Afterward, I go on the balcony with a book in my hand. When my phone vibrates, I get up and grab it just in case someone at the office needs me. It’s just my assistant.
Reese
Everything okay with your reservation?
Banks
Yes.
Reese
You’ll love Coconut Beach, I promise. Remember, no working for two months. And if you try, I’ll tell Gideon. Enjoy.
She won’t tell him—or, damn, maybe I underestimate her, and she will. Reese has been with the company longer than I have, and she doesn’t make empty threats often enough for me to ignore them. Before my father retired, she was his assistant. I inherited a job I never wanted because my little brother Asher passed on the opportunity.
Gideon Locke is the vice president of Banks Finance and the only person I trust to keep things from falling apart while I’m gone. He’s also a close friend and confidant. Yesterday, he looked me in the eye and told me to find myself. He saw the burnout and drove me to the airport to ensure I left the city.
Reese
Don’t text me until you’re on the plane, returning to New York.
Banks
I don’t say anything else. I check my email, even though Gideon locked me out of the server before I boarded the plane. The screen, which used to have three hundred unread messages by the time the sun set, has nothing.
Earlier this week, the board of directors decided that I needed a two-month sabbatical because I hadn’t taken a vacation since I’d acquired the position of CEO seven years ago. So, here I am on day one with salt air in my lungs and no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do to occupy myself. I’ve been running at a hundred miles per hour for far too long. The job and my exhaustion have become my entire personality—even I recognize that.
I toss the phone on the bed and grab the brochure for Coconut Beach that the woman gave me when I checked in. It has listings for local restaurants and bakeries, plus fun activities, like island tours and private surf lessons. Cocktails & Chaos—a tiki bar nearby—jumps off the page, and the thought of being in public doesn’t excite me. Maybe the corporate world actually stole my soul. Did I have one to begin with?
The last time I had fun, I was in my mid-twenties. Almost two decades.
I force myself to read until the sun hangs lazily on the horizon. I snatch the mermaid key chain off the top of the dresser and decide I’m going out. It gets shoved into my pocket with an eye roll. I don’t pass another soul until my feet hit the main boardwalk.
Sure, I’ve traveled around the world, but there’s something different about this small island. This might be the first time I’ve ever been a true outsider, and I have to keep it that way. No one can know who I am.Ever.
At the end of the wooden planks, a weathered surfboard has arrows pointing to different tourist spots with walking distances chalked in bright colors. Tiki torches with real flames line the walkway and throw warm light as I move toward the music. The live band at Cocktails & Chaos reaches me before the building comes into view.
The place is open air with no walls to speak of, just roll-up doors. The ocean wraps around three sides, and the concrete patio leads directly to the beach, where a few people play horseshoes. A light breeze moves through, carrying torch smoke and the sweet, waxy smell of the flames. Every seat is taken, and the tables are packed with sunburned tourists, mixed in with locals, who have permanent tans. There might be seventy-five people packed into this small space with more by the tiny stage, where the four-man band is set up.
The bar runs the full length of the space with bottles backlit by neon lights that glow teal. The last time I had a drink was with Gideon, at a Midtown rooftop bar with leather chairs and a cocktail menu longer than some contracts I’ve signed.
I scan the space for somewhere to sit, and the bartender snaps at me, then points at the empty seat at the very end. I give a head nod and move forward as he returns to making two drinks at once. The guy is tall, tanned, and built like a bouncer with full tattoo sleeves on both arms. Both glasses slideacross the wood and land in front of two women. The crowd surrounding the bar claps, and he takes a bow.
Near the back of the room, a woman with a dark bob sits with both feet up on the chair beside her, tan and athletic, like she owns the place or doesn’t care who does.
I pull out the stool and sit, avoiding the bar top because it’s sticky, and that’s one thing guaranteed to put me in a bad mood.
“You need a shot,” the bartender says, wiping it down without me asking, then drying the space.
“Whiskey. Neat. Make it a double. Top shelf.”
“Respect for getting to the point.” A bottle comes off the shelf without him turning. The pour is clean, and the glass appears in front of me like I snapped it into existence. “If you need anything, I’m Cal. Want to start a tab?”
“Yeah. I’ll have another one of these when it’s empty.” I hand him my card and wrap my fingers around the glass. The first sip is smoky, but I’m wound too damn tight for it to do much.
“No prob. Where ya from?” Cal asks, flipping a shaker and pouring something orange into a glass before slapping a pineapple wedge on the side.
“New York.”
