by Isabel Jolie
“Yeah. We set them in different rooms, and I put an ice pack on Gabe’s knuckles and then a bigger ice pack on Reed’s face.”
“Must’ve been awkward after that.”
“No kidding. Tate offered for Reed to stay with us, but Gabe told him it would be fine.”
I nodded in the car, though she couldn’t see me. Made sense. Once he calmed down, the friends would work things out. As they should.
My navigation indicated my turnoff was coming up, and then I’d have to pay close attention. I couldn’t afford to get lost. “I’m almost at Sunshine Bank. I’ve got to run. I’ll call you later?”
“Yep. Good luck!”
My nerves rumbled, but I breathed in confidence. This time around, thanks to Thad, I was far more prepared. My business pitch had been combed over by an MBA master, and he’d helped position me in the best light.
“I don’t want to lie,” I’d told him. I didn’t like the idea of a few years from now someone finding out I’d lied and then pulling the loan right out from under my feet. He’d told me I didn’t need to worry, that I was simply telling the truth in the best light.
My heart sank, and trepidation stifled my earlier confidence the moment the loan officer called my name. I rose from the waiting room chair and formulated an instant opinion. No doubt he’d already formed an opinion of me before I ever entered his bank.
“Ms. Smith?” He held out a hand. No wedding band. He was young, maybe in his thirties. The probability he knew about OnlyFans grew exponentially the younger the men were.
I followed Mr. Wheeler down the back hall to his office. A few other office doors remained open, and I smiled as the occupants glanced up from their desks. A woman in her mid-thirties occupied the office next to Mr. Wheeler’s.
He closed the door after I entered his office. I focused on the framed photo of a sailboat hanging on his back wall to ground myself. If he asks for a sexual favor, leave. As simple as that. No need to let anxiety get the best of me. Nope.
“Well, Ms. Smith, I like your idea for a restaurant.”
I searched for any sign of mockery.
“I’ve read through your business plan, and it’s top notch. Impressive. You know, I grew up in Wilmington, and I’m familiar with the area and Haven Island. I am curious as to why you’re aiming to start over there. I know your plan mentions targeting the resort crowd, and potential expansion to similar resorts, but Haven Island is small. Are other businesses on the island doing well enough that you think the current numbers, without any additional growth, could support yet another restaurant?”
“Well, yes, I do.” And then I let him have it. All my inside knowledge on how each of the existing restaurants were doing. And how my idea of a restaurant for adults, with a wide selection of wine and charcuterie options, would fulfill a need not currently being met, not only on Haven Island, but in many coastal resort areas. So often wine selections were limited to subpar options, and for wine connoisseurs and those who could afford to spend so much on a vacation, it remained an untapped opportunity.
An hour passed, and I found myself discussing with him how I could easily create charcuterie options for kids. I’d actually had this in one version of my pitch, but Thad had had me pull it out. Not once did Mr. Wheeler, who told me to call him Sam, ask me where I went to college.
A knock on the door interrupted our meeting. “Sam, your next appointment is here.”
We both registered surprise. I’d been talking about my future business, and it had been free-flow. But better yet, Sam had been engaged. My gut said he liked my ideas.
“Thanks, Terri. I’ll be right out.”
She backed away from the door, and he tapped the corner of a folder on his desk. “I didn’t get to ask you, what do you plan to do with your current business? Are you going to sell it?”
“Yes, that is my plan. I don’t believe I’ll be able to focus on launching a new restaurant and maintain an additional business.” Selling actually hadn’t occurred to me. I’d assumed I’d need to close it down. Could I really sell it?
“Makes sense. Well, I’ll be in touch if I have any additional questions. It would help if you had something you wanted to leverage as collateral, since this is your first small business.”
My heart sank. About the only thing I could offer him was my beat-up Honda with a hundred and ten thousand miles.
“But it’s okay if you don’t have that. You’re not seeking a jumbo loan. I’ll be in touch for next steps.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wheeler.”
I followed him back to the exit, feeling like a metric ton had been lifted off my shoulders. I might not get the loan, but I rocked that interview. And he’d given zero indication he recognized me or questioned the legitimacy of my photography business. I’d gone for years completely anonymous, or at least, no one I ran into recognized me. Reed threw me for a loop. And, of course, that creepy banker.
I threw open the glass door and squinted up into the sun. In the movie reel fantasy playing in my head, I swan dove through the air into the parking lot and brilliant lights flickered all around. Birds sang, and instead of the currently winter gray, the sky shimmered Carolina blue. I rounded the corner of the building, fist-pumped the air, and stopped short.
Gabe leaned against a shiny graphite Porsche, his arms crossed in the same pose as Jake from Sixteen Candles. My movie reel fantasy had swung way out of control. I blinked a few times, expecting that insane image to flip away.
“Are you okay?”
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“Luna told me. I dropped Reed off at the airport this morning.”
“You didn’t fly him back?”
“No. He’s too delicate for a small plane.”
“I imagine nausea would be more difficult to handle with his busted nose.” I gave him a pointed look.
Gabe didn’t deny. His gaze focused on the bank building. “How’d it go in there?”
Gabe’s wrinkled brow told me he remembered my first encounter with a loan officer.
“Were you gonna go in and punch him if he acted like the other guy?”
He flipped his sunglasses up onto his head, and those green eyes sparkled. “Yeah. If needed.” He grinned.
I rolled my eyes. “Violence is not the answer. I hate you punched your friend.”
“No friend of mine will treat you badly.” A swarm of emotions threatened to reduce me to a wacky sack of teary mush. I inspected the palm tree swaying nearby, aiming to get a grip and hold it together.
“You okay?” He stepped closer, close enough a hint of his subtle cologne wafted through the air. I’d thought he was a player, like any other guy. Looking for an easy lay. Of course, he was probably just like that. But maybe he’d be the kind of guy who would still be a real friend after the sex. I’d never had one of those, so I didn’t really know what that kind of unicorn looked like.
“Thank you.” I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him in for a hug. My breasts pressed against his hard chest, and I laid my head against his shoulder. His heart pounded and reverberated through me. He froze, then his arms engulfed me, returning the hug. He stroked my back and ran his fingers through my hair. His lips brushed my forehead.
“Are you sure that guy didn’t do anything?”
I backed up, sniffled, and stared sky high as I wiped beneath my eyes in case my mascara smeared.
“If he did—”
“He didn’t. The meeting went well. Really well.”
“Well, you up for a congratulatory lunch?”
I thought about my numbers and the possibility of selling my business. Plus, Will had texted that Jules had an open part-time bartending job. I needed to stop by and apply for it before Suzette, the owner, hired someone else.
“I’d so love to. Really. But I can’t.”
“Dinner then? Third date?”
“Okay.”
A giant smile spread like I’d said something unexpected and good. Did he really think a g
irl like me would say no? Or is this whole delighted ‘she said yes’ routine a part of his game? Ben had this puppy dog eye routine he’d use. I shook my head and stepped to my car, trying to shake the Ben memory.
“Seven o’clock work?” he asked as he slid his sunglasses down over his eyes. Jeez, the guy almost looked like Tom Holland. My big, fat heart was gonna get crushed.
Chapter 19
Gabe
* * *
“Oh, my lord. I’ve never seen such beautiful flowers.” Her hands flew to her slightly open mouth within seconds of opening the door.
The Southport florist had kept them in the refrigerator, and by now, condensation on the glass dripped down, risking an embarrassing water stain on the front of my slacks. I held the vase out far away from my body.
“Are these peonies?” She lifted the dripping vase out of my hands and backed up to admire the arrangement. She clasped her hands over her heart, and those beautiful blue eyes glistened under the overhead kitchen lights.
“No one has ever given me anything so beautiful. I don’t even…you’re the first man to ever give me flowers.”
No. Way. How?
“Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman.” Those big blues looked up to me, shiny with tears, and I added a mental note to set up a regular flower delivery for her. “Come on. Don’t cry. I wouldn’t have brought them if I’d known you’d react like this.”
She air swatted her face and bent her head back to stare up at the ceiling, saying something about how I was going to ruin her mascara. I held the door open for her and watched her laugh at herself, fanning her face. She wore tight leather leggings, black boots, and a sweater.
“Do you want to grab a coat?” I asked as an afterthought.
“It’s not that cold, is it?”
“No, but it’ll be chilly on the boat, especially when we come back after dinner.”
“You have a boat?”
“Gotta have one to live on an island like this. I don’t want to be dependent on the ferry.”
“I suppose, if one has the money and the skill.”
“Skill?” I scoffed as I ushered her out. She held a sweatshirt coat over her arm. I made a mental note to buy her some new coats. At the very least, she needed a good waterproof option.
“I can’t drive a boat.”
“Ah, well, maybe I’ll teach you.”
We walked from her place to the marina gate. As we passed through, she fingered the sign hanging on the gate that declared the marina open only to boat owners.
“I feel like I’m going into a forbidden land.”
“You live ten feet away. This is your back yard.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have access.”
“Anyone can walk down here.” Not only that, but people did all the time. People loved to glimpse inside the yachts as much as they loved admiring the houses along the beach.
“Which one is yours?” We were strolling past a few of the larger million-dollar yachts. I hadn’t bought one of those. Overkill for what I needed.
I led her up to my Boston Whaler. “Right here.” Even though it wasn’t the biggest or most expensive, she gaped at it as if it was the biggest she’d ever seen. My twisted brain carried that idea into the bedroom, and I couldn’t hold back a smirk.
She raised an eyebrow in question.
“Nothing. I’m glad you like my boat.”
“She’s beautiful. What’s her name mean?”
“Bull? It’s something I thought up on the spur of the moment. For the bull market.” She didn’t seem to get it. “Probably a dull-witted idea. Madoff named his boat Bull.”
“Who’s Madoff?”
“A guy. Not the kind of guy to look up to, but in an article years ago, I read his boat's name, and I always liked it. So…” I focused my attention on the control board. “Anyway, I like this boat. She’s big enough to crush the waves for a smooth ride, and small enough to easily maneuver in the marina and through the channel in low tide. Those yachts are good when you’re actually going to be spending time at sea. They’re a bitch to maneuver in tight spaces.”
I started her up then quickly untied us. My plan for our date included a scenic boat ride down the inlet, then dinner at Smoke on the Water, a restaurant right on the river.
It was a clear evening, and the stars twinkled in the sky, as did all the lights in homes along the waterfront. No boats were out, and we were the lone light on the waterway.
“Want to steer?” I asked.
“Oh, no.” She hunkered down in the passenger seat, pulling the ridiculous sweatshirt coat around her shoulders. I slid off my Barbour jacket and handed it to her.
“Wear this. It’ll block the wind.”
“No, you need it. I’m fine.”
“I really don’t. Please take it.”
“Would you stop? I’m warm enough. I promise.”
She huddled, and her teeth chattered. Stubborn woman.
“You’re being ridiculous. Take my coat.”
“Then you’ll be cold.”
“I’m not wearing it anyway.” I pointedly moved my coat over to her chair.
Minutes passed, and my frustration level rose. But as we entered a narrower portion of the river, I slowed our speed, and the wind transitioned to a light breeze. Poppy’s grip on her flimsy jacket loosened as she became entranced in our view of golden lights reflecting off dark waters. As her shivers subsided, my muscles relaxed.
When we arrived and docked, Poppy dropped her sweatshirt jacket down in the hull of the boat, claiming she didn’t need it. I suspected she was aware the coat looked ridiculous with her outfit, so I didn’t argue, though my preference would have been she take it, since she didn’t appear amenable to taking an offered coat if needed.
As someone who had perused all her photos, signed up for her VIP subscriber package, and eagerly paid $7.99 for each private posting, I possessed familiarity with her smoking curves. The sweater draped over her large breasts in a way that hid her gorgeous figure and cloaked her curvy ass. Even so, her almost cartoon-like oversized blue eyes and blonde hair attracted plenty of men’s stares as we were guided to the reserved table by the window. In my opinion, those blue eyes were as responsible as her breasts for a large portion of those fans. In fact, a great number of her photos were of her face or of her eyes. Her make-up tutorials often garnered as many likes as the photos of her tits.
After ordering, she gazed out over the inlet. “It’s beautiful here.”
“Yes, it is.” Without taking my eyes off the cover girl before me, I concurred. She bowed her head, bashful, as she comprehended my meaning.
“You know, I’m a big fan of yours.”
“You are?” she asked.
“I check your postings each night before I go to bed.”
“You do?”
“I do. I didn’t know much about OnlyFans before I met you. I had in my head—”
“Porn. You expected porn. Most men do.”
“Yeah, and maybe prostitution.”
“I think that’s more in Europe. Where it’s legal.”
I tapped my finger on the table, as understanding dawned that she was actually quite naive. She hadn’t done a full review of her marketplace.
“Yeah. But your photos surprised me.”
“Because I don’t do that?”
“You don’t even do nudes. I’ve been a VIP subscriber for months. How does that business model work? People really keep paying you a monthly fee for lingerie shots?”
“We call them boudoir shots.” She shifted in her seat, and as she did so, the sloping neck of her sweater drooped, exposing smooth skin and a hint of decolletage. Fully aware of where my attention fell, she teased me with a soft knowing smile.
“But I keep thinking you’re going to show your breasts. Or play with a vibrator or something.”
“Maybe that’s why you keep paying?” She ran an index finger over the rim of her water glass, and I considered her statement. Yes, I could see it. The
expectation of more was inherent in her posts, and then over time, I could see strangers equating her as a friend. Business intrigued me, and I wanted to understand hers, even if it was a nontraditional one. So, I probed.
“Who is taking those photographs? Do you have a friend who follows you around?” I’d wondered that so many times. Especially the ones in her bedroom and of her in her lace and tantalizing thigh highs.
“It’s all me. I have three different stands. I set it up and mostly have it go on auto, then edit. The short videos, those are popular. It’s the Tik Tok world nowadays. Some of those short videos, like the ones of me doing my eyeliner and mascara or playing with different shades?”
I nodded. I’d watched every single one.
“Well, those bring in VIP accounts. And I’ll be honest. I’ve expected people to cancel in droves once they realized my more intimate paid for channel still didn’t get dirty, but no. I’d say about fifty percent of my new subscribers cancel after the first month. But I’ve been holding pretty steady on subscribers. Or, at least, I was. This past year has been brutal. I suspect as competition intensifies it’ll be harder to maintain my income.”
“You get it all from subscribers?”
“No. Tips add to subscriber income.” She paused. “Wait, do you tip me?”
Her tone indicated the idea of me tipping would offend her. I tipped her all the time, but I shook my head.
“Well, I make about five percent of my monthly income from tips. Another twenty percent from special requests.”
“What kind of special requests?” This was something I’d wondered about. As a VIP subscriber, I couldn’t see what other sick pervs were requesting of her. I only knew what I’d like to request.
“Oh, you know. Birthday requests.” She toddled her head back and forth, explaining with animation. “Special outfits while I sing happy birthday, writing some guy’s name on my belly with shaving cream. There’s one guy who pays me—and I am not kidding you—two hundred and fifty dollars to send him photos of my feet with my nails painted in his requested colors. Two hundred and fifty dollars! That pays for my pedicure, polish, and then some. Oh, and I don’t count this as income, but there’s an Amazon wish list I fill out, and people buy me shit. Strangest fucking thing.”
