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I ducked out before she could throw something at me, grinning like an idiot all the way back to the main house.

True to my word, I didn’t rush her. When Anica finally appeared at the main house, she looked significantly more like herself.

She’d switched out the glasses for sunglasses, and her hair was neatly styled.

She’d changed into shorts and a light blouse that managed to be both modest and distractingly flattering.

“Ready for adventure?” I asked, setting aside the book I’d been pretending to read while actually watching the path from her bungalow. I hadn’t actually turned a page in twenty minutes.

“Ready to prove that a human can survive on aspirin and spite,” she corrected, but her tone was lighter. “Let’s go before I change my mind or my stomach stages a full rebellion.”

The small marina was a short walk from the main house, with several boats of varying sizes bobbing gently in the crystal-clear water. I only owned three of them, but I’d already decided we’d take the ferry.

“The ferry should be here in a minute.” I slipped my hands into my pockets and stared out at the water.

“What, you can’t drive one of these?” She gestured to the other boats.

“Oh I can captain all of those, but I want to enjoy the ride.” I shrugged. “Besides, the ferry will probably be smoother, and that’s what you need, right?”

It was obvious by the look on her face that I’d gotten her there. “Fair enough.” She glanced at the yacht I’d used to close a couple business deals. “You even drive that one?”

“I’m an incredible captain.”

“Your humility continues to inspire,” she deadpanned. “You’re like a walking TED Talk on self-esteem.”

“I’m considering writing a self-help book. ’How to Love Yourself Almost As Much As I Love Me.’”

The ferry came soon after and it skimmed across the water, cutting through the gentle waves. The wind whipped through Anica’s hair, sending strands flying around her face. She’d removed her sunglasses once we were on the water, and her eyes were bright despite her lingering hangover.

“Okay, I admit it,” she called over the engine noise. “This was a good idea.”

“I’m full of good ideas,” I replied. “Some involving boats, some involving blue drinks that you’ll probably never touch again. The quality varies, but the quantity is impressive.”

“Never,” she agreed with feeling. “If I so much as smell rum in the next decade, I might spontaneously combust. Or throw up. Or both simultaneously, which would be a sight to behold.”

The ride to the neighboring island took about thirty minutes, during which Anica gradually relaxed, trailing her fingers in the water and asking questions about the various sea birds and boats we passed. I pointed out a pod of dolphins in the distance, and her face lit up with delight.

“They’re showing off for you,” I told her as the dolphins leaped and played in our wake.

“For the boat,” she corrected.

“For you,” I insisted. “They recognize a kindred spirit when they see one. Intelligent, graceful, occasionally makes squeaking noises when excited.”

“I do not squeak!”

“You definitely squeaked when you saw the dolphins. It was adorable. Very high-pitched. Dolphin-approved. Like a tiny mouse discovering cheese for the first time.”

“I made a sound of appreciation. A mature, adult sound.”

“A squeak,” I corrected. “Like a dog toy being stepped on. Or a rusty door hinge, but cuter.”

She punched me in the shoulder.

The market was as vibrant and colorful as I’d promised, with stalls selling everything from fresh seafood to handwoven baskets to touristy trinkets. We wandered through the maze of vendors, Anica stopping occasionally to admire a piece of jewelry or artwork.

“No cell service,” she noted, glancing at her phone. “I feel naked without it.”

“The horror,” I gasped in mock sympathy.

“How will you survive without checking your email every thirty seconds? What if someone has a wedding emergency? A bride might be choosing the wrong shade of ivory right now, and you wouldn’t even know it.

The world could be ending in a catastrophic ivory crisis. ”

“Very funny,” she said, tucking her phone away. “But you’re one to talk. Don’t billionaires have some rule about always being available to make more billions? I thought that was in the handbook they give you when you reach your third comma.”

“I left my copy at home. Along with my golden monocle and top hat made of hundred-dollar bills. Rookie mistake. Now how will I know the proper way to light cigars with flaming stock certificates?”

She laughed. “You’d look ridiculous in a top hat.”

“I look amazing in all headwear. It’s a curse, really. Hats see my face and just... elevate themselves. They sense greatness and rise to the occasion.”

“Your humility is showing again,” she said. A stall selling colorful scarves caught her attention. “These are beautiful.”

The elderly woman manning the stall beamed at her. “All hand-dyed, miss. No two alike.”

Anica ran her fingers over a scarf in shades of blue and green that reminded me of the ocean around my island. “It’s gorgeous,” she said.

“It would look beautiful on you,” the woman said. “Matches your eyes.”

Before Anica could respond, I’d already pulled out my wallet. “We’ll take it.” I handed over more than the asking price.

“Callan!” Anica protested. “You don’t have to?—”

“Consider it a souvenir,” I said, taking the scarf and draping it around her shoulders.

“A memory of the weekend. Much better than those tacky shot glasses or t-shirts that say ‘I got wasted on a private island and all I got was this lousy t-shirt and a detailed memory of comparing my vagina to a haunted house.’”

Her eyes widened in horror as she glanced at the vendor, but the woman was counting her money and hadn’t heard my comment. Anica pinched my arm hard enough to leave a mark.

“Ow! Violent,” I whispered.

The woman smiled knowingly between us. “You two make a lovely couple.”

“We’re not—” Anica began automatically.

“Thank you,” I interrupted, placing my hand at the small of Anica’s back. “We’re celebrating our anniversary. First time away since the wedding.”

Anica’s eyes widened, but to her credit, she didn’t contradict me. “He’s very romantic,” she said instead, with just enough sarcasm that only I would catch it. “Knows exactly what to say to sweep a girl off her feet.”

“Never let that fade,” the woman advised, patting Anica’s hand. “My Nickie and I were married sixty-two years before he passed. We never stopped celebrating each other.”

“That’s beautiful,” Anica said softly, and I could tell she meant it.

“The secret is laughter,” the woman continued. “And separate bathrooms if you can manage it.”

I chuckled. “We’ll keep that in mind. Though at this point I’d settle for her not plotting my murder over breakfast.”

“Early days,” the woman said knowingly. “You’ll get there.”

As we walked away, Anica adjusted the scarf around her shoulders. “Why did you tell her we were married?” she asked, but there was no real annoyance in her tone.

“People love a good love story,” I shrugged.

“And she seemed like the type who’d appreciate it.

Besides, it’s not like we haven’t pretended to be engaged before.

I figured we could upgrade our fake relationship status while on vacation.

Next stop: fake divorce, followed by fake dramatic reconciliation. And then fake make up sex. Ow.”

She punched me again, but she was chuckling.

“From fake fiancés to fake spouses,” she mused. “Very progressive of us.”

“I’m all about relationship growth,” I agreed solemnly. “Even the imaginary kind. I’m very committed to our non-existent commitment.”

We continued through the market, stopping to try the famous conch fritters (which lived up to the hype) and various other local delicacies. I bought us both fresh coconuts to drink from, complete with silly paper umbrellas and bendy straws.

“This is nothing like the coconut water they sell at Whole Foods,” Anica observed, sipping from her straw. “It’s so much better.”

“Everything tastes better in its natural environment,” I said. “Like how beer tastes better at a ballpark, or how coffee tastes better when someone else makes it.”

“Or how rum tastes better until it makes you confess embarrassing personal details to your client,” she added.

I decided to let her off the hook. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, echoing her earlier denial. “Must be thinking of someone else. Maybe one of your other clients who makes lethal blue cocktails on private islands.”

She gave me a grateful smile. “Must be. I have so many of those, they all blur together.”

We found a small local restaurant for lunch, a weathered wooden structure right on the beach with mismatched chairs and tables set directly in the sand. The menu was written on a chalkboard, and the only options were whatever had been caught that morning.

“This is amazing,” Anica said as our food arrived; grilled fish so fresh it had probably been swimming an hour earlier, served with rice and plantains. “How did you find this place?”

“The first time I came to the island, I got spectacularly lost. Ended up here by accident. Best wrong turn I ever made. Unlike that time I accidentally walked into the women’s restroom at the Met Gala. Much less charming outcome, considerably more screaming.”

“Sounds like you might actually be human.”

“What else would I be?”

“Well, Mari’s guess is Greek god. Devonna mentioned something about an immortal vampire. I’d go for very advanced AI.”

I chuckled, nudging her foot under the table. “Just Callan. Human guy from Queens.”

She considered this as she took another bite of fish. “I think I like ‘just Callan’ better than ‘Callan Burkhardt, tech billionaire.’”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He seems more real. Less rehearsed.”