My chest tightened in a manner befitting painful gas when I unveiled the balance on my one credit card. Six thousand, yahoo. Lord, Mr. Kraken, my certificate from restaurant management school had better do me more good than wall decoration, because I don’t have a single Pinterest board with an inspirational room that required diplomas for wall art.
The letter from Mrs. Rittenhouse formally notifying me of the upcoming end of my lease hung on my bulletin board. In two days I had to either continue my lease or provide my thirty-day notice.
After going through my bills, I tackled my messages. BobCatStan wanted me to set my foot up on the toilet lid. I didn’t quite get it, but for a hundred bucks, fine by me. Photo sent. Another request came in for a photo of me in a cowboy hat, topless with a gun between my breasts. In less than five minutes I’d dug out one of my cowboy hats, a toy gun from an old Halloween costume, and another one hundred dollars earned. And, yes, I did go topless. Spring break girls did it and, hell, I had bills. I’d read that on the Riviera, everyone was topless. These were all the things I told myself as I sang a special Happy Birthday song with a plastic gun between my tits as an added bonus.
A request from Mr.BigD gave me pause. A baby doll negligee with a pacifier in my mouth. No doubt Mr.BigD had some serious kink issues, but, when your credit card was maxed out, at the end of the day, it was just a photo. That was what I told myself. And twenty minutes later, Mr.BigD had a photo in his inbox that he could download the moment he paid via PayPal.
Other than handling the special requests that had come in, I had to do some retouching on photos I’d taken on my trip, and then I scheduled a slew of new posts for my subscribers. I hoped the Vegas backdrop would appeal—and give some much-needed variety to my feed.
Are you home?
The text had me smiling. I pushed back from my desk and held the phone out to my lips, tapping the dictate option, talking as I descended the steps. “Got back last night. End of sentence. How’s island life. Question mark.”
I double-checked Siri got it right and hit send. My empty refrigerator served as a reminder that I needed to go buy groceries—and I also needed more money. I huffed and debated my options. In January, Suzette probably wasn’t hiring at Jules. But when places started hiring for the next season, I planned to be in the applicant pool. Will, my bartending friend, had promised to keep an ear out for job openings.
Good. Come over. 569 East Beach Drive.
East Beach Drive? Renting one of those places for a week cost like, $15K. And he’d said he bought a place. Unreal.
I set the phone aside without responding. Unlike Gabe, who could drop an insane amount of money on a second home, I had to get focused on my plans so I could ensure I covered rent. I opened my folder on bank loan options and read through Thad’s recommendations. First, he wanted me to create a business plan. In his I-am-a-very-smart-individual voice, he had informed me, “You have an outline of an idea. An idea I think you should reconsider.”
One of his ideas had to do with bringing the Salty Dog over to the island. He was correct that the famous Salty Dog restaurant did well in other similar resort locations, but they didn’t have a franchise group. The best idea I had was to copy The Salty Dog and use the name Jake’s Watch. After all, that dog was an island legend. The story went that when the dog died, the owner walked along the beach as he always did, and a dolphin came along and joined him for the walk, back and forth. The man decided his dog had been reincarnated as the dolphin, and he’d come back to walk the familiar path with his owner one last time. And the story even got published in a local paper. Seafood plus dog-themed logo—it worked for The Salty Dog, maybe me?
A knock on my door pulled me out of the competitive analysis Thad had completed on The Salty Dog, which included a full history of the restaurant. Given the amount of work he’d done for me, the favor Thad owed Gabe must’ve been a huge one.
I swung the door open. Gabe stood on my front deck, a baseball cap pulled over his forehead, an off-white sweater and khaki shorts with a frayed hem, and brown leather flip flops. His casual smile said Saturday. All my insides did a foolish girl fluttery kick cheerleading combo routine.
“Hey, there, stranger.”
“You didn’t return my text.” He angled his eyes and shook his index finger, but his grin joked.
“I’m working. About to eat lunch.”
“It’s almost three.”
“It’s been one of those days.”
He stepped into my kitchen and wrinkled his nose in disinterest at the one remaining ravioli in the black plastic microwave tray.
“Come on. Take a break. It’s a gorgeous day, and I want to show you my place.” His gaze fell down my body. My wrapped silk robe showed him nothing at all, but his intensity had me tightening my sash. You’d think he had x-ray vision and could see through the Hawaiian flowers to the cheap negligee I didn’t change out of after fulfilling Mr.BigD’s message request.
“Please?” He raised a singular thick eyebrow and grinned.
“Fine. A short break. Let me get dressed.”
Upstairs, I threw on a long dress and a cardigan sweater, then pulled on my Wal-Mart version of Ugg boots. My opened suitcase, filled with dirty laundry, threw accusations my way. As did my desk and laptop. I won’t
