“You didn’t think I’d steer you wrong, did you?”
“Haven’t tried the coffee, yet. I’ll keep you posted.”
She chuckled. “You do that.”
“So do you speak Spanish?”
“Nope. I barely get by, actually.”
“You seemed to understand him pretty well,” he said with a hitch of his head back in the direction of the trailer, then bit into the warm crunchy ham roll. He chewed, swallowed. Mushy inside, but good flavor.
“I come here a lot. They don’t speak much English so if you want food, you’d better learn how to ask for it.”
“You mean they wouldn’t understand me if I asked for something?” he drawled, raising his croqueta for another bite.
“Not when you roll that accent of yours around like that, they won’t.”
Funny the things she noticed. It was true. He liked to lay it on thick at times, depending on who he was talking to and what he was after. Found it came in handy when chasing the girls and charming the ladies. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?”
“It’s my job to pay attention to details, remember?”
Remember it very well, he mused, finishing his ham roll. “So tell me some more about Sydney.”
“Didn’t we do this already?”
“We only broke the surface. I want to go deeper.”
“Be careful. There are sharks in these waters.” Seemingly pleased with the comment, she tore off half of her fry-log in one bite, then chewed—in that amazing, taunting, sultry way of hers.
Excitement stirred in his groin as he watched her mouth in action. It made him think all sorts of sordid thoughts. “I think it’s worth chancing the swim.”
Sydney shook her head and dropped her gaze to the table. Grabbing her napkin, she dabbed the corners of her mouth, yet her smile remained firmly in place. “I work, Clay. I play volleyball. I ride my bike on occasion.” She cast a glance around them, darting an eye toward the sky, a few clouds drifting into the sun’s path. “When the weather is like it is today, I ride for hours. That’s what I do. That’s all there is to me.”
The comment quieted him. “You work a lot.”
“I work a lot, I work odd hours... It’s a living.”
“What’s your dream job?”
“More of what I’m doing.” She downed the remainder of the croqueta and followed with a swallow of water.
“No, really—is this the only thing you’ve ever wanted to do? You’ve never wanted to try something else?” He took another heaping spoonful of beans and it felt like they were coating his teeth as he chewed. It was an uncomfortable feeling, one he’d quit altogether if they weren’t so damn good. Guess he’d have to check for souvenirs when he was finished. His breath, too. He watched her take another bite. At least she was eating them and would hopefully offset the “stench” factor when they got close later. And they were definitely getting close later.
She swallowed, lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know.” Sounding almost uninterested in the topic, she said, “I have plans.”
“What kind?”
“Plans,” she reiterated, a small smile finding its way into her eyes. “You know, big plans, future plans.”
Clay sensed turmoil. He knew the Special Olympics games weren’t what she was after. She’d said as much. Was she unhappy with her company, too? “Let me ask you,” he said. “If you could do anything in this world, anything at all and were guaranteed you would not fail, what would it be?”
Sydney looked at him with a wry smile. “Do you have a magic wand I don’t know about?”
“I’m serious. What’s your real dream job? If it could be anything at all, what would it be?”
Sydney hesitated, as though she were stumped by the question. “What would I do? If I knew I wouldn't fail?” She shook her head and picked up another croqueta. “It's an unrealistic assumption.”
“Ah, now—c'mon. No cop-outs allowed.” He wasn’t about to let her off that easily. “Really, think about it. If you could design your perfect job, what would it be like?”
She sipped from her black coffee and contemplated the question. “The inevitable ‘what do you want to be when you grow up question?’”
He grinned, pleased that she was ready to play along. “You got it.”
“Well, for starters, I'm detail-oriented... I like working with people.”
Clay sipped from his water and said, “Okay, so we have a good fit so far.”
“I'd like to travel, have the money I earn be tied to my ability.”
“As in commission sales?”
The green of her eyes caught a bright wash of sunlight just then. “Not necessarily.” She pitched her gaze downward. “I don't see myself selling anything.”
“Not the sales gal type?” he asked, dipping in for another bite of soup, wishing the clouds would return. Eating piping hot soup beneath piping hot sun was not his idea of a good time.
“Not really.”
“Hm. Okay, we can work out that angle later. Go on.”
She laughed. “Why are we doing this again? I already have a job, remember?” She reached for another croqueta, but this one she broke in half and plopped one end into her mouth.
“I want to know what makes you tick, what makes you happy.” He wanted to know more about the woman he was beginning to have feelings for. If he’d learned anything from past experience, it was that best practice dictated he get as many facts up-front—before he hit the sack and lost any shred of perspective. Like most men, Clay enjoyed beautiful women, beautiful bodies, but he didn’t want to be burned again by a shallow mindset. He wanted a woman with substance, depth. He homed in on Sydney’s green eyes, underscored by long black lashes and prominent dark brows, her skin the color and complexion of a Greek goddess and thought, the fact that she was gorgeous only sweetened the deal.
“Okay, I’ll play along,” she said. “When I say I want my earnings to be based on my ability, I mean that if I work long, hard hours, I want them to show up in my paycheck.”
“Do you want a lot of money?”
She shrugged and pulled another small sip from her coffee. “Define a lot.”
He smiled as though to say, touché. “Are we after hundreds of thousands here, or millions?”
Clay thought the question caught her off guard until she replied, “Millions of course. Billions would even be better. You know, a girl can’t survive on a paltry six-figure income. I’m young, but I do want to become accustomed to the finer things in life.”
He frowned. “Really?”
“No, you goof ball,” she mocked. “We're playing make-believe with my fantasy job, remember?”
Clay breathed in a sigh of relief. Gold-digging women were definitely cut from the list. But still... Did Sydney care about money? “Is money important to you?” It was to most women he knew. And usually it was his money that was important to them. Once they found out how much his family was worth, he became a whole lot more attractive to them.
Sydney paused to consider it. “It is and it isn't.”
Clay set elbows to dusty white table and crossed his forearms. “Explain.”
“Well, I'd rather have it than not,” she said, and dropped a forearm to the table.
“Wouldn't we all.”
“I mean, it’s like a stress reliever, you know? When you have plenty of money, you have freedom—freedom not to worry, freedom not to stress over bills. You can go where you want, when you want, live where you choose. I could take time on my bike, see the country. I could hit the tournament circuit without the pressure of needing to win the prize money.”
“Liar. I watched you play. You'd put pressure on yourself to win whether there was money at stake or not.”
She laughed and pointed a finger at him. “True. Some men find that threatening.” She lifted a brow in marked question.
“Not me. I like it—a lot.”
She smiled her approval. “Money would be good in case I got sick. I'd have money for
health care, and that’s important.”
At the mention of health care, his pleasure dimmed. She had no idea how much medical bills could run, especially when dealing with long-term illness or conditions like Q’s. The costs were exorbitant. “You’re right, there. Money definitely eases the burden when it comes to doctors.”
Her gaze softened and she reached a hand toward him. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He lightly patted her hand. “It’s reality and you’re right—money helps to pay the bills.”
Pulling back from his touch, she added quietly, “And if I had money, I could work the job of my dreams well into retirement.” She tipped up the corner of her mouth. “How am I doing?”
“Perfect.” So far, she was his dream woman. “But we haven’t yet determined what that job is.” And how close to South Carolina it can be.
Sydney laughed. “Give me some time, will you? I’m still young!”
Clay realized suddenly how much he liked to see her laugh. It made her body relax, her expression ease and her eyes shine. It softened the tough edge of her personality, the one she tended to put forward in what he had to assume was a defense mechanism. From what he’d seen so far, she spent a good chunk of her time on guard and he wasn’t convinced it was limited to him. But when she laughed, her defenses melted away.
“How about you?” she asked. “Dream job outline?”
“Lucky for me, I practically have my dream job.”
“Practically?”
“I wouldn’t mind a little more travel. While I’m very fortunate to have the setup I have, eventually Q will move on and begin his life without me and then I’ll be on my own to do as I please.”
“He will?”
He nodded. Most people didn’t understand how autism worked and he didn’t hold it against them. If his son hadn’t been diagnosed, he wouldn’t know the first thing either. “Q is developing very well, becoming more high-functioning as he matures. Eventually, he’ll have a life of his own and then I will be tasked with the job of ‘finding myself.’”
“Are you lost?” she teased.
“I could be. Know somewhere nice we could hide?”
Sydney slapped his hand lightly. “Do you ever give up?”
“No ma'am, as a matter of fact I don't. Like you, I'm the competitive type. When I set my eye on a prize, it usually ends up mine.”
“Usually?”
“Well that depends on how my score card looks at the end of my stay in your beautiful city.”
“Guess I’ll have to keep you posted,” she replied.
Desire swelled. He liked the way she played. “You do that.” He scrunched up his napkin and tossed it into the empty cardboard container. He was ready to get his hands around this woman again. “Ready?”
“But you haven’t touched your coffee.”
Clay picked up the Styrofoam cup and downed its warm foamy contents in one sip. Cringing against the bitter taste, it occurred to him that he might pay for that later. “Delicious.”
She rose from her seat. “Liar.”
Within minutes the two pulled out of the parking lot, headed for Charlie’s place in the Grove. He was renting a primo condo in a private community on the bay. Already gaining a sense of direction, Clay knew that by crossing the highway, they were nearing his place. They were supposed to play golf this afternoon, but as Sydney stopped at a red light in a busy commercial district, his hands secure around her waist, golf was the last thing he wanted to do. At the moment, he felt the distinct need to extend his time with Sydney.
But they only had minutes before they made it to Charlie’s.
Continuing, Sydney turned the motorcycle onto a road that ran through the retail district of the Grove. He remembered it from dinner the other night which meant soon they’d be cruising along the bay. Traffic was slower here and Clay searched for somewhere to stop—somewhere feasible, plausible. They passed a restaurant, hotel, a marina, another restaurant... His sense of urgency escalated. Squeezing her hips, he asked, “What’s that?” He pointed to the park on their right.
“Kennedy Park.”
Palm trees with fat gray trunks lined the park entrance amidst towering pines, the likes of which he’d never seen before. But they were pine trees, because the ground was covered with their burnt orange pine needles. A row of short cement posts defined the parking lot boundary, presently packed with cars. “Can we stop?”
Chapter Eighteen
Both hands on the handlebars, Sydney looked back at him, fine strands of hair whipping about her sunglasses. “If you want, sure.”
Clay wished he could see her eyes, gauge her reaction, but he couldn’t. Her shades were as black as they came.
“I do,” he replied, pleased that she had no idea where he was going with this little pit stop. But keeping one step of ahead of her was crucial.
Pulling the motorcycle into the shallow lot, space was sparse. Apparently this was the popular place to be on a Saturday. Sydney sidled up to the end car and made her own spot, silencing the rumble of the motor. Good thing for him they were on a bike. Clay was hit by the breeze blowing in off the bay. Heavy clusters of pine needles swayed above him as he breathed in the familiar scent of saltwater. Instantly he craved for his boat and the wide open water. Surveying the expansive grass area, dark green metal benches and garbage cans, he noted there were exercise stations situated alongside a pathway. Bicyclists and joggers were everywhere, as well as people walking their dogs. He looked to Sydney for confirmation. “Is this some kind of exercise park?”
“I guess you could call it that. It’s the place for locals to get outside and get active.”
“Hm. A workout by the sea. It’s nice.”
Sydney set foot out on the path, her pace slow and controlled.
Clay followed. “Do you ever come here to work out?”
She shook her head. “I get all the workout I need at the beach.”
He smiled. The mention of her beach volleyball conjured up visions of her in the bathing suit-uniform, her knees and elbows covered by sand. “Yes, I remember.”
She nailed him with a look of reproach, but said nothing. He laughed under his breath. Sydney could be a feisty one. One mention of her body and she went on the attack.
They continued to walk toward the water. With each step closer, the breeze grew stronger, tossing hair about his eyes, cloaking him with tropical humidity. The smell of the salt water intensified, to the point he could feel it penetrate his skin. The water came into view, splashing over the rocks and Clay picked up the unmistakable scent of dead fish. But he didn’t mind. It reminded him of the marina, his sailboat. He loved the smell of salt water, decaying fish something you got used to smelling. Where Sydney’s version of freedom included money and travel, his came in the form of the open water, no land in sight.
Sydney stepped off the path and meandered over to water’s edge. “Those are Charlie’s buildings.” She pointed. “Over there.”
Don’t remind me, he thought, glancing at the three buildings with a nod that he’d heard. Across a short bridge, less than three minutes away. He wanted to focus on her, not Charlie. She turned, and a wave of water crashed over the rocks below. Large and porous, they were covered with dark green seaweed slime, mixed with a miscellany of brown branches and ocean debris. He lifted his gaze out over the bay. The water had a light chop to it today and once again, reminded him of home. He used to spend a lot of time on the water, around the docks, out in his boat, but since Q’s diagnosis that all changed. Nowadays he was lucky if he could take a weekend for himself. “Do you like to sail?”
“Sail?”
“Yes, you know, blowboats, catamarans, big white billowy sails?”
She hesitated. “As in do I sail them?” she asked, her ensuing blush reminding him of a teenager getting called out on their first crush. “Afraid to disappoint you, but no.” She brushed wayward strands from her face. “I don’t.”
“What?” Clay tried to inject humor i
nto his voice. “A Miami girl that doesn’t sail?”
“I play volleyball, remember?”
“Yes you do. And very well I might add.”
Sydney brushed past his remark and regained some of her rough and tumble composure. “I gather you sail?”
“Not as much as I used to, but I still make it out a few times every summer.”
“What kind of boat?”
“Racing boat.”
She took an involuntary step back. “You race?”
He nodded, pleased by the complete shock in her voice. “In my younger days, I used to race a lot.
“Younger days? What are you talking about—you’re not that old.”
“I’m thirty-two. I’m not ancient, but back when I was twenty, I almost went pro.”
“Really...”
“Sure did,” he touted, bolstered by her awed response. “Summer I turned nineteen we won the Charleston Bermuda race.”
Rapt with curiosity, she asked, “You sailed across the Atlantic?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How long did it take?”
“We made it in six days, twelve hours, six minutes and thirty-two seconds.” He grinned. “Roughly counting.”
She laughed. “And you never got seasick?” Pulled toward the bay, Sydney looked out over the water and considered the notion. “I imagine the seas across the Atlantic have to get rough.”
“Oh they do, but it never bothered me. I have a stomach made of rocks and steel.”
“I guess...” She glanced out toward the bay.
The breeze kicked through his hair, whipped delicate wisps from her ponytail to and fro across her face. How did someone live on the water and not sail? Before Q, you couldn’t keep him away from it. But to each his own. At least he’d turned the tide away from Charlie and had her focused on him. “I’d love to take you for a ride one day.”
She smiled at his obvious play. “I’m not sure I’d want to be on a little boat out in the open water.”
“If you call sixty-five feet little, then I guess you might have a point.”
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