Page 33 of The Summer We Kept Secrets (The Destin Diaries #4)
“ W ell, that was…educational,” Tessa said, tugging the passenger seatbelt across her body after climbing into Dusty’s surprisingly luxurious truck.
The silver Ford they’d taken on their day of house-hunting was solid but high-end, the kind of vehicle that said, “I’ve done well but I also like to haul stuff. ”
Like everything about Dusty Mathers, it appealed to Tessa. The truck, the man, the banter, the insight, the honesty, the humor, and the effortless exchange of conversation and information—it all appealed to her.
“I didn’t know they still made linoleum that color,” Dusty cracked as he touched the ignition button. “Would you call that rancid mustard? Or baby-food peas?”
“It was Sherwin-Williams Light Trauma,” she quipped. “And that kitchen? I’ve seen bigger galleys on fishing boats.”
Dusty shifted into Reverse and backed out over the cracked concrete driveway. “How about the office? A generous term for a closet, don’t you think? Not only would I not have a couch for my patients, I’d barely have room for a desk.”
As he drove off, the house faded from view. “Goodbye, beige ranch with mismatched window shutters circa ’77,” she said wistfully.
“With a bathtub if you want a water view,” he added, cracking her up.
“Lorna is texting us the address for the next house,” Tessa said, taking out her phone to read the message. “Can you bear another? She has high hopes for this one.”
She’d also said she wanted to “kill two birds” by taking them together to listings, since they were essentially looking for the same thing in their next home. But Tessa had the feeling Lorna wanted to mate birds, not kill them.
The woman hadn’t bothered to correct the listing agent at the first house when he’d assumed Tessa and Dustin were a married couple.
She whispered that “it was just easier” than trying to explain the truth, which didn’t seem that complicated to Tessa. What she wanted, Tessa suspected, was for her friend Dusty to get a new romance in his life.
Did Lorna know what Dusty really wanted?
“You’ve heard of the first pancake theory, right?” Dusty said, pulling her from her thoughts.
“Must have chocolate chips and blueberries?”
He laughed. “You gotta burn the first one.”
“That’s the waffle theory, and yeah, I guess. But now we’ve burned three. That’s officially a failed breakfast.”
He threw her a look. “I didn’t take you for a pessimist, Tess.”
She sighed. “I hate compromising, and I have a feeling I’m about to. Anyway, here’s the address.” She read the numbers and glanced at the listing. “Oh, wait. This one actually says ‘water view.’ Fingers crossed.”
“Don’t cross—hold.” He reached out his hand for hers. “Maybe my bar is really low, but…don’t you think this is fun?”
She slid her hand into his, aware of a rough palm and strong fingers and a good, solid feel. “And fun is what you wanted,” she reminded him.
He chuckled. “You didn’t answer my question—do you think this is fun?”
“I guess it depends on how you define fun,” she said on a laugh, because it was easy to play along.
Did “fun” mean good times and lots of drinks and easy, meaningless conversation? Or did fun mean inside jokes and quick looks that communicated plenty—because even after only seeing three houses together, they had quite a few of those, too.
“And she still doesn’t answer.”
She laughed. “You’re such a therapist. You think everyone has to answer every question and reveal their inner workings.”
“Don’t you want to?”
She considered the question and all the ways to respond. Of course she wanted to share her innermost thoughts and learn his, but that would just lead her deeper into feelings and she was already drowning in them.
“I’ve never been to therapy,” she admitted.
His brows flicked in surprise. “You’re absolutely next level at avoiding a question, you know that?”
She laughed and shrugged. “I’ll answer when I’m good and ready.”
“When will that be?”
“Umm, when one of us finds a house we think is perfect?”
“So, never,” he said with a side-eye. “I don’t want to wait that long. Let’s do a free therapy session tonight.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it now?”
He laughed. “Come on. One more date. We’ll make it special. What would you like to do?”
“I’m supposed to go to the marina and check on my boat. It had some service done on the engine and I need to run it.”
He took his eyes from the road to turn his whole head and give her a surprised look. “You have a boat ?”
“I do. And you’ll love the name— Good Time Girl . I got it as payment for an event I handled for a rich guy renting down the street.”
His brows flicked, impressed. “Can I come with you tonight to check the engine? I know, a bold and presumptuous question, but it’s one you have to answer. Yes or no?”
She just looked at him, holding in the real answer, which wasn’t yes or no. It was, “I don’t know because I like you so much it’s starting to hurt, and you don’t want what I want.”
“Only if there’s no therapy,” she finally said.
“Oh, you can’t stop me,” he teased. “Every conversation I have is therapy.”
“That’s terrifying,” she muttered, looking back at the phone. “This house does look nice. Super updated, three beds, two baths, and a pool that’s situated ‘on the water,’ whatever that means.”
“If there’s a sliver of blue beyond that backyard fence, I will throw down an offer before you can spell your last name.”
“Just know I will fight you,” she countered. “Bare-knuckle. Realtor gets to pick the winner.”
“The Realtor,” he said, “is counting on it. You know that’s why she’s doing this, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. Full disclosure, she prattled on about you before you showed up the other evening.”
“Oh, no.” He pretended to touch something over his head. “Is my halo on straight?”
She laughed. “It’s glowing.”
He grinned and glanced sideways at her, a longer look than was strictly safe while navigating the turn. “You’re good at this, you know. The banter. The vibe.”
“Well, I have been dating since Blockbuster still charged late fees. Got a little practice.”
He laughed again, but it faded into something quieter. “I know you said you never married, but you never said why.”
“ And the therapy starts.”
“Tessa.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I want to know you.”
Her heart shifted. Didn’t he see where that would lead? Maybe that didn’t scare him, but it freaked her out. She’d just like him more .
“I don’t let men…into my heart,” she said, surprising herself at the candor.
“Why not?”
“Hey, you’re the therapist. You tell me.”
He smiled and turned, following the GPS on his dashboard. “That’s not actually how therapy works. I guide you to figure it out yourself.”
“I thought you had the answers.”
He shook his head. “No, you have the answers. I just help you find them. Let me ask it this way—when someone asks you why you never married, what do you tell them?”
She exhaled and looked out the window, even though she knew the answer.
“Please don’t evade, answer with a question, or otherwise sidestep.”
She smiled at that. “I tell them that my dad was picture-perfect—the greatest guy I ever knew and truly my hero, role model, and favorite person. No man has ever measured up.”
He thought about that for a moment, quiet, like he was filing it away. “Is that true?” he finally asked.
She searched her heart for the absolute truth, but his GPS chimed in first.
“Your destination is on the right,” the mechanical voice chirped.
“Saved by the robot,” she joked.
He just gave her a sly look. “We’ll pick this back up on the boat tonight.” Then he jutted his chin toward the house. “I do believe there is a classic Florida retention pond in the backyard. Does that count as a water view?”
“For the alligator that lives there,” she said, pointing at the ominous sign that was visible from the street.
They toured the house, but her heart wasn’t in it. The kitchen was beautiful. The pool sparkled. The third bedroom would be perfect as an office. But the pond was brown and brackish and filled her with dread.
As they stepped back onto the front porch, Dusty looked at her. “Not it?”
“No,” she said quietly. “It’s not. You?”
“Most certainly not.” He nodded slowly. “You okay?”
She just smiled at him. “I guess.”
He put a casual arm around her and walked to the truck. “Nothing a sunset cruise and a little free therapy won’t cure. You still up for it?”
She looked up and into his dark eyes, wishing she didn’t like him so darn much. But she did.
“Yes.” She added a smile. “How’s that for a straight answer?”
“In my business, we call that progress,” he said on a laugh.
“How did I not know this was what you meant by ‘boat ride’?” he asked. “I thought you had a little flats boat or something. You negotiated for this as payment from a client?”
She gave a saucy smile. “I saved his butt and he owed me. She’s sweet, huh?”
He lifted his bottle in a toast. “As is her owner.”
“Thank you.” She adjusted the wheel as they rounded a sandbar, taking in the dramatic vista.
The sky looked like a watercolor painting—pink bleeding into peach, melting into soft gold. The harbor was so calm it barely lapped the hull, and the motor purred beneath them like a satisfied cat.
Tessa had slipped Good Time Girl out to the bay with Dusty sitting beside her at the helm, nursing a bottle of Heineken and looking impossibly at ease.
“I told you,” she said, nodding at the horizon where Destin shimmered like a mirage. “I know all the secret sunset spots.”
“You weren’t lying,” he murmured, eyes on two seagulls swooping overhead. “This is…whoa, I don’t even have the right words.”
“You’re a therapist. Don’t you have all the words?”
“I leave the pretty ones to people like you.”
“Is that a compliment or a classic Tessa Wylie-style deflection?”
“Yes. You ready for a drink now that you’ve navigated us away from land, Captain?”
“Yes, please. Same as you.”
He reached into the cooler wedged beside the seat and grabbed her a beer, opening it, then handing it to her.