The Way to a Billionaire's Heart - Part 2

“What?!”

“Like a dead puppy–it was cute and nice and fun, but it wasn’t around very long and all the crying in the world won’t bring it back to life. Go get a new dog.”

“Holy crap, Kiera, I am so glad you didn’t become a therapist.” And yet…that actually made sense. Walker was my dead puppy. And I just needed to go back to the pound.

We lounged about all day, reading and talking and laughing until the sun began to hang low in the sky. Snorkeling and hiking are fun, but wasting a whole day with your best friend is really what vacation is about.

“I should go get a shower and get ready to meet Dylan,” I said about six.

“Atta girl, get you a new puppy. But just to borrow. The best way to have a puppy. If you own it, you have to clean up its messes.”

“I think you’ve pushed that metaphor as far as you should.”

Kiera took a sip of her pina colada. “Just remember, a dog’ll follow anyone that’ll rub his belly ’til his leg shakes.”

“Ooookay. It’s time to get you back up to the room before you get into trouble. Come with me, help me get my outfit together. ”

After I showered, I found Kiera pawing through her closet again. “I still think you should wear the white dress. Just try it on! C’mon, please!”

“Fine. Give it.” I took the dress into my room. Once I had it on, though, I had to admit, I looked ready to turn up.

“Daaaamn, girl,” said Kiera when I came out to show her. “You are bringing the Anaconda realness tonight. If Dylan doesn’t work out, you should have your pick. May as well keep that dress, I can never wear it again after seeing how good you look. Shit.”

I laughed. “I know that’s mostly the pina coladas talking, but thanks.” I looked like I was barely wrapped up in white medical tape, but in a good way. The sun had darkened my skin so that the contrast with the white was strong. A neckline that, on Kiera, showed a sexy cleavage, had hoisted my breasts up like scoops of chocolate ice cream in a white ceramic bowl. And yeah, my ass looked ready for a Big Sean video. If I were able to shake it like that, which I was not. I can dance, but I’ve never mastered the art of the ass dance. It doesn’t come up a lot in my line of work.

But hey, it looked like I knew how to use it and that gave me a serious confidence boost. I put on my big silver hoops and some strappy sandals and headed out.

Dylan was waiting for me in the lobby. His eyes bugged a little, like a cartoon character’s, when he saw me come in. He was wearing a different Hawaiian shirt, this time buttoned from mid-sternum, with cargo shorts and flip flops, like last night. Must be nice to get dressed as a guy.

“Wow, Drea, you look amazing. You should wear this every day.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling, “but it’s not very practical. And I don’t think my clients would take to it.”

“You need different clients, then.” He slipped his arm around my waist and steered me toward the door. The smell of booze was mixed with the tobacco and I was disappointed that he’d already been drinking. I was hoping for a lower key evening, at least to start.

“So where are we going for dinner?”

“The Palm Pier. My favorite place where I’m not cooking. It’s on a pier over the water, great seafood. We can walk, it’s not far.”

The night was perfect. The air was warm and the humid breeze felt like a caress on my more-than-usual exposed skin. I was ready to flirt and have fun and move on. I was pretty sure of it. I wondered what Walker would think to see me in this get up instead of the sensible gear he’d always seen me in. It’s fine. Think about him and let it go. You don’t know what he’d think because you barely knew him. But you know what this man that is with you thinks, because…and pay attention here…he is WITH you.

I took Dylan’s hand as we walked along the wooden path. No electricity between us, but that was okay. I hadn’t had it before meeting Walker, either. Electricity’s of little use to me if it’s in someone else’s house, right? Besides, I had more in common with Dylan. He made good food, too, didn’t wear expensive clothes…and probably some other stuff.

The hostess that seated us clearly did not like Dylan. And she was not trying to win any points with me, either. She looked me up and down and gave me a look that said “figures.” She tried to seat us near an inside wall, but Dylan insisted on a table near the water. The sides of the restaurant were open, letting in the breeze and the sounds of the water lapping at the pier.

“Can we get two rum and cokes?” he asked her without asking me if I wanted one. I don’t even like them, but I figured I’d just let it go. I don’t have to drink it.

She brought them quickly, but practically threw them at us before walking away wordlessly.

“What was that?” I asked when she walked away. “She’d have seated us in the restroom if she could and then dumped these on our heads.”

“She’s a bitch,” Dylan said, opening his menu. “A stuck-up bitch.”

I let it drop. That sounded like a story I didn’t want to hear. The restaurant world is small even in a big city, so I figured that on an island, everyone knew everyone else’s business. I opened my menu, too.

From where I was sitting, I could see the hostess stand and I could see the girl that had seated us giving the waitress an earful, looking over at our table now and again as she talked. When she came over, the waitress was kind of stone-faced.

“Know what you want?” she asked flatly.

Dylan seemed oblivious to her attitude and he smiled at her, saying, “Yeah, I’ll have the swordfish and she’ll have the snapper.”

“Wait,” I said, startled, “I wanted the grouper with the mango salsa.” I looked at the waitress, who nodded and crossed out what she’d already written.

“Nah, babe,” said Dylan, taking my menu, “You want the snapper, trust me, I’m a chef!” He smiled that disarming smile, but I wasn’t, well, totally disarmed.

The waitress was just looking at me with her eyebrows up and pen poised.

“Fine,” I said, “Snapper.” She gave me a complicated look and crossed out and re-wrote my order. I like snapper, too, and Dylan had eaten here before. Not a battle I wanted to fight right now. Still, the warning light that had begun to glow with the “she’s a stuck-up bitch” comment was getting a little brighter.

Or, to go with our old metaphor, that puppy might have growled at me.

“So,” I said, eager to change the subject, “Where are you from? You weren’t born here, were you?”

“Nah,” Dylan said, “I was born in Atlanta. Then I lived in Miami, but now my ex-wife is living in that house.”

“Oh, you were married? Do you have kids?”

Dylan drained his drink and set down the glass. “Well, that’s kind of where the ‘ex’ part comes from. I never wanted kids and she did. So when she got knocked up, I hit the road.

I’d been pretty clear and she tricked me.”

“Oh,” I said. I had no idea what to do with that. As the child of a father who’d “hit the road,” he didn’t really have my sympathy. And that warning light was glowing bright. Looks like I’m going to be leaving this dog in the pound.

The restaurant was filling up, clearly this was a late-night dining spot and it was getting louder by the minute.

“Um, what kind of music do you like?” I half-shouted, hoping to steer this sinking ship into the shallow waters. To bring in yet another metaphor.

“I’m not picky,” said Dylan, picking up what I had thought was my drink, but which I was happy to let him have. “I like Nickelback, Li’l Wayne, Jimmy Buffett.”

“Wow, that’s all over the map,” I said, not saying the map of shitty music.

Dylan was glaring at the hostess and I don’t think he even heard me. I decided to just drink my water, eat my food when it came, and get out as soon as I could.

The waitress brought our food saying, "Enjoy your snapper" to me as she set down what really looked like the grouper with mango that I’d wanted.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling at her. She cut her eyes at Dylan and raised her eyebrows. I wasn’t sure exactly what she was trying to say, but I nodded in what I hoped was an “I got you, sister” way.

She probably didn’t need to be so subtle, because Dylan tucked into his fish like a starving man. I took a bite of mine. Overcooked. Canned mango. Cilantro overpowering everything else.

Eh, why drag it out. I went to the restroom and didn’t sit back down when I returned to the table.

“Look,” I said, “I think I’m going to just go. Thanks for dinner, but I don’t think this is working and you’re pretty clearly distracted.”

Dylan looked up at me, mid-chew, his grey eyes dark. “Did that bitch say something to you?”

“Who? The hostess? No. I just feel like I should go is all.”

He stood up, his move sudden and kind of menacing. I stepped to my side of the table to pick up my wrap from the back of my chair and Dylan closed on me.

“She’s a lying bitch,” he hissed, clearly drunk, swaying a bit.