Morgan
“H ey . H ey , wake up ...” Scarlett’s voice yanks me from a dark, dreamless slumber that is no doubt
the product of the sex we had the other night. Thanks to an epic orgasm and quenching a thirst that had
me high and dry for a month or so, I am happy to r eport I haven’t endured any painfully unfulfilling
dreams lately. Which is why her subtle coaxing has me a little startled. “What? What’s wrong?” I blurt
out, bolting upright in bed. “Nothing,” she tells me, standing over me with her usual smile. A smile I’ve
grown to appreciate. Exc ept when she’s using it to wake me up before the sun. “What time is it?” I
mumble. “Four thirty,” she tells him. “Oh. Then I’m going back to sle ep,” I tell her, rolling over away
from her. It’s not that I’m not a morning person. I’ve woken up at 6:30 am sharp every day for over
twenty years. Even on holidays. Even when I’m sick. But not 4:30 am. “No,” Scarlett says, yanking the
down comforter off me and flippantly tossing it aside. “It’s time to wake up.” “Why?” I grumble.
“Because the trucks are coming,” she says, turning on a light. I groan and cover my head with my
pillow. “What trucks?” I mutter. “The fishermen’s trucks...” she says with magic in her words, and with
that my eyes flash open. After throwing on some shorts (yes, I own shorts) and a t-shirt (same response),
Scarlett and I hurry off to the Escalade where the driver is waiting for us. “Good morning, Seb!” Scarlett
says with a huge smile and enough energy to fuel the sun. “Good morning, Miss Scarlettt. Boss,” he
returns, and I simply nod. “To the market, Seb!” Scarlett says, and I roll my head to look at her. “He
knows where we’re going,” I tell her dryly. “So? It’s still fun to say,” Scarlett answers before thrusting a
fist and half her body out the window. “To the market!” she calls into the morning, and I sigh. But
Sebastian just smiles. The sun is on the horizon when we pull up to the fish market. And sure enough,
trucks are loading up with fresh, live seafood of all kinds moments after it’s carried off the boats. People
buzz about, packaging and purchasing and smelling and smiling. There are even locals with grills and
ovens cooking up food and selling it right there next to a storefront. For a moment, we just look around,
taking it all in. “Have you ever seen anything like this?” she asks with the world’s most Scarlett-smile
and her hands clasped together. “I have,” I tell her, and she turns to look up at me. “Really?” she asks.
“With my parents. Many, many years ago,” I say. “Oh.” She smiles before taking a couple of photos for
the blog.
“Mr. Bale. Miss Moore,” Hannah appears next to us, and she’s smiling, something she didn’t do even
once yesterday. “Well,” I say, gesturing to the expansion of the market. “What do you think? Is it fresh
enough?” Hannah nods with a smile. “It’ll do.” With that, we start shopping. Well, Hannah does most of
the shopping. I might own five-star restaurants tucked into world renown resorts, but I am no chef. I can
make a few good dishes, but this is Hannah’s territory. And as I watch her asking about things,
questioning them, touching them, smelling them, I am in awe of her ability to find the perfect seafood
and meats for the restaurant. Even Scarlett is mesmerized watching her expertise in action, taking
photos and asking questions as well. She’s fascinated with all of it, incredible with the market sellers
and fishermen and even the locals cooking things up. Especially them. “So what kind of fish is this?”
Scarlett asks, referring to a red fish that has caught Hannah’s eye. “This is Onaga.” She smiles. “A
snapper. It’s hard to catch, making it very rare,” she says, and one of the chefs nods. “Very,” he says.
“It’s beautiful,” Scarlett says. “It’s also flaky, delicate, fatty, and buttery,” Hannah adds. “It sounds
delicious,” Scarlett smiles. “How do you pr epare a fish like this?” “At the restaurant, I’d bake and broil
it whole. It’s too beautiful not to display in all its glory. But if I wanted to cook it up and eat it on the
spot–” “We’d grill it,” the man says. They all smile and the next thing we know, the man is grabbing
one of them and heading over to his makeshift kitchen. We watch as he slices and fillets it.
“Salt, p epper, and avocado oil,” Hannah narrates as we watch him work. “A fish like this doesn’t need
much. The flavor shines on its own.” “Yes,” the man agrees. “With butter, garlic, and lemon. Maybe a
little thyme and parsley if you want to be fancy. But you are right. Simplicity is key.” As we watch him
pr epare it, Scarlett can hardly contain her excitement. She snaps a couple of photos and puts her phone
away. Then she hugs into me, and I put my arm around her, and Hannah uses her phone to snap a photo
of us. “For the blog,” she says. “You don’t have to do that,” Scarlett tells her with a smile. “For the
fish,” Hannah says to me, and I nod once as a you're welcome. Because honestly, what kind of boss
would I be if I didn’t give my employees the best? After the fish is done, Hannah enjoys some before
following the truck back to the restaurant, anxious to cook. Scarlett and I take ours to go and enjoy it
with some fresh fruit and coffee at a little shop down the way next to a pier. “Now this is the breakfast
of champions,” she says, taking a bite and savoring it. “Better than a cheese danish?” I tease. “So much
better,” she says. Then she looks down at her phone. “Well. The reviews are skyrocketing.” “Really?” I
ask. “People are already commenting? On what?” “On everything. The market, the chefs, Hannah, us,
the food,” she says, and I bite my lip, picking up my phone too. But I’m sending a text. Morgan- Hey.
What are the booking numbers for Tide and Torch? Donovan- You saw that too. Reservations are
booked out through the next month. Morgan- Jesus...
Donovan- Guess Hannah is going to be making a lot more early morning market stops. Somehow I
don’t think she’ll mind. And despite how early it is and how much I didn’t want to get up this morning,
sitting here, enjoying the freshest fish I’ve had in years with some of the best company I’ve had in years
as well, I can’t say that I mind either.
Later that night while Scarlett is showering, I am going through her posts on my phone. Not only is she
a writer and a great influencer, she’s also an artist. And the fans see that. I read through some of the
comments and I’m impressed. Very impressed. You always catch the beauty in everything. I’m literally
updating my passport now. Forget FOMO. It’s YOLO from here on out! Look at you finding love and
showing the world the good sides of Morgan Bale. Who knew? But as much as that comment has a
hidden knife twist, it’s the next comment that sends me. Am I the only one who sees the resemblance in
Morgan Bale to Jeff Bale? Not just physically, but in the way he creates experiences through a love for
seeing others enjoy it? I swallow hard. Because it’s the first time I’ve heard something like that in a very
long time. Needing something else to think about, I grab my messenger bag and open it up, pulling out
my tablet and a couple of other things. I haven’t done a lot of actual work since we left Miami, and it
wouldn’t hurt to go through things. But as I organize everything on the desk, I come across the manila
envelope. The one Donovan brought me that I shoved aside when Conrad came barging in.
Curiously, I tear it open. I can’t imagine what the Sapphire could have sent me. Until I see it. And my
expression drops. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I let out as I stare down at Scarlett’s bucket list
book. “I thought I threw you in the trash.” And yet, here it is. Following me, it would seem. My eyes
flash up to the bathroom door. There’s still steam swirling out from under the door, and the water is still
audibly running. So I open the book again. Bucket list (in no particular order)
1. Cross the country 2. Go north! Somewhere cold. 3. Get a passport and get out of here 4. Visit
somewhere that is not landlocked 5. Four corners! 6. Camp instead of getting a hotel room 7. Skinny dip
in the mountains (hot springs anyone?) 8. Eat from the land. Farmer’s markets only. 9. Vineyards.
Sonoma, Colorado, Washington 10. European vineyards. 11. Lobster rolls in Maine 12. Become a
full-time, financially stable travel journalist/blogger 13. Visit ALL the beaches. Beaches are officially
my love language. 14. Forget tourist trap 5-star dining. Cook with the locals. Eat what they eat. Make
friends! 15. Go swimming in the wild! No crowded beaches or fancy pools. 16. Help baby sea turtles
into the ocean. 17. Wear a bikini. Not hate it. 18. Have sex under the stars. 19. Go to the House of Blues
20. Fall in love in New York City. 21. Become a mom. 22. Show my family the world.
I re-read it again, this time with more background information. Because I know her better now. And
things make more sense now, making the whole bucket list conc ept less of a sore spot and more
intriguing. My eyes wander back to number 14. Forget tourist trap 5-star dining. Cook with the locals.
Eat what they eat. Make friends! Hmm. I glance over at a pen sitting on the desk and punch the button
on it. Then, after a moment of consideration, I cross it off. It feels invasive, and yet... there are a lot of
good ideas in here. I hate the idea of her not getting to experience these things just because she lost her
book. But also, I can’t exactly give it back to her. Not yet, anyways. Obviously, I will eventually give it
back and admit that I knew who she was when I hired her. When the time is right. Suddenly the water
shuts off and I nearly drop the book. I snap it shut and shove it back into my mag, my mind racing with
ideas.