Page 36 of On Dry Land

I laugh softly, trying to cover up the way my interest perks up at that. Is he saying he’s not interested in women at all or just the people openly hitting on him on the internet?

“It’s a bit. A gag, you know,” I explain, heart thumping strangely hard in my chest. “People are just kidding around, trying to leave the funniest comment and get the most likes. They don’t mean anything by it.”

He glances at me. “I know, Spencer. I’m not concerned or offended.”

Turning my head, I look out the window at the trees whipping past, broken up here and there by houses. There’s something about the way he says my name that feels like fingertips dragged down my throat. I want to know what he meant about not being tempted by women. Before the moment passes and I can no longer bring it up, I clear my throat.

“I never asked, are you seeing anyone? Romantically?”

For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer. He rubs his thumb in a circle on the leather of the steering wheel, the car silent but for the growl of the engine when he accelerates and the hot air blowing from the vents.

“No.”

“No single ladies in Siren’s Point?” I push, feeling reckless and insistent. Right now, nothing is more important than hearing his answer.

“I wouldn’t know about single ladies in Siren’s Point, and the single gentlemen no longer appeal to me.” My heart pounds as he meets my eye for a breath before looking back at the road. “I’d rather be alone.”

“But for the occasional stray,” I reply softly, watching his hands clench and release around the wheel.

“Yes,” he agrees.

The restaurant Dryden pulls up to is so fancy the only parking option is valet. Wide-eyed, I scramble out of the car and watch him hand the keys off to a man in a crisp black uniform. He gestures me to precede him inside, hand rising as though he’s going to put it on my lower back. He doesn’t, but my skin burns from the imagined contact anyway.

“I can’t come in here,” I whisper to him, face hot as the doors are held open for us. I’m wearing scrubs and am covered in cat hair. I smell like an unpleasant mixture of bleach and urine.

“We’ll be quick,” Dryden replies, totally unconcerned.

Even he’s underdressed for a place like this, clothes dirty from a day spent on the boat. I can smell the fish on him, and although it doesn’t bother me, I’m pretty sure everyone having dinner in goddamn black-tie attire is going to take offense.

“Dryden,” I hiss before withdrawing and trying to hide as much of my body behind his as I can. Let him have all the attention if he’s so indifferent to silly things like dress codes. Perhaps when you have as much money as he does, the rules simply do not apply.

“Reservation?” the woman at the slim hostess stand asks, smiling serenely at Dryden and tapping a manicured finger against the iPad in front of her.

“Carryout,” he replies. “Roy.”

“Just a moment.”

She clicks off across the marble floor in heels that hurt the soles of my feet just looking at them. I glance up at the ceiling and the chandelier hanging above us. I can’t even imagine what kind of food they must serve here. Something seasoned with gold, no doubt, and costing twice as much.

“This is ours,” Dryden says, holding a bag out to me once his order is delivered. I take it, surprised by the weight. He picks up the remaining two and nods toward the door, silently instructing me to head toward the exit.

We wait as the Porsche is brought back around. Ridiculously, I want to laugh. We were inside for fifteen minutes. Maybe less. What a waste of a valet ticket.

Dryden exchanges his keys for cash I hadn’t noticed was even in his hand. The valet nods, bending at the waist in a shallow bow, and steps back to wait for the next sports car to drive up. Food loaded into the back of the car, we climb back in, and Dryden barely has his door closed before I can’t hold it back any longer.

“I cannot believe they let us in there.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Dryden asks with the air of a man who has never been denied entry to anything in his life.

“Because I’m wearing scrubs! And you smell like ass!”

“I work on a boat, Spencer,” he says, dryly enough that I laugh.

“Well, you must work hard to be that hungry.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder, indicating the three massive totes of food we put into the trunk.

“Most of it isn’t for us.”

I want to ask who it’s for, but am distracted by the us. “You didn’t have to buy me food.”