Someone Else's Ocean

“We talk.”

“But do you really talk?” Banion was ridiculously tall to the point of being intimidating. His charcoal-colored skin and dark eyes were only softened by the sincerest of white smiles and a smooth voice.

“We talk. They still badger me to go back.”

“And you want to stay?”

“I’m staying,” I insisted, adding a few pink sprays to the mix. Banion shook his head. “No, the green.” I pulled a few green stems from the basket as he wrapped the leaves around the flowers and tied them without a binding.

“Beautiful,” I said, amazed at his handiwork.

“One day, when you have the time, I’ll show you how to tie the flowers.” He pushed the bouquets into my hand as I handed him the cash. Banion was old school, person-to-person was his motto. It was also one of the reasons his flower shop wasn’t as widely known. But I understood it. My motto was very much the same. In fact, if you googled Koti Vaughn, you would see closed social media accounts. Being connected used to be the bane of my existence.

Years of conditioning—prep school, followed by a five-year stint in college to get my masters—had been wasted. I was one business move away from making myself immortal before I choked. Well… before I got a reality check. And in the Virgin Islands, on one of the mountains, surrounded by sea, I was a property manager dolling out bottles of wine and Banion’s bouquets to the ones who had gambled and won.

One day-poof. Dream job, gone, swanky apartment, stripped away. I went from being the real estate wolf of Manhat

tan to the black sheep of St. Thomas.

My piece of the Big Apple had a worm in it.

Like Ian, I spent the first day in St. Thomas staring at the ocean in the safety of my parents’ rental house.

Life was fucked in New York.

But in St. Thomas…

“Don’t forget yours,” Banion said, handing me another armful of beautifully tethered stems.

Thankful to be jerked out of the debilitating cold of my past life, I hugged him before I stepped out into the warming sun.

I set the bags down on the porch one by one before I knocked and got no answer. “Ian?” Knocking again, I pressed my face to the living room window. The house looked abandoned. “Shit.” I gripped an extra key that I’d taken from the office since Ian had stolen mine the night before and let myself in. Aside from a crumpled blanket on the edge of the plush white couch, the place was empty. In hopes that Ian was somewhere wandering the beach, I began to unload the groceries and replaced the bottle of red I’d stolen and added an extra. I skipped the customary liquor bottles to avoid a drunken tirade. The man was already off the rails, I wasn’t about to add strong alcohol to the mix.

I was a hypocrite of sorts. I drank like a fish when I arrived on the island in ashes. I added a few things to the list to keep Ian fed and put out several items I knew he hadn’t brought with him—shaving cream, a razor, deodorant, body wash, shampoo, and extra toilet paper. Just as I’d finished unloading, he walked through the door with several shopping bags in hand. He paused when he saw me standing next to the counter.

“Hi.”

Eyes averted he spoke low. “Seeing as how my parents own the home, I won’t be needing your services, Koti.”

“Well, this request came directly from your mother.” I surrendered the last rental key on the counter. “And I told you I’d be by with groceries.”

“And I rather hoped you’d left by now.”

I bit my tongue as he moved past me and set his bags down. I eyed the contents and saw several shirts and pairs of shorts with tags. I hid my excitement that he was staying. Not because he was ideal company, but because of the financially worry-free months ahead of me.

“I’ll leave you to it. Just let me know if you need anything.”

Gray eyes met my blue briefly. “I won’t.” Devastation. It was clear as day. Anyone who looked at the man could never question what he felt. His eyes were a window, though his features remained stoic.

“You know, Ian, I came here about a year ago a complete mess—”

“I’d like some privacy, please.”

Swallowing my pride, I walked out the door without another word.

Thwack.

Thwack.