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I screw up my face. He has two boats, one for his fishing charter business and the other, a beat-up Benetau 28. It's definitely not a yacht. "You mean, your floating bone zone? Thanks, but no thanks."
Remy guffaws. "Bro, why don't you grab a room at the resort? It's low season, for Chrissakes. I'm sure there're vacancies. Natalia will arrange it."
I grimace. "I'd prefer not to beg my sister for a room so I can have a night of wild sex."
"Dude, we own the place. Do it right. You're not a teenager. Have some class, asshole. You need to act like less like a Marine from some war movie and more like a character from a Nicholas Sparks flick. Chicks dig that.The Notebookand shit."
I can’t believe Remy, of all people, is telling meto havesome class."Kate's different. I don't know if she wants all that romance stuff."
"Allchicks love romance, you tool. You've never romanced a girl before. Unlike me." He grins wickedly. I've heard about Remy's reputation around the island as a carefree, love-em-and-leave-em fuckboy-merman mashup.
I wince. "I have my doubts about your romance expertise."
It's another way we're different, despite having identical DNA.
"Do it, dude. Flowers. Champagne. Chocolates. Guaranteed fucking."
I throw a pillow at him. But maybe he's onto something.
I've obviously been gone for too long and spent too much time playing war, because somehow, my twin brother might have have better ideas on how to seduce women than I do.
kate
. . .
I'm restockingthe beers in the cooler when everyone in the tiki bar applauds like the Dolphins made a winning touchdown. Except the Dolphins suck and aren't scoring today, so the volume's turned down and we're listening to the Buffett channel on satellite radio.
Sunday afternoons in mid-November are always packed with regulars, probably because we close at six and don't reopen until Tuesday. Lime and Salt isn't merely a kitschy, Instagram-worthy tourist spot—it's also the community center, meeting point, and living room for a certain group of longtime island residents. Sure, many of them are functional alcoholics, but they're all lovable.
They hadn't been happy when Mom and I made the executive decision to close early on Sundays and not open on Mondays, but they understood that I needed a break, and Mom needed to not worry about the bar for a while as she recovers from surgery.
Bernice lets out an ear-splitting whistle, something I haven't heard her do in years. A few other regulars whoop and holler.
"What?" I call out, grinning.
That's when I see it: a guy in a hot pink polo shirt and jeans coming toward the bar with a dozen red roses in a vase. The embroidered logo of The Pink Orchid, Paradise Beach's lone flower shop, is on the guy's chest. I vaguely recognize him as Manny, the owner of the shop. He’s been on the island for years.
"Kate Cooper?"
My jaw drops. "Yeah?"
"These are for you."
The regulars, who are good and buzzed by now since it's four in the afternoon, erupt in another round of cheers.
"Are you sure?" It's been a long time since anyone's sent me flowers.
The guy sets them on the bar, and they look totally out of place against the naked woman lamp covered in decades of cigarette smoke and a worn placard offering happy hour specials.
"Yep. A dozen roses. Kate Cooper."
"Uh. Thank you. Um. Wait." I hustle over to our ancient cash register and tap on a button. The draw shoots open, and I extract a five, handing it to the flower delivery guy.
"Thanks."
"You want a free beer?" I call out.
He turns and shrugs. "Sure. I'll take a Heineken."
