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three
Louise
Gentleman Pirate
I sigh with relief when the door to the adorable shingled restaurant gives way.
The bar’s open. Praise be. I swore I wouldn’t drink tonight, but then Mom and Aunt Lady opened a bottle of wine back at the house. Two glasses later on an empty stomach, I couldn’t sit still.
I couldn’t stop reliving the handful of seconds I spent in Riley Dixon’s insanely ripped arms. I felt so . . . awake, alive, it actually hurt. I’ve done a decent job of numbing my emotions over the past couple weeks. But then I stumble headfirst into Riley’s naked chest, and suddenly I’m feeling everything.
Sorrow.
Anger.
Confusion.
The wine I’ve had tonight isn’t doing its job. I’m just tipsy enough to think I need one more drink to make all these inconvenient feelings go away.
I glance at the sign above the door as I walk through it. This place used to be a casual burgers-and-beers restaurant called Merman’s, where Riley worked at night. But it appears it has a new name—Stede’s.
I smile. That’s kinda cute. Stede Bonnet is a local celebrity around here, having abandoned his life as a wealthy planter back in the 1700s to become the “gentleman pirate.” He swung from the gallows a couple years into his misadventure, but the whole thing still makes for a cool story.
Riley and I would talk about Stede. A lot, actually. The pirate’s story was the perfect confluence of history—my jam—and maritime lore, which was Riley’s obsession. Makes sense, considering his dad and grandfather were fishermen.
At night, he and I would steal one of Pa’s boats for moonlit cruises on the Atlantic. We’d imagine all the cool pirate shenanigans that went down in Bald Head’s quiet coves and labyrinthine marshes, the same ones we’d cruise through night after night, only cutting the engines to talk.
Talking quickly turned to touching. Touching turned into making out. Making out turned into—
Well. Everything.
God, was it good. In the way only teenage-angst-and-hormones-fueled sex can be.
The briny smell of fresh seafood, mingled with the smoky tang of a wood burning oven, hits me the moment the door closes behind me.
Gawking at the restaurant’s gorgeous interior, my pulse takes off at a sprint.
This is much different than Merman’s.
Grey oak paneling covers the walls and ceilings, giving the small but well laid-out space a tastefully subtle coastal vibe. Enormous milk glass globes hang over an expansive marble-topped bar. They coat the room in a warm, golden glow. A few patrons sitting at the counter sip what appear to be short, and I imagine strong, cocktails topped with kitschy paper umbrellas.
To my left, a man in black latex gloves shucks oysters at a stainless-steel raw bar. Set out on the ice in front of him is an array of seafood that rivals any fancy surf-and-turf place I’ve been to: crab legs, clams, lobster claws and tails.
And then, displayed front and center, there’s at least half a dozen different varieties of oysters.
There’s a vast tiled column in the restaurant’s far back corner, which I quickly realize is the wood-burning oven I smelled earlier. It dominates the restaurant’s open kitchen. I watch a small team of chefs slide loaves of bread and oysters by the half dozen into the oven’s mouth. One of them bobs her head in time to the music pumping through the speakers overhead.
The air leaves my lungs when I realize what song is playing. “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. A few seconds later, Carole King comes on.
No.
No fucking way.
But the oysters. The umbrellas in the drinks. The name, Stede’s. And the women in rock playlist, the artists Pa introduced me to, who I then introduced to Riley . . .
Can’t be. Surely Riley fucked me over enough already? He wouldn’t steal the idea for my dream restaurant—
“Welcome to Stede’s! How can I help you?”
I nearly jump at the hostess’s chipper greeting. She’s smiling expectantly at me as I stand there like an idiot, swaying on my feet.
I’m more buzzed than I thought. And yet not nearly buzzed enough to digest this.
The fact that I’m standing in the achingly beautiful establishment that looks and feels and smells a hell of a lot like the one I’d cooked up over the course of that awful, magic blur of a summer ten years ago.
It’s totally Barefoot Contessa, but southern, with a heavy seafood twist.
“Bar,” I manage. “Just me. Thanks.”
The hostess, still smiling, grabs a paper menu and holds out her arm. “Take any seat you’d like.”
Plopping onto a leather barstool at the counter, I pick up the menu. And promptly see red.
Anger holds my chest in a death grip as I read one line item after the next. There’s Aunt Lady’s poutine. My famous cheese straws, served as an appetizer or crumbled over a garlicky kale Cesar salad. A grouper sandwich, served just how I like it on a toasted potato bun topped with purple cabbage slaw.
