Page 67 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

And he was so adorable, she almost said those three magic words. Almost. Instead, she said, “You’re probably too manly for a bubble bath.”

“Wanna bet?” Just before they, both of them, entered the tub, which was overflowing with bubbles, Merrill said, “You should be forewarned. Navy SEALs, whether active or retired, do their best work in the water. They don’t call us frogmen for nothing.”

“Ribbit, ribbit,” she replied.

Which Merrill took for a challenge.

He won, hands down (literally) under water, that was.

Chapter 14

Treasure found in the ocean: Is it Pay Dirt or Pay Water? . . .

“He’s a poopyhead.”

Are you talking about me, kid? Merrill paused at the bottom of the boat steps, listening to Delilah’s daughter talking on the speaker of the satellite phone he’d set up for her on the galley counter. Delilah was kneading dough with both hands in a huge bowl while she carried on a conversation. A born multitasker, like himself, he noted, always looking for commonalities because he’d noticed that the stubborn woman thought their differing backgrounds were a roadblock to any kind of serious relationship. Hah! To him, growing up in academic bigotry was no big asset.

Today, Delilah wore tight pink yoga pants and a sleeveless pink-and-white-checked shirt. He also noticed that she rarely wore tight shirts or tops. Another of her hang-ups. Obviously, he had opinions on that subject, too. Her hair was piled on top of her head with one of those claw hair clips. In other words, good enough to . . .

No, not going there! Not if I want to get any work done today.

For a moment, he was just fascinated by the movement of her fingers. Pressing, massaging, almost caressing the yeasty mixture to a smooth ball. He could imagine them at work elsewhere—like, maybe, on his skin, which might not be yeasty, but definitely sweaty after hours in the blistering sun. But then he could also picture his hands . . .

Focus, man! Focus! He shook his head to clear it, and directed his attention back to the phone call. Assuming he was the poopyhead in question, he smiled to himself, and shamelessly listened some more. He’d been under the misconception that he’d made friends with the little girl by making up that fool Little Orphan Andy story. But then, what did he know about kids?

And he couldn’t really be offended. It was his fault for eavesdropping. What was it they said about eavesdroppers never hearing good things about themselves?

“He is not a poopyhead, Maggie.”

That’s telling her, sweetheart.

More kneading.

Was it dough for bread, or maybe more of her cinnamon rolls?

“And I told you not to use that word anymore.”

Wait till the kid hears some of the blue words that escape your lips sometimes, Ms. Potty Mouth.

“Mister Merrill is Mommy’s friend . . .”

Oh, no, no, no! Not a friend! Not even friends with benefits. We are more than that, Ms. Delilah.

“. . . and it’s not his fault I can’t be there with you.”

Well, okay, then.

“Mommy has a job so she can make money for us to live together.”

Great! The money fixation again!

“Gramma says you could get lots of money if you’d sell that crapola diner.”

Oooooh, boy!

Delilah sighed and muttered, “Gramma talks too much.” To her daughter, she said, “That’s another word that little girls should not use.”

But Maggie was off on another subject—well, maybe not really, since it involved money, indirectly. “There’s a bald man at Miss Mildred’s house. Maybe he could be our Daddy Warbucks.”