Yeah, and I’m supposed to enjoy it. Have fun tonight.
Jameson
You too.
I set my phone on the small table beside me.
As the sun drops low on the horizon and the sand turns gold, all I can think about is how fucking jealous I am.
chapter ten
Wendy
Travis Kemp is a good man who smells like sunscreen and cedar, orders his steak medium rare, and laughs at everything. It’s endearing.
We grew up on the same street until his family moved to the other side of the island when we were in ninth grade. We lost touch over the years after I moved to California.
Now he runs fishing charters with his dad. He’s fun and easygoing, with sun-bleached hair and the permanent squint of someone who stares at open water for a living.
Josie gave him my number last week, and I said yes to dinner because saying no would’ve come with fifty questions that I don’t want to answer.
It’s been a while since I’ve visited Iggy’s Grill, a restaurant not far from the B&B. We sit on the patio so we can enjoy the evening wind coming off the water. White lights are strung above, and if I close my eyes, I can hear the ocean in the distance. Our table is small, and the candle between us smells like citronella. The breeze pushes my napkin off my lap twice before I give up and hold on to it.
My margarita is too sweet, and the fake lime taste coats the back of my throat. Nothing like the Clase Azul Gold that wentdown like water on Carter’s balcony a week ago. I squeeze both limes into the glass, then lick the salt off the rim to try to make it better.
“So, this family charters the whole boat,” Travis says, leaning forward with his forearms on the table. “Dad, mom, three kids under ten. The youngest is terrified of fish and has a full meltdown. The dad hooks a wahoo, and the kid was screaming bloody murder for us to put it back in the water.”
“Did you?”
“Hell no. The dad was basically likefuck them kids. We tagged it.”
I laugh. Travis is a good storyteller and a better guy. His hand finds the table near my wrist, and his pinkie grazes mine. I wait for the charge, the heat, anything, but it never comes.
I reach for my margarita, and the timing comes off naturally. Travis orders another round as the server picks up our empty plates. He chats about his parents’ anniversary trip to some cabin in Tennessee that his dad found online. His voice is animated, and his eyes crinkle when he laughs.
He’s the human equivalent of a golden retriever and is just as loyal. On paper, he’s perfect for me.
A server passes with sizzling fajitas, and the smell of charred peppers trails behind her. Travis asks if I want to split dessert, and I say sure even though I’m already too full.
The Key lime pie arrives on a single plate with two forks.
“This is incredible,” he says.
“Yeah?” I take a bite and am surprised by how damn delicious it is.
“Told ya.” He laughs.
If Josie asks how tonight went, I’ll say Travis Kemp is a ten on paper and a four in person. Not because he’s not attractive. He is. It’s just that there’s something missing.
When he talks about the tacos from this place that’s close to the pier, my brain serves me images of Carter I didn’t ask for.
“You seem distracted,” Travis finally says. It’s not accusatory, but I’m busted.
“Long week. The B&B is kicking my ass.”
“Josie mentioned you’re basically doing a bed-and-breakfast rescue. All you need is a reality TV show.”
“Oh Lord, no. Attention from the public is the very last thing I want.Ever.I cherish my privacy too much. My last job, I saw how many lives the limelight ruined.”
