Then I close the gap. His mouth is warm and soft, and he tastes like toothpaste. My free hand rests on his chest, and his fingers tighten around my other one. The kiss lasts three seconds before we pull apart.
His eyes search my face, and I don’t give him time to say anything.
“Um …”
“Yeah,” he whispers.
I pull away and grab the trash bag to take downstairs, pretending like that didn’t happen.
“Good night, Carter,” I say, not waiting for him to respond.
As I move down the stairs to the lobby, I can’t ignore the taste of him on my lips. The kiss plays on repeat, and I let it, even though that can never happen again.
chapter nine
Carter
I’ve been tossing and turning since four, unable to sleep. The stairs, her mouth, the softness in her voice when she said, “Good night,” have been on a loop. Wendy barely gave me two seconds of herself. That was the exact moment I knew I was fucked.
How? Why? I don’t know what this means. Being here is temporary.
A few minutes before seven, I get up and stretch, then open the door before she can knock. Wendy’s climbing the stairs with a tray in one hand. Her eyes focus on everything but me.
“Morning.”
She slips past me, her arm grazing mine, and the heat follows long after she moves to the desk and sets the tray down. Is she testing me?
“I need to grab fresh linens from the dryer. I’ll be right back.”
She strips the bed fast, pillowcases first, then sheets and blankets, and tucks everything under her arm. Wendy is out the door before I can say anything. When she returns, I’m at a loss for words because what the hell do I even say without coming off too strong? I’m rusty at this.
“Have a good day, Carter,” she says as she finishes making the bed.
Somehow, she’s done before I can think of anything clever to say.
“You too,” I offer.
The door shuts behind her.
“I’m an idiot,” I whisper, shaking my head.
I pick up my phone, ready to text a few of my friends to ask for advice. Jameson Cross is a classic playboy and could give me an up-to-date rundown of what my next moves should be. Then again, I do have Prince Louis of Montclaire, the master of women himself, who would happily give pointers. However, that would mean explaining this constant sizzle that happens when I’m close to a woman I’ve known for a week and a half. I don’t think I’m ready to have that conversation with anyone, not even myself.
I stand in silence while steam rises from the coffee. Needing fresh air, I move the tray outside and eat on the balcony with my book. Part of me wants to go downstairs and ask her if she felt what I did or if I’m imagining the electricity between us.
For the rest of the day, I read and allow my mind to wander even if those thoughts lead to the woman downstairs.
By dinner, I’m tired of being in the Captain’s Room and crave a change of scenery.
I eat at Iggy’s Grill at a bar top that faces the water. The shore is the centerpiece of every experience in Coconut Beach, and I understand why. Crystal-blue water and cloudless skies make it impossible to look away.
Fish tacos arrive on a paper-lined tray with charred lime wedges and a cup of slaw on the side. Grilled mahi sits, blackened at the edges, with chipotle crema on a warm tortilla.
My first bite is messy, and sauce drips everywhere, but I don’t care. Juice runs down my chin, followed by the crunch ofcabbage underneath. I’ve paid three hundred dollars for a plate in Manhattan that wasn’t half this good. The cold citrus pale ale, brewed on the mainland, cuts through the spice perfectly.
The bartender wipes the counter in slow circles and doesn’t try to make conversation, which I appreciate.
After another bite, I lean back on the stool and check my watch. It’s just past eight. Wendy told me she’d be painting tonight at ten o’clock and also mentioned I wasn’t invited.
