Great Big Beautiful Life(13)

I ask, “Is that so hard for you to believe?”

He snorts and goes back to staring straight ahead as we climb. “You’re doing it again,” he grumbles without looking over at me.

“What?” I ask.

“The maniacal smiling,” he says.

That surprises a laugh out of me. “I’m not sure how you can tell. You’re not even looking at me.”

That earns me a dart of his eyes to mine. “And yet I see now I was right.”

“It’s just exciting,” I say.

“This breakneck race up the stairs?” he deadpans.

“Working with Margaret,” I reply. “You have to be a little excited, somewhere inside that block of marble.”

“I wouldn’t call not getting a job exciting to me, personally, no,” he grumbles.

“But you’re in the running,” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “And so are you.”

“Right,” I say. “Thus the excitement. Can you imagine the stories she has to tell? She’s met everyone. She’s been everywhere. This is the job of a lifetime.”

“I’m aware of that,” he says. “Thus my irritation at being strung along for a month before even finding out whether I have it.”

We reach the third of four floors, and he hesitates a moment, waiting to see which way I’m going. I step off the landing onto the walkway. With a sigh, he follows.

“What are the odds?” I say as we fall into step, side by side.

He doesn’t seem amused. That’s okay. I’m amused enough for the both of us.

He pauses at one of the pale blue doors, something like relief seeping into his bold features. “This is me,” he says.

“Ah,” I say, walking past him to the very next door. My room.

“You’re kidding,” he says.

“I’m not,” I say. “Sorry in advance. I’ve been told I snore.”

He shakes his head, muttering to himself, “Of course you do,” as he fishes his room key out of his back pocket.

“Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday,” I say.

His eyes slice back to me, his hand stilling on the doorknob.

“If it really doesn’t matter to you,” I begin, “I’ll take Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday.”

He looks at me silently for another moment, then gives one slow nod. “In case I don’t see you again, then…”

“It was nice meeting me?” I guess.

The corners of his mouth twitch downward. “Enjoy your stay, Alice,” he corrects me.

It’s the first time he’s said my name, and for some reason it feels like a win.

As he steps into his room, I can’t help but call out, “Sweet dreams, Hayden! Use a white noise app!”

His only reply, as the door swings shut, is a grunt.

Or maybe…surely it wasn’t a laugh.

I unlock my door and go inside, ready to scour my list of furnished rentals.

For Hayden Anderson’s sake, I’ll shift my search far away from the Grande Lucia Resort.

At least, as far as you can reasonably go on a six-square-mile island.



* * *



? ? ?

I sleep badly and wake up early. It’s dark out, but I can’t seem to grab hold of the tail end of sleep as it escapes from me, so I might as well get up and fill my body with coffee.

I pull on shorts and a tank top, then grab my laptop bag and step out into the deep blue morning, my arms and legs prickling from the sea breeze.

The roads aren’t as empty as they were last night—there are locals heading into work and tourists driving down to stake their claim at the beach before things get too hectic—but the world feels quiet and still, and when I pull into the little enclave of shops back toward the mainland and Margaret’s street, the lot is sparsely populated. Most of the shops on the left are shut tight. All the restaurants on the right, aside from Little Croissant, also sit dark and empty, the striped umbrellas over the patio tables snapped closed.

There’s only one customer in front of me, a man with a horseshoe pattern of white hair around an otherwise bald head. The back of his salmon-pink T-shirt reads I Got My Sea Legs at FISH BOWL LITTLE CRESCENT ISLAND, complete with the street address, in smaller font, just below it.

“Captain Cecil?” I say, recognition hitting me.

The older gentleman turns around, revealing a gap-toothed smile. “Well, hi there!”

“I’m glad I ran into you,” I tell him. “I wanted to thank you for the drink the other night.”

“Pretty tasty, huh?” he asks.

“Extremely,” I agree.

The barista waves the good captain up to the window to order, but I head him off. “Let me get this for you.”

His wispy, curly gray brows pinch together. “Now, why on earth would I do that?”

“To make a visitor very happy?” I say.

He chuckles. “Well, can’t rightly argue with that.”

“I should hope not.”

He steps up to order: “One large iced brown sugar and cinnamon latte with whipped cream on top, please.”

The barista nods and scribbles CAPN on one of the to-go cups, before turning to me.

“Same thing,” I say, “but no whipped cream, please.”