She shrugs. “Last night.”
That confession makes me feral inside, and I try my darnedest to push that away. “Fuck, same.”
“What’s wrong with us?” she asks, and it sounds genuine.
“Very good question,” I say, keeping my eyes forward because if our eyes meet again, I might do something foolish, like kiss her. “Let me know when you figure it out.”
She picks up her margarita and takes a long drink. A pelican lands on a post ten feet from us and watches us like we owe rent for being in its space.
I can’t fucking help myself, and I steal a glance of her from my peripheral vision. It’s the contemplation on her face that takes my breath away.
She slightly turns on the stool to face me, and her knee presses against the outside of my thigh. Neither of us moves. “For what it’s worth, even though you’re a pain in my ass, you’re growing on me.”
Laughter falls from my lips. “Oh damn. We can’t have that. Might have to turn up my asshole attitude.”
“You mean to tell me there are more notches to it?” She’s smirking.
“Oh, babe. You haven’t seen anything.”
The bartender collects her plate, interrupting our moment. Just like that, it’s gone. She glances at the time on her phone.
“I’ll take my check,” she tells the bartender.
“I’ve got it,” I say, telling him to put it on my tab.
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m aware. Thanks for joining me.”
“Don’t make this a habit,” she says, licking her lips as she stares at mine. A second passes between us, and then she stands, pushing the stool underneath the bar. “See you later, Carter.”
Before she walks away, she gives me a smile. I finish the beer and pay, wishing I had walked her back.
chapter eight
Wendy
My morning routine is changing, and I’m pretending it’s not. Each day now includes Carter.
I knock at seven on the dot and let myself in with his tray. He’s on the balcony with his feet propped up.
Without turning around, he offers me a, “Good morning,” and I say it back while I strip the bed.
It’s been a week of this, and I’m somewhat starting to look forward to it.
“The headboard,” he eventually says through the open doors, the same way he’s been asking about different pieces of furniture all week. “What kind of wood is that?”
“Cypress. My grandfather pulled it from the ocean after a hurricane when my mom was little.” I tuck the fitted sheet and move to the other side. “He built most of the furniture in the rooms himself. The dresser in here, the nightstands in the Pelican, the bookshelves in the Driftwood. He couldn’t sit still either.”
Carter turns in his chair. “Did he build this place?”
“Nope. He and Gran spent years renovating before they opened it back up to the public in 1975. There are photos downstairs in one of the albums. It was a wreck when theygot it.” I place the flat sheet across the mattress and smooth it down. “The house was built in 1952 and was an elite bed-and-breakfast before the Grand Palm existed. When Gran was a little girl, she’d always dreamed of owning it. The moment it went for sale, my grandfather purchased it for her. It was in bad shape, but he could see the beauty that she saw and supported her. I’m convinced love like that doesn’t exist anymore.”
“No?”
“Nah.My grandfather would’ve given her the world if she’d asked for it. Most men are too selfish.”
He doesn’t argue, just watches me while I finish making the bed. The silence isn’t awkward, and I appreciate that he doesn’t give me a response to every little thing I say. It gives me time to think about words, to process my feelings.
