My mouth drops open. “Rude. That wasdefinitelyan alligator.”
“Trust me, if that was a gator, you’d know. Besides, there aren’t too many around this part of the Indian River Lagoon. We’re right by an inlet.” When I just blink, he looks skyward, as if searching for patience. “Brackish water because of the ocean. They don’t stay in it for long; they prefer fresh. You’d more likely see one in a lake.”
“I didn’t realize you moonlit as an alligator wrangler. Or a lifeguard.”
“I don’t.”
“And yet here you are, rescuing me from death by alligator—”
“—not a gator—”
“—or drowning,” I continue, smiling sweetly. “Such a gentleman, Hartman.”
If anything, his scowl deepens. He crosses his arms over his chest. For some reason, I can’t quite ignore the way his soaking wet T-shirt clings to his broad chest.
“I thought you were an octopus, you know. Out to murder me.” I mimic the way his arm tightened around my stomach. “I was prepared to fight my way out.”
“Your lack of knowledge about the ocean is alarming.”
“I’m not sure that’s the burn you think it is.”
A heavy sigh. “What are you doing here?”
“Is that the restaurant back there? It’s in a nice spot.” I shiveragain as I squeeze water out of my hair. “Do you have a towel or something?”
He turns on his heel and stomps down the dock, disappearing into a creaky looking houseboat with peeling grayish paint. I’m desperately curious to follow—the houseboat looks quaint, if rough around the edges—but I don’t want to get thrown back into the water. A minute later, he comes out wearing dry clothes, a beach towel and faded T-shirt in hand.
He practically shoves them at me. “Change inside the restaurant.”
“Is the houseboat yours?”
He shoos me down the dock like I’m a wayward sheep that strayed from the herd. I’d keep asking questions, but this soaked dress is super uncomfortable and my feet are chaffing in the wet heels, so I slip inside the restaurant. The door bangs shut behind me.
My breath catches.
This place is beautiful.
It’s dusty, old, and worn, but underneath the grime, I see what it must’ve been like in the past. A gleaming, wood-topped bar. Large windows and vaulted ceilings accented by wooden beams. A nautical vibe, but not in a cheap, gimmicky way. It feels like I just stepped into an abandoned castle, a hint of faded magic lingering in the air. It’s not hard to see that with some love, it could come alive again.
If I had any doubt that this is the Sailfish, that’s taken care of by the stained-glass art behind the bar, depicting a fish with a huge dorsal fin jumping out of the ocean.
For a moment, I imagine it bustling. Filled with light and music and patrons enjoying the best meal they’ve had that week, that year; hell, in their lives. I don’t plan on saying it to Jack’s face anytime soon, but he’s every bit as talented as they say.
If he resurrects this restaurant, he’ll have no problem sliding back into the fine dining scene. And if I putmystamp on it, my family will have no choice but to take my career seriously. The past few days have been a whirlwind of activity, but the constant was thinking about my father finally being proud of something I accomplished.
I could be like Julia, helping Dad with his business. Or likeMom, finding my own angle into the culinary industry. Finally fitting in, worthy of the Winfield name.
I wiggle out of my wet clothes. I can’t stand the feeling of wet hair on the back of my neck, so I use the towel to wrap it. I’m in a thong and bralette—essentially a bathing suit, soaking wet like this—and I’m sure Jack means for me to use his T-shirt as a dress.
I grin. He might’ve saved me from a bloody alligator death, but that doesn’t mean I can’t needle him a little.
Just as I predicted, the moment he sees me bare except for my underwear, his jaw clenches with annoyance. He averts his gaze. “I gave you a shirt.”
“This old thing? It smells like fish.”
“Put it on.”
“I think I’d rather work on my tan.”
