Page 28

Blue Drinks and Ancient Shirt Law

ANICA

“ M y suitcase looks like it’s having the same existential crisis I am,” I muttered, staring at the chaotic heap of clothing I’d packed, unpacked, and repacked three times already.

“Half professional retreat, half ‘help-I’ve-agreed-to-a-tropical-getaway-with-a-hot-billionaire-and-don’t-know-if-I’m-supposed-to-pack-condoms.’”

“The answer is yes on the condoms,” Mari declared from where she lounged across my bed, mimosa in hand at eight in the morning. “Always yes. Even for funerals. Never know when a sexy mourner might need consoling.”

“Not helping,” I snapped, meticulously rearranging my neatly folded clothes for the fourth time.

I’d been agonizing over the appropriate wardrobe for a “just friends” weekend on a private island with a client for approximately six hours, and my sanity was hanging by a thread thinner than the lingerie Mari kept trying to sneak into my luggage.

“You know what would help?” Mari asked, sipping her drink. “This.” She reached into a shopping bag beside her and pulled out what could generously be described as “dental floss masquerading as a bikini” but was actually just three triangular fabric scraps held together by wishful thinking.

“Absolutely not,” I said, not even looking up. “I’m bringing my black one-piece. It’s perfectly respectable.”

“It’s perfectly funereal,” Mari corrected. “You look like you’re about to officiate a burial at sea. Or audition for the role of ‘professional whale trainer who’s allergic to joy.’”

“It’s practical,” I insisted. “Appropriate for swimming laps, and it’s what normal people wear at normal beaches.”

“There’s nothing normal about a private island owned by a hot billionaire who’s clearly wants to bend you over and fuck you in his private jet.

” Mari flopped back on the bed. “And nobody swims laps on vacation. They lounge seductively and sip fruity drinks with little umbrellas while plotting how to accidentally-on-purpose brush against their crush’s abs. ”

“He’s not my crush,” I replied automatically. “He’s my client. A client who happens to own a small island where we’ll be spending the weekend. In separate buildings. As business associates. Who are friends. Friendly business associates.”

“Clients don’t invite you to their private islands for ‘no wedding talk’ weekends.

” Mari made exaggerated air quotes. “That’s not in any client services contract I’ve ever seen.

Trust me, I’ve checked all of ours since he invited you, looking for the ‘tropical getaway with optional sexual tension’ clause. ”

“I agreed because he had just saved the wet wedding, and it seemed rude after his help. Help you gave none of, by the way,” I explained, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from my khaki shorts. “Anyways, it’s strictly business.”

“I was on my deathbed, for the record. And secondly, of course it’s strictly business.

You know, the classic business retreat to a romantic tropical paradise,” Mari nodded sagely.

“I send all my vendors to the Bahamas when they do a good job. The caterer who didn’t overcook the salmon at the Thomas wedding?

Took him to Paris. The florist who found peonies in December?

Straight to Bali. The DJ who played ‘Sweet Caroline’ only once instead of seventeen times? Weekend in my private love grotto.”

I threw a sock at her head, which she deftly dodged.

“Oh look,” Mari said, pulling something from beneath my folded clothes.

“How did this get in there?” She dangled a scrap of black lace that I recognized with horror as the lingerie set she’d given me for my birthday last year.

The one I’d never worn because it was so impractical it might as well have been made of cotton candy and broken dreams.

“Give me that!” I lunged for it, but she held it out of reach.

“Why? You’re just going as friends, right? So what’s the harm in bringing sexy underwear that no one will see?” Her smile was pure evil. “Unless you’re planning on someone seeing it...”

“I’m not planning anything,” I said, snatching the lingerie and tossing it into the trash can. “I’m bringing the bride portfolios to review. It’s a working trip.”

“He literally said ‘no wedding talk, no bride hunting,’” Mari reminded me, fishing the lingerie out of the trash and tucking it into a side pocket of my suitcase when she thought I wasn’t looking.

“But sure, bring work. Nothing says ‘I’m maintaining professional boundaries’ like ignoring your host’s one request.”

“The portfolios are my security blanket,” I admitted. “I need something to fall back on if conversation lags or things get... weird.”

“Things like uncontrollable sexual tension?” Mari suggested.

“Intense eye contact over tropical drinks? His hand accidentally brushing yours while you both reach for the sunscreen? His muscles glistening with seawater as he emerges from the ocean like some kind of Greek god having a midlife crisis in the Caribbean?”

“Stop,” I groaned, though my treacherous brain had already painted a vivid picture of Callan’s hands applying sunscreen to my shoulders, my back, maybe even the backs of my thighs... “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” Mari insisted. “And you know how I know? Because you’re packing khaki shorts and button-ups for a beach vacation. You’re overcompensating because you’re terrified of what might happen if you let yourself enjoy this. It’s like watching a nun pack for spring break.”

I glared at her, hating that she might be right. “I’m bringing my running shoes and workout clothes too,” I added defiantly. “For morning jogs on the beach.”

“Of course you are,” Mari said, rolling her eyes. “Nothing says ‘romantic getaway’ like 6 AM cardio. Nothing gets a man hotter than seeing a woman voluntarily wake up before sunrise to punish herself with exercise on vacation.”

“It’s not a romantic getaway!” I protested for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Then why are you packing the secret good bra?”

I froze, staring at the navy bra in my hands; the comfortable-yet-flattering one that somehow made even my modest chest look spectacular. “It’s... practical,” I said weakly.

“Uh-huh.” Mari took another sip of her mimosa. “Just like it’s practical that I added waterproof mascara to your toiletry bag. And that little sundress you never wear because it shows too much leg.”

“You what?” I dug through the bag she’d helpfully packed earlier, finding not only the mascara and sundress but also a bottle of my good perfume, three types of condoms, and a travel-sized bottle of tequila. “Mari!”

“What? You never know what you might need,” she said innocently. “Better safe than sorry. The tequila is in case of snake bite. The condoms are in case of... snake bite of a different variety.”

“I’m not going to need condoms,” I hissed, throwing them at her. “This is a platonic trip between a wedding planner and her client.”

“So you keep saying,” Mari replied, catching the condoms and tucking them into a different compartment of my suitcase.

“But your lady parts might have other ideas. They’ve been in hibernation so long they’re probably desperate for attention.

Like a neglected houseplant that’s about to get an unexpected downpour. ”

“My lady parts are highly professional,” I insisted. “And very discerning.”

“Which is exactly why they’ve been on a sabbatical since Austin,” Mari pointed out.

“They’re so discerning they’ve rejected everyone.

But now along comes a guy who makes you laugh, challenges you, respects your work, left a hot date to help you in a crisis, and looks like he was carved by horny gods specifically to make sensible women abandon their professional ethics.

Even the most discerning lady parts might make an exception. ”

I refused to acknowledge the accuracy of her assessment. “I’m bringing the bride portfolios,” I repeated stubbornly. “And my laptop.”

“Fine. Bring your work security blanket. But I’m leaving the good underwear in your suitcase, and I bet you fifty dollars you’ll be glad I did.”

I didn’t take the bet. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d win.

I’d never been on a private jet before. Not that I was going to admit that to Callan, who was watching me with amusement as I tried to act like this was all perfectly normal and not like I’d just stepped into an episode of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Ridiculous.”

“First time on a private jet?” he asked, gesturing to a cream leather seat that looked more comfortable than my entire apartment, including my bed and that expensive pillow I splurged on during a moment of weakness.

“I usually take the subway to private islands,” I replied, sliding into the seat and trying not to audibly gasp at how luxurious it felt. “Less traffic. More colorful characters. Occasionally someone plays the bongo drums.”

He laughed, dropping into the seat across from me. “Let me guess. You’re also going to pretend you haven’t been secretly checking out every detail of this plane since you stepped onboard.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lied, fighting the urge to press my face against the window like an excited child.

“It’s just a plane with... fewer people.

And nicer seats. And what looks suspiciously like a full bar.

And is that... is that an actual crystal chandelier?

On an airplane? That seems like a safety hazard.

What happens during turbulence? Death by flying crystals? ”

“It’s secured very well,” he assured me. “And yes, it is a full bar. And there’s a bedroom in the back. And yes, the bathroom is big enough to shower in. Explore. I won’t judge. Much.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable right here,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster, though my gaze kept darting to different features of the cabin.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, then called to the attendant. “Josie, could you bring Ms. Marcel a glass of champagne? And I’ll have my usual.”