Max tapped his fingers on the center console, steering with just one hand, stealing little glances at me here and there.
Mimi’s was so close to town we arrived in less than three minutes. Max bolted around the front of the car to open the door for me, and I grinned. He held his hand down for me to take, and when I stood up, he didn’t let go. Instead, he used that hand to pull me toward him.Smooth.I steadied myself with my other hand on his chest, looking up at him. His blue eyes flashed to my mouth and then back to my eyes, and before I knew it, his lips were on mine. Soft and pleasant and warm. He held the kiss for a beat, then two, before pulling back.
“Phew,” he said, his mouth tipping up in the corner.
“What?” A confused look spread on my face.
“I’ve been wondering if you’d let me kiss you all night. Now I don’t have to worry about that so much next time.” He squeezed my hand, still clasped in his.
I bit my lower lip and raised my eyebrows. “Next time, huh?”
His look of surprise made me proud of my teasing. “Well, I certainly hope there’s a next time, Val,” he said, adamant, staring me down with that ever-present glint in his eyes.
I stepped back onto the grass, holding his gaze as I slipped my hand out of his. “Me too.” I offered him one more smile and turned to head up Mimi’s front steps.
12
Optimism spurred me to sign up for a CPR certification course at the YMCA later that week. I figured it would help me get a nannying or babysitting job, if anyone ever reached out.
And because the universe works in mysterious ways, I got a text from an unknown number as I was walking to my car after the class.
617-555-6768
Hi Val, my name is Luke and I’m looking for someone to help take care of my daughter after school for the next couple of weeks and over the summer between and after her tennis and sailing lessons. She’s 8. Are you still looking for work?
I smiled at my phone in the parking lot, a sense of relief washing over me. I didn’t know why I felt so concerned about having some supplemental income. I guess I just wanted thepossibilityof not going back to New York, to Peters & Dowling. If I had some money coming in, low expenses, maybe I could somehow justify pursuing my current flight of fancy: writing. At least for a while longer.
A voice in the back of my mind kept telling me it was silly, thatI’ll probably go back at the end of the medical leave anyway. What else would I do? And why would I throw away years of education and hard work to struggle?
Still, I responded to the message, and we set an interview for Monday.
“You look stunning, as usual,” Max said when I walked up to where he was waiting for me on the dock by the entrance to the yacht club. I was back at the café behind the bookstore earlier today, working on my insider trading short story when he’d asked how I’d feel about a sunset boat ride.
I glanced down at my outfit—white jeans, white sneakers, and a breezy blue and white striped button-down shirt, all from my favorite boutique in town. I shrugged and flashed him a smile. “You don’t look bad yourself.”I can do this flirting thing.He was sporting an expensive-looking pair of sunglasses that were shaped perfectly for his clean-shaven face.
He wrapped an arm around me and kissed my cheek. I wasn’t used to it, didn’t feel like I deserved it. The compliments. The affection. So unfamiliar it was almost jarring.What’s the catch?I wanted to ask. Instead, I leaned into him.
We turned, pushed open the hip-height wooden gates, and walked out onto the dock. Max greeted the boat launch driver like an old friend, shaking his hand and clapping his back. Even though it was still bright out, most people were walking toward the dining room as opposed to the boat launch.
I liked our plan better.
We took seats at the back of the boat, and Max draped an arm around my shoulders. The wind whipped over us as we cruised out to the southern part of the harbor, the occasional splash of a wave misting water droplets into our faces. I closed my eyes and breathed in the salt.
The boat slowed and then idled alongside a pristine speedboatwith three engines, plush seats, and dark wood sides, namedAfter Sunset—the title of Edward Phelps’s first novel. Max hopped from one boat to the other in a single, fluid motion and then turned back to offer me his hand. After we put down our things, Max produced a bottle of champagne out of a cooler he brought with him that was more expensive than I would have ever bought for myself, even with my senior associate salary.
“Spoiling me with fancy champagne?” I smirked in a way I hoped was flirtatious.
“Of course,” he said with a wink before popping the cork into a towel effortlessly. He poured two glasses into flutes he’d retrieved from below deck and held his glass up to mine. “To the beautiful woman who keeps agreeing to go on dates with me.”
I fought my grin and tapped my glass against his, unsure what to say to that.
“Shall we eat and sip these for a bit and then take her out for a spin before sundown?” he asked.
I glanced at the three engines attached to the back of the boat. “Sounds perfect. I’m kinda dying to know what three engines can do.”
“Speed.” A childlike excitement danced across his features.
We nibbled on a fancy charcuterie board full of cheese, meats, nuts, and dried fruits and chatted about the new client Max was excited he landed at work and the movie Mimi and I saw earlier that week. I gazed out at the passing boats full of sailors returning from an afternoon on the water, and the weathered-shingle mansions that lined Edgartown Harbor, as our conversation meandered from our weeks to our favorite spots in Manhattan. I had embarrassingly few favorite spots in that city, but I did a decent job faking it, I hoped. I didn’t mention that I spent most of my free time writing this week. I wasn’t sure why.
