I feel a frown drag my eyebrows together. “Who told you—”
“Jason,” Birdie groans behind me. “Let her in.”
Until my sister’s interruption, I completely forget Naomi is still standing outside. And as she bypasses me into the house, careful as hell not to touch me with so much as a scrap of fabric, my pulse starts to tick faster. I’m probably just irritated over having to drink wine.
Birdie and Naomi sit in the dining room, while I grab the baked halibut out of the oven and separate portions onto plates, alongside carrots and roasted potatoes. When everything is plated, I squeeze lemon over the top of basically everything and add some salt. I’m definitely no chef. I’m complete shit at cooking, actually. Most nights, I pick up food on the way home from the marina—Italian, sushi, sandwiches. Right now, I might as well be blindfolded with both hands tied behind my back.
Moments later, I search for a reaction when I set the food down in front of Naomi. There’s nothing but positivity radiating from her every pore when I know it’s probably garbage compared to what she’s used to eating. Why am I making that assumption, though? On my return to the kitchen to retrieve a beer, a wine glass and a corkscrew, I remind myself I know next to nothing about Naomi. Maybe I should stop making assumptions.
Naomi eyes the open Bud when I set it down in front of her. “Ladies first.”
She flicks me a pointed look. “So you do have manners when it’s convenient.”
I dig into my dinner instead of answering, noticing Naomi has carefully separated the potatoes from the rest of her meal. “That’s your first beer?” Birdie asks, her attention swinging back and forth between me and her coach. “No way.”
“Way.” Naomi tilts the bottle to her lips, and I stop chewing, watching her throat move as she swallows. Her eyes squeeze shut and she traps the liquid inside her mouth with a napkin. “Oh Lord, that’s terrible.” A laugh sneaks out of me, and Birdie almost falls off her chair. “You drink the wine now.”
“Will it help you recover if I hate it?”
“Yes.”
I sigh through the process of opening the wine and pouring half a glass, then I toss it back in one gulp. Cool, crisp, fruity. Not that I would ever admit this out loud, but apparently people haven’t been bullshitting when they claimed white wine goes better with fish. “Want to switch now?”
“You didn’t even tell us if you liked it,” Naomi sputters as I trade her beer for my refilled wine glass, remaining silent as I perform the task. “You did like it,” she gasps, turning to Birdie. “He did, didn’t he?”
Birdie laughs into a bite. “Good luck getting him to admit it.”
“Oh, I will.” She takes a dainty bite of fish. “I’ve set my mind to it now.”
I pick up a potato and toss it into my mouth. “What’s this about new sneakers?”
“Subtle subject change by Bristow,” laughs my sister, edging her hand toward my beer. I catch her wrist, moving it away, and she continues without missing a beat. “Coach number six is making me exercise.”
“Coach number six.”
“Right. Because you killed or fired the other five. Just play along.”
I take a swig of beer and plop the bottle back down. “They had it coming.”
Naomi still hasn’t touched her potatoes. “I suppose your boat makes it easy to hide the bodies out at sea.” When we just stare at her, she stabs her fork into a carrot. “What? You two can be morbid, but I can’t?” She doesn’t wait for us to answer. “I noticed your equipment today. Are you a scuba diver, Mr. Bristow?”
Her emphasis on Mr. Bristow is impossible to ignore. If she only knew how hot that teasing formality makes me. “I have a company. We do private, guided dives in St. Augustine. Corporate team building. Vacationing retirees.” Naomi sets down her fork, clearly finished, so I drag her plate closer and start eating her potatoes. “I was a master diver with the Army, placed with Special Forces. When I was discharged, I wanted to stay in practice for…”
“For when he goes back,” Birdie finishes.
My sister won’t look at me, so I’m not sure if she was simply being matter-of-fact or if the numbness I picked up in her tone was real. It has always been the plan for me to redeploy, and she’s never expressed discontent over it. Overseas is where I belong. In the end, I just nod and continue. “For when I go back, yeah. After Birdie graduates. My vessel is the one I use for dives. I license the Bristow Diving name out to several instructors in the area, though. About seventeen altogether in the fleet.”
“It sounds like you’re doing very well.”
I am. And I shouldn’t like her knowing that so much. “What about you, beauty queen? Have you always been a pageant coach?”