Beyond Me(22)
Author: Jennifer Probst

“Do that again and I’ll show you some different types of sightseeing.”

A low chuckle vibrated from her throat. “Promise?”

My body locked down to full attention. I playfully grabbed at her but she sprang away, her cheeks red, laughing. “No, no! I want to see Hemingway’s house.”

“How about I show you his drinking stool and we retire for the day?” I suggested with a leer.

“No. It’s beautiful out, and we can’t waste it.”

“Okay, you win.” I grabbed her hand and snugly interlaced her fingers with mine. My spirits lightened and suddenly the day spread out before me in rich promise. “Let’s get all the visitor stuff done today so we can relax tomorrow on the boat. What do you want to see?”

She frowned, obviously thinking hard. “Hemingway’s house. The southernmost point. Sloppy Joe’s Bar. Jimmy Buffett’s house. Glass-bottom boating. Sunset sailing. Drink a margarita at Margaritaville. Oh, and the sunset festival on the pier.”

My mouth dropped open. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

She gave an adorable little pout. “I am. How can I go back home to Chicago and say I’ve seen nothing?”

“I’m insulted.”

She laughed. “Well, it’s quite impressive and not nothing, but I can’t tell people about that!”

“Hmm, good point. Better get started. We have a torturous day of being tourists ahead of us.” I tried to tick down the agenda and figure out the best place to start, but she stopped in her tracks and dug her heels into concrete. “What’s the matter?”

The playfulness disappeared. Her brown eyes turned serious. “You don’t have to babysit me today. I mean, we could always hook up tonight.”

Temper reared, but I pushed it back. The idea she thought I looked at her as just a sex toy bothered me. Funny, if she were another woman, I’d dread dragging myself around town when my only purpose was to get her in bed. With Quinn, it was different. I’d go anywhere with her, because her presence made me feel good. But I couldn’t dump all that on either of us, so I grabbed her again and kissed her hard enough to make her forget. “I want to be with you.” The doubt on her face made me lower my voice and smile. “Besides, I refuse to let you lock me up so you can use me as your sexual slave. I deserve a meal, fresh air, and to be out in public.”

She relaxed and laughed with me. And I kept my promise.

I showed her everything. We walked around Hemingway’s house with a bunch of other tourists, and enjoyed the lush greenery, open balcony, and numerous cats prowling around the property and peering through bushes. Quinn listened intently to the tour guide, seemingly processing the endless information about Hemingway’s hobbies, love interests, and extraordinary writing skills. I’d been there many times before, but this time I saw everything through Quinn’s eyes. The architecture and presence of such a powerful legend permeated through the space, making me appreciate things I’d never seen.

We listened to Jimmy Buffett’s endless loop of his famous song “Margaritaville,” but I learned Quinn was tone deaf and could barely hum the familiar bars without my wincing. She punched my arm and threatened me with her rendition of Adele, so I surrendered and bought her a frozen margarita instead of her usual Sex on the Beach. We feasted on salsa and chips, mozzarella sticks, and fried conch fritters, then moved on to book a reservation for glass-bottom boating.

“Are we going to see lots of fish?” she asked, craning her neck around the plates of glass set up on the bottom of the boat.

“Should be decent. I’ll point out some to you when we get started.”

I tried not to laugh as she fought off some stranglers who tried to squeeze in her viewing space, until a child wobbled by and gave her a toothy grin. She melted on sight, and ended up helping the baby sit down and cooing at him. She laughed with the mom, and chattered easily. She knew her place in the world at only twenty-one, and radiated an inner light I wished would spill into my own dark soul. But it didn’t work that way. My chest tightened with pain, so I excused myself to get a beer and tried to get my shit together.

The boat slowed and the speaker boomed with information on what types of fish they were currently looking at. I sipped my Coors Light, brooding a bit about our differences, and noticed Quinn was holding her stomach.

I put the bottle on the bar and walked over. The baby was banging on the glass, distracting the mother, but one look at Quinn told me what the problem was. She was pure green.

Seasick.

I gently helped her to her feet and she swayed. “James. I don’t feel so good.”

“Aww, baby, you’re seasick. Let’s go out on the deck so you can get fresh air.”

“I don’t get sick,” she insisted, but she held tight to my arms and allowed me to lead her out the doors.

“Take deep breaths, slow and easy. Damn, I should’ve thought of making you take some anti-nausea medicine.”

“I don’t get sick,” she said again, but her voice grew faint, and she moaned.

“Sure, you don’t. Probably too busy taking care of everyone else. Let me get you some water. Can you stay here? I’ll be right back.”

She leaned over the rail. “Not going anywhere.”

I hid a grin and got water and a bunch of napkins from the bartender. By the time I got back, she was clenching the rails with a death grip. Her jaw worked as if trying madly to hold back from hurling. “Babe, drink some of this. Look out way in the distance, as far as you can see. And breathe deep.”

“Think I’m gonna vomit,” she said miserably. “You gotta go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Drink.”

She gulped in a breath and took a sip of water. Then creased her brows in a fierce frown as she concentrated on the horizon. I stroked her hair and rubbed her back, waiting it out. Finally, her muscles relaxed. “I feel a little better.”

“Good. It should be over soon. I wouldn’t advise going back in there. Something about looking at the bottom of the boat as it moves makes a lot of people nauseous.”

She drank some more water and leaned into me. My arms slid around her stomach, and I rested my chin on the top of her head. We finished the boat ride in comfortable silence, until the buzzing of my phone interrupted. I fished it out of my back pocket and glanced at the screen.

Adam.

I declined the call and waited to see if he’d text. I hadn’t spoken to him or Rich since they promised to stay away from Quinn and me. Probably checking on the stupid bet. I made a mental note to tell them it was officially off, whether or not I’d meet my mentor, but the text threw me off guard.