is a work of art, a culinary masterpiece. The main course is blackened mahi over a bed of roasted plantains and pickled red onion. My mouth waters as I look at it, and I enjoy every damn bite.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” I ask, taking a sip of white wine that was served with dinner.
He grins. “I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But my path was pretty much chosen for me as a kid. I never wanted to be CEO. My brother Asher was prepped to take it over, but things changed once my sister passed away.” He smiles. “I wanted to be a doctor.”
I study him. “Really? What kind?”
“Emergency room. I strive in chaos. And I wanted to save lives and make a difference in the world.”
I tilt my head, watching him in this light. “Youdomake a difference in the world.”
“In a way. Not as hands-on as I wish, but I do care about people and humanity. That’s why I use my money for good. Most of the opinions you have about billionaires are warranted.”
“I was wrong about you though.”
I reach across the table for his hand. His thumb brushes the tops of my fingers. It’s his little way of saying that he’s here with me in this moment. The touch is so small that it shouldn’t matter, but it does.
“I hope you saved room,” Chef Armand says when we’re finished eating.
Our plates are cleared again, and he happily delivers slices of strawberry cake with fresh slivers arranged on top. There’s a drizzle of sauce that looks like someone painted it onto the plate. I take a bite and close my eyes again because this man found a chef who makes the best strawberry cake I have ever eaten.
“I’m speechless,” I say. “This is, by far … just wow. I’m a cake snob. You did wonderful.”
He bows his head.
“Thank you, Chef,” Dyson says.
“My pleasure, Mr. Banks.” He looks at me. “Ms. Winslow, it was an honor.”
“The honor was mine. And my belly’s,” I say with a laugh.
He smiles as workers pack his station. Moments later, he disappears down the pier with his team. And then it’s just us.
A chill rushes over me, and I shiver.
Dyson stands and extends his hand. “Let’s go inside.”
The glass door slides open, and the house is a dream. The main floor is open concept with polished floors that reflect the candlelight. Every surface has candles, dozens of them, already lit by someone on the staff while we were eating. The kitchen is sleek and minimal, with marble counters and copper fixtures. A staircase, made of floating wood planks, leads to the second floor.
