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“Hair out,” Dexter says firmly. “Yes, I’m going to rip my hair out.” He looks around again to see who might be close enough to hear. “But Theo, this isn’t just any woman. Ruby is important; she’s asomebody. Have you ever dated someone with their own Secret Service agent?”
For once, even Theo Harris looks cowed. He chews and swallows his bite of steak. “I have not.”
“It’s a bit intimidating.”
“Quite,” Theo agrees, eyes wide. “And do you even know if she feels the same?”
Dexter narrows his eyes, remembering their first dinner on Christmas Key, the day he took her to his tiny house on the island, and their time together in New York City. “I think she might,” he finally says. “But she’s—as you’ve said—mature, and therefore knows how to keep herself together. It’s really best if I put just a little distance between us. At least for the time being.”
Theo lifts his fresh glass of whiskey and makes a proposition. “I know you’re on deadline with this book, though I assume you’ve got a bit of time to work with. So how about you let me introduce you to my editor. He’s always looking for stringers to work on big stories, and frankly, you’re a big enough name that your byline will be of value to him. Come with me to work on this piece about Russia and Ukraine.”
“You want me to come to Russia?” Dexter sets his knife and fork on his plate with a clink.
“Well, technically Ukraine.”
“Is that safe for journalists?”
“Dexter, old chap,” Theo says, his eyes gleaming with mirth. “Apparently you aren’t safe on a late-night Zoom call with a fifty-year-old blonde whose manners are impeccable and White House-worthy, so I can’t imagine that Ukraine will be much more dangerous for you.”
“You’re probably right,” Dexter says, lifting his whiskey glass in the air. “Salut!”
Theo clinks the edge of his own glass against Dexter’s. “Salut, amigo. Now let’s get you off of American soil for a bit, and away from your girl, shall we?”
Sunday
“It’s a really good idea for someone living on an island to know boat basics,” Linden says, holding out a rope for Sunday to take. “So go ahead and tie this just like I showed you, and then we’ll untie it and redo it a few more times to make sure you’ve got it.”
Linden is a fresh-faced high schooler with a mop of tawny auburn curls on top of his head, and braces that are embellished with bright blue rubber bands. Every inch of skin that’s visible on the tall, lanky boy looks like it’s been dipped in a box of freckles.
“Like this?” Sunday asks, holding up the rope to show him her knot. Ruby is on the bench next to her, tying her own knot, and the other two middle-aged people in Linden’s class with them are a couple who frequent the bookstore and are always making requests for books that Ruby needs to order.
“Is it too early to have a grog when we’re done with this?” Ruby says under her breath, muttering as she gets her knot tangled for the third time.
Sunday consults her watch. “It’ll be noon by then, so I think as long as we order a basket of fries with our grog, we can call it lunch.”
“Now,” Linden says, pacing the boat from bow to stern and admiring the work of his pupils, “if we take our ropes and undo the knots, I can show you how to tie up your boat. So let’s do that.”
“This feels like CPR training or something,” Ruby says, breaking a sweat as she unties her knot. “But thanks for making me do it anyway. You never know when you might need to untie a boat, start the motor, and steal it to get away from the bad guys.”
Sunday’s eyes drift from the rope in her hands up to where Banks is standing on the dock, arms folded across his strong chest. He’s wearing sunglasses, as usual, and scanning the area around the dock. All around them, boats rock lazily on the water, and from one of the vessels comes the unmistakable sound of two people “enjoying” their morning to the sounds of laid-back yacht rock.
“It’s been a while since I’ve heard that sound,” Ruby says, tipping her head in the direction of the boat. “Or since I made that sound.”
Sunday coughs out a laugh that gets Linden’s attention; his head jerks toward them like a teacher who’s just realized that two of his pupils are gossiping instead of working.
“Sorry,” Ruby mouths at him. She turns back to Sunday. “I see you eyeballing my main man over there,” she says, letting her eyes flick in Banks’s direction. “So maybe you’re thinking of filling the evening air with the sounds of your own passion.” She wiggles a shoulder suggestively, bumping it against Sunday as she does.
“Rubes,” Sunday says, trying to frown and look serious. “We talked about this: Banks is here to work. Me messing with him could only end badly.”
Ruby’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Or it could end really, really good.”
Sunday hides a laugh behind one hand, glancing at Banks again. Sure, it would be fun to have a little afternoon—or morning, or evening—delight with a man as handsome as Henry Banks. And it would take her mind off Peter and whatever shenanigans he’s still up to in Washington. But she’s just gotten her feet on the ground again after her trip to Tangier, and she’s feeling better and more at peace than she has in a long time, with daily calls or texts to one or both of her daughters just to say hi, check in, or to share something funny that’s happened. She’s not prepared to throw all that away to be the island fling of a hot, smoldering, sexy, built-to-the-hilt Secret Service agent.
But still…she can’t help looking. Banks shifts his weight as he turns his body to face the shoreline, and the muscles in his strong legs flex from under his khaki shorts. The sun has already turned him a burnished golden color in the months that they’ve been on Shipwreck Key, and his hair has lightened up a shade or two as well, glinting under the late morning sun as he scans the beach. Sunday bites her lower lip as she watches him.
“Hey,” Ruby says, pulling Sunday back from her thoughts. “Want to come over for dinner tonight? I’m making grouper and the girls are doing all the side dishes.”
Linden comes around again, talking loudly about knowing the parts of a boat, but Sunday tunes out all his talk offoreandaftandbowandstern. “Yeah,” she says with a distracted smile. “I’d love to. Can I bring my homemade cheese biscuits?”
