Page 31

“Is that a warning?” he asked, echoing my earlier question and refilling my cup with the magical blue liquid.

“Yup,” I replied.

After dinner, we moved to a seating area closer to the beach, where Callan built a small fire in a pit. The night had brought a slight chill to the air, and the fire’s warmth was welcome. Or maybe I just needed something to blame for the heat I felt whenever Callan’s eyes lingered on me.

“Another drink?” he offered, holding up a bottle of something amber.

“I probably shouldn’t,” I said, then immediately contradicted myself by holding out my glass. “But when in Rome...”

“Or when on a private island with no responsibilities and no witnesses,” he added, pouring generously.

“Speaking of no witnesses, does anyone even know we’re here together? I mean, professionally speaking, this is... unconventional.”

“Mari knows, obviously. And Devonna. And probably my grandmother by now, because she has an uncanny ability to know everything I do before I do it.” He took a sip of his drink. “Does it matter who knows?”

“I guess not. It’s just... I’ve worked so hard to build a reputation for professionalism. For boundaries. And here I am, on a private island with a client, drinking...” I squinted at my glass. “What is this anyway?”

“Fifteen-year-old rum. And technically, we’re friends having a weekend away. The client-planner relationship is on pause.”

“Is that how it works? We can just pause professional relationships when convenient?”

“Why not?” he challenged. “People are more than their jobs, Anica. Even you.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” I admitted, staring into the fire. “Everyone’s planning their happily ever after, and I’m just... planning everyone else’s.”

“Do you want your own happily ever after?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know. After Austin, I’m not sure I trust my judgment anymore.”

“What happened?” Callan asked. “I mean, I know the basics, but...”

“I walked in on him with a client. In our bed. Two days before our wedding.”

Callan winced. “That’s brutal.”

“The worst part wasn’t even the cheating,” I continued, the words spilling out.

“It was the humiliation. She was this gorgeous, wealthy socialite whose wedding I’d spent months planning down to the last detail.

I knew her favorite flowers, her favorite songs, her childhood stories. .. I thought we were almost friends.”

“And she slept with your fiancé,” Callan finished.

I nodded, taking another gulp of rum. “In our apartment. While I was out picking up our custom cocktail napkins. They didn’t even hear me come in, they were so loud.”

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I stood there like an idiot, holding these stupid napkins with our initials intertwined, watching the man I thought I’d spend my life balls deep in another woman.

” I flinched. God, I could still see them.

Worse, I could hear her moaning his name as he pounded her.

“I just... left. Didn’t say a word. Walked out, went to Mari’s, and drank an entire bottle of tequila. ”

“You didn’t confront them?”

I shook my head. “What was the point? It was pretty clear what was happening. And I guess part of me wasn’t even that surprised.

Austin had always been... insecure about my success.

He was a struggling musician, and I think he resented that I was the breadwinner.

Sleeping with a wealthy client was probably his way of feeling powerful again. ”

“He sounds like an asshole,” Callan said, his voice low.

“He was. But I loved him. Or thought I did. We’d been together since college. He was my first serious relationship. I thought we were building something real.”

“And after that, you swore off men?” Callan guessed.

“Not consciously. I just... haven’t found anyone worth the risk of a relationship.

Haven’t found anyone to trust. And I’ve been busy building the business.

It’s easier to focus on work than to put myself out there again.

Plus, with work, at least when people inevitably disappoint you, they’re paying you for the privilege. ”

“I get that. It’s always easier to stick with what you’re good at than to risk failing at something that matters.”

I looked at him, surprised by his insight. “Exactly.”

For a moment, we just sat there, the fire crackling between us, the sound of waves in the background. Then I realized I’d just spilled my most painful secrets to a client. A client who was supposed to be marrying someone else in the near future.

“I should probably go to bed,” I said abruptly, standing up and immediately regretting it as the world tilted. “Whoa. The island is spinning. Did you... did you buy a spinning island? Very fancy. Ver... very elaborate.”

God, was I slurring my words?

Callan was on his feet instantly, his hand on my elbow to steady me. “You okay there, Bambi?”

“I’m fine,” I insisted, though in truth, I was significantly more intoxicated than I’d realized. “Just stood up too fast. And possibly drank too much of your island truth... truth juice. The blue stuff. The rum. All the alcohols. You have very good alcohols, Callan. Very tasty.”

“Let me walk you back to the bungalow,” he offered, his hand still on my arm.

“I can manage,” I insisted, taking a step and promptly stumbling over absolutely nothing. “Oops! The sand jumped up and attacked me. Very aggressive sand you have here.”

“Sure it did,” he said, wrapping an arm around my waist. “But humor me.”

I was too dizzy to argue. The combination of sun, alcohol, and emotional confessions had left me thoroughly disoriented. I leaned into Callan more than I’d intended as we made our way down the path to the guest house.

“You know what’s really sad?” I said as we walked, my filter completely dissolved by rum. “I haven’t had sex since Austin. That’s more than two years of cel... celi... not having sex. My vagina probably has cobwebs.”

Callan made a choking sound. “I’m sure that’s not anatomically possible.”

“You don’t know. It could be like an abandoned house down there.

Dusty. Haunted. Full of spiders. The ghosts of orgasms past, rattling their chains and moaning sadly.

A condemned building with a sign that says ‘Do Not Enter’ but really means ‘Please, Someone, Anyone, Enter Before I Forget How This Works.’”

“This is a fascinating metaphor,” he said, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.

“It’s not funny,” I pouted. “It’s tragic. I’m a tragic figure. Like... like Jane Eyre. Or Hamlet. But with less murder and more... more sexual frustration. Sexual-Frustra-Hamlet. That’s me.”

“Hamlet died in the end,” Callan pointed out as we reached the bungalow. “Let’s aim for a less tragic comparison.”

He helped me inside and guided me to the bedroom, where I immediately flopped onto the mattress with a contented sigh.

“This bed is amazing,” I mumbled into the pillow.

“Like sleeping on a cloud made of dreams and marshmallows and... and really good mattress stuff. What’s in mattresses?

Clouds? Baby dreams? Rich people tears?”

“Glad you approve,” he said, sounding amused. “I’ll get you some water.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a glass, which he set on the nightstand. “Drink this before you sleep,” he instructed. “It’ll help with tomorrow’s headache.”

“You’re so nice,” I said, rolling onto my back to look up at him.

The ceiling seemed to be gently undulating, like waves.

Very pretty waves. “Why are you so nice to me? You’re s’posed to be a mean rich person.

That’s how it works in movies. The rich person is mean until the poor person teaches them the true meaning of Christmas. ”

“What if I’m Jewish,” he replied, clearly amused.

“Then the true meaning of... of Hanukkah,” I amended, waving my hand dismissively. “Whatever. You know what I mean. The point is... the point is... what was the point?”

“That I’m being nice to you?” he suggested.

“Yes! That. Why are you so nice to me? Even when I compare my vagina to a haunted house. A very sad, lonely haunted house that misses visitors.”

“I like you,” he said simply. “Even when you compare your vagina to a haunted house.”

“Especially then,” I suggested with a giggle. “You like me because I’m weird. Because I say the things. The things in my brain just come out of my mouth. Like right now.”

“Among other reasons,” he agreed. “Now get some sleep.”

“Stay,” I said impulsively, reaching for his hand. “Just for a little while. Please? Pretty please with sugar and cherries and whipped cream and sprinkles and... and all the other ice cream things?”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Anica, you’re drunk. Like, really, really drunk. Olympic-level drunk. Gold medal in the Drunk Olympics drunk.”

“Not that drunk,” I protested, though the way the ceiling was gently spinning suggested otherwise. “Just drunk enough to be honest. An’ honestly, I don’t want to be alone right now. Too many... thinky thoughts. Brain won’t shut up. Need comp’ny.”

He sighed, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “Fine. I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

“You’re a gentl’man,” I said, patting his arm clumsily. “A gentl’man with very nice arms. Have I mentioned your arms are nice? Because they are. Very nice. All... arm-like. Good at arm stuff. Lifting. Carrying. Arm... ing.”

“I believe that’s the textbook definition of arms,” he agreed, chuckling under his breath.

“Don’t laugh at me,” I pouted. “I’m eloquent. I’m just also drunk. Very drunk. The most drunk. Never been this drunk before. Except maybe when Austin... when the napkins... y’know.”

“I know,” he said softly, his expression sobering. “I’m sorry he did that to you.”

“Me too,” I said, feeling suddenly melancholy. “But then I wouldn’t be here with you if it hadn’t. Silver linings and stuff. Cloud linings? Whatever the saying is. The good part of bad stuff.”