He nods once. “If you need anything, you know how to reach me. I’m staying right past the bed-and-breakfast.” He slides his hands in his pockets. “Enjoy your sabbatical. Be careful, Dyson. A lot of people who visit Coconut Beach never leave.”
“Oh, I’m going byCarterBanks while here.”
“Carter.Got it. Some advice: stay out of trouble and don’t get on anyone’s radar. Especially not this group of old women called the Bees.”
“Why?” I ask.
He walks away without looking back. “They’re like private investigators.”
His stride is long and even, and he slides through the crowd like the tourists aren’t there.
Dayton is gone in seconds.
Someone on this island knows exactly who I am. Thankfully, Dayton is trustworthy.
Then I think back to Wendy and how she warned me about the gang of grandmas who hang out at the B&B.
The walk back along the beach takes twenty minutes. I shower, change, and sit on the balcony to settle my mind. By seven, I grab my wallet and the mermaid key chain because the alternative is another evening of pretending not to think about Wendy while my brain simultaneously crunches numbers for accounts I’m not dealing with anymore. I need an escape.
Once the sun sets, the pier becomes different. I head back to where I was earlier to grab another beer and some nachos. The lunch crowd is gone, and most of the families are tucked in for the night.
When I’m halfway through my pilsner, Wendy walks up to the counter three seats down. She’s wearing a tank top, shorts, and her dark hair down.
“Long day?” I ask because I’m incapable of letting her be this close without speaking.
The surprise on her face is real. She glances at the empty seat beside me.
This morning, she was short with me. Now, she’s deciding if she wants to sit down or not. If she doesn’t, I’ll take it as a hint.
After a few seconds, she smiles, then moves.
“Horrible day. A pipe burst at noon,” she says, pulling a drink menu toward her. “It wasn’t a slow leak. Water was everywhere.”
“Did you call someone?”
“Hell no,” she says. “I watched a YouTube video and drove to the hardware store twice. Then I spent two hours repairing the PVC.” She orders grilled shrimp tacos and a margarita with a lime. “Bet you’re shocked that I’m a handyman too. Or at least trying to become one.”
“I’m impressed,” I say, knowing I’d have picked up the phone and called someone to do it.
“I don’t like asking for help,” she says. “Eldest daughter and a Virgo.”
“Shit,” I whisper. “Thank you for the warning. Double red flags.”
This makes her laugh. “You’re right.”
I order another beer, and she has another margarita. Eventually, her food comes, and she eats with her hands, not caring about the mess. Our elbows and legs are too close, and the space between us is warm.
“Can I ask you something?” She wipes her hands on a napkin.
“I suppose.”
“When’s the last time you relaxed?”
“Definerelaxed.”
“No phone. No plans. No running. Just living like this?” Her brown eyes are steadily planted on me.
“I don’t know.” The answer is honest. “What about you?”
