The Best Of Me. Tina Wainscott

the walls depicting all kinds of happy faces: buttons, posters, bottle caps, even round yellow faces with dreadlocks.

      Her gaze fell to Chris’s long fingers as they slid up and down the curves of his sweating bottle of beer. He had great hands, strong and capable, calloused and work-worn. He tossed back the rest of his beer and set the bottle in front of him. The bartender brought another. He tipped it to her and took a swallow. He seemed different away from his dolphin. More relaxed, open.

      He turned around on his stool and leaned back against the bar, one knee jiggling to the beat. His curls dipped to the top of his shirt in the back, and his biceps flexed as his arms balanced him. A few freckles topped his shoulders and that necklace lay over the curves of his collarbone. His tank top was deep blue, which brought out the green even more in his eyes. Did he have maps and beer and not much else wherever he lived?

      She turned around, too, after waiting the appropriate amount of time so he didn’t think she was copying him. She had to admit it was nice finding a familiar face among strangers. That was why she felt warm and easy sitting there with the fans pushing the air around and the music lulling her with its beat. Indeed, Barney’s was a happy place.

      “Where are you staying?” she asked, keeping her gaze just shy of his eyes.

      “At The Caribe Plantation, down the road a piece.”

      She remembered seeing the fancy entrance earlier. It didn’t seem like his style. “Sounds nice.”

      “The house is something, Colonial style with pillars and stuff. I’m staying in the boathouse.”

      That sounded more like Chris. When he didn’t reciprocate, she said, “I’m staying at my father’s apartment a few blocks from here.”

      He pulled one leg up and propped his chin on his knee. He leveled that gaze right at her, and she felt as though he were probing her mind. “So, Miz Lucy, what do you do back home?”

      Even though she knew he was being sarcastic, something about the way he said her name felt the same way the music did as it washed over her in waves. “I own an advertising firm in St. Paul, Minnesota. Well, I own half of it. My ex-husband owns the other half, unfortunately.”

      He lifted his eyebrows, but not in the admiring way most people did when they heard she owned her own agency. “Ah, so you own a company that promotes greed, materialism and bodily perfection that most people can’t live up to.”

      She didn’t know what to say for a moment. “We get our client’s product out there in the best light, the light that’s going to appeal to people. And what appeals to people is—”

      “Sex,” he said, that light expression now gone from his face. “And excess.”

      “If that’s what the client wants. We have some big clients, like Krugel. You know, the largest manufacturer of paper products in America…Soaker paper towels, Cloud Soft toilet paper.” Her biggest client, and what did the lout have to say about it?

      “So, you make your living telling people that if they wipe their tush with Cloud Soft, they’ll be sexier.”

      It was so ridiculous, she almost laughed. Luckily she caught herself. “Forget about the toilet paper. We sell the company first, then their products. My company…” She narrowed her eyes at Chris. “Why do you make me feel like defending a profession I’m proud to be a part of?”

      He shrugged. “Maybe somewhere deep inside, you aren’t so proud of it.”

      “I beg to differ with you.” Her shoulders stiffened. “I am very proud of my company and what we do. I’ve worked hard for my success.”

      He watched her, those eyes creating sensations that almost overruled her indignation. “What?” she asked at last.

      “I was waiting to hear you beg.” He swiveled around and grabbed his beer, which was already beaded with sweat.

      “I don’t beg for anything,” she said at last, lifting her chin. She grabbed her glass and turned back to the open area. When she glanced his way, she was unsettled to find him watching her again. She was still stinging from his earlier comments, not to mention the begging remark. “I suppose you think you’re some kind of hero, then. I mean, the irony of it—I push toilet paper and you save dolphins.”

      “Not at all.” He took a sip of beer, scanning the crowd. “I put some of these dolphins where they are. It’s my duty to get them out.”

      “What do you mean?” Despite his pigheadedness, she found herself wanting to know more about him.

      “It’s a long story,” he said with a shrug.

      “You’ve got a whole beer to go. Tell me.”

      He glanced at that beer as if it had betrayed him. “I worked at Aquatic Wonders down in the Keys for nine years. I started as the fish boy and worked my way up to head trainer, but in between, I also went out and caught wild dolphins for the park and to sell elsewhere. That was before I realized how unhappy they were in captivity, how wrong it was to keep them from their real home. Now I’m only trying to make up for my wrongs.” He shrugged, as if it were all so inconsequential, though she knew by the look in his eyes that it wasn’t. When he reached out and took hold of her wrist, she jerked responsively. “I hope your watch didn’t get ruined when you fell in the pool.”

      His fingers felt cool and wet on her wrist. Because he was leaning close, she caught a whiff of shampoo and sea air. She glanced down at her diamond watch with the steamed face.

      “I hadn’t thought about it, actually.” That watch had been her treat to herself the first year she made one-hundred-thousand dollars. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

      He wore the kind of watch that looked waterproof to about a thousand feet. “Or you can buy another one.”

      “Yes, I could do that, too.”

      “What kind of car do you drive?”

      She found herself wanting to lie for some reason. “A BMW.”

      “I knew it.”

      “What do you know, mister almighty?”

      “You’re a status girl, aren’t you?”

      “What do you mean by that?”

      “A Beemer, a diamond watch, you’re probably wearing designer clothes and perfume, too. Probably even designer underwear,” he added in a low, intimate voice that shivered through her.

      As a matter of fact, she was, now that she thought about it. That’s what she’d always worn, at least since her mother had married her wealthy stepfather.

      “My underwear is none of your business. And so what if I am? What’s it to you?”

      He shook his head lazily. “It’s nothing to me, Miz Lucy. Not a thing. Ah, you can’t help it—you’re another victim of the Great Green Lie.”

      “The what?” Why did it feel as though they spoke different languages?

      “Green, money, the idea that money makes you happy, and the more you have the happier you are.”

      “I am happy.” She wanted to shout it out, to somehow make him see how happy she was. “I am exactly where I want to be in my life. Not many people can say that when they’re thirty. Can you?”

      He lifted his chin in thought. “When I was thirty…let’s see, I was in jail.” He tipped back the rest of his beer and set it on the counter, then stood and pulled out some bills. “Have a nice vacation, Miz Lucy.”

      She watched him weave around the tables and out the front door, not a glance backward or a smile to soften his words. Her fingers clenched around the glass stem on her drink. She knew what he was trying to do: throw her off so she wouldn’t talk to him the rest of her stay. And in case that didn’t work, the jail thing might even scare her off.