“Close enough.”
“That is the answer locals give when they don’t want tourists asking them where to eat.”
I almost smile. “You looking for restaurant recommendations?”
“I’m always looking for restaurant recommendations.”
Something about the way she says it pushes at my memory again. Food. That’s where I know her from. Has to be.
“You cook?” I ask.
Her mouth twitches. “A little.”
The understatement is too smooth.
“Professionally?”
“Sometimes.”
Now I do smile because that is absolutely a dodge. “That usually means yes.”
She lifts one shoulder. “Do you cook professionally?”
I look down at myself, then back at her. “Oh, hell no. I only grill or eat out most of the time.”
“Grill?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a grill master?”
“No.”
Her brows lift behind those white sunglasses. “Interesting.”
“I don’t need to master it — just fire, fish, lime, and salt.”
“That is the saddest recipe I’ve ever heard.”
“It works.”
“Survival isn’t the same as flavor.”
This time the smile escapes before I can stop it. I like her. That is inconvenient, considering I don’t know her name, where I’ve seen her, or why every instinct I own is telling me there’s more to this woman than a pretty vacation guest hunting shells at sunrise.
She steps closer to the water as a small wave slides in, then quickly retreats when foam rushes over her flip-flops. The move is quick, startled, and more vulnerable than anything else she’s done so far. She laughs at herself, but her gaze looks back toward the dunes.
“You expecting someone?” I ask.
Her chin comes up slightly. “No.”
I feel like she’s not being completely honest, but I don’t question her. Pushing makes people defensive. Waiting makes them decide whether they want to reveal details or truths. She looks back down at her shells.
“I’m not used to the sounds here yet,” she says finally. “That’s all.”
“The island talks a lot.”
“Does it?”
