by Julie Olivia
“Ah, but I already know you,” she says.
“Tell me one fact about myself,” I test. She might know some things, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg.
“You’re an alcoholic.”
I feel my face fall, but I immediately compensate with a smile. “Easy assumption, but wrong.”
It’s hard not to let the feeling take over, but I promised myself long ago that I would disregard doubt. I’m better than that. I’ve learned my lesson. She doesn’t need to know the real truth—that I’m not an alcoholic, just irresponsible.
“Incorrect?” she says, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “But you never drink.”
“Personal choice. Who’s to say I don’t love being DD?”
“Nobody enjoys being designated driver.”
“I might.”
She pauses. “So, no alcoholism?”
“Sorry, Polly,” I say with a shrug.
Her hand goes to her chin and she narrows her eyes. “Okay, fact attempt number two.”
“I love that you’re calling it an attempt now.”
“You come from a wealthy family,” she says, ignoring my comment.
I grin. “Got me there. And, let me guess, you do not.” I think I’m being clever with the response. Because opposites attract is what I would follow up with, but she doesn’t give me the chance.
“What makes you say that?” she says, taken aback.
Because opposites attract. BECAUSE OPPOSITES ATTRACT.
“I…I don’t know,” I stumble. Why won’t the words come out?
Her eyes widen and all pretense of potential familiarity and budding enjoyment of my company fades. Wrong thing to say, Ian. Wrong. Thing. “That’s unfair.”
“What’s unfair?” I ask. Shit shit shit. I’m digging my hole deeper. I’ve got a problem with not keeping my damn mouth shut.
“Do you always speak before you think?” she sneers.
“No.” Yep.
“Okay, let’s pretend I didn’t mention that,” I continue, waving it off, but she’s already twisting on her bar stool to face the dance floor. I don’t want this. Why couldn’t I keep my fucking mouth shut? “I genuinely want to get to know you.”
“And I genuinely think I know you well enough,” she snaps.
“I’ll tell you why I don’t drink,” I say. At this point, I’m desperate.
“I don’t care.” She gets up and walks onto the dance floor. Grace notices her entrance and immediately grabs her hand, tugging her into their dance party. Nia adapts as well as she can, still visibly irritated, but her hips start to move to the music, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair. I’ve never seen—nor would I have expected to see—her roll her body in those type of movements. Her dress pulls at each curve and her sharp bun starts to unravel just a little bit, letting wisps of blonde hair frame her face.
She shoots a look at me and, for just a second, I wonder if she’s tempting me on purpose.
11
Nia
Seven years ago
It just wouldn’t be a proper employee termination if we weren’t slapped with a lawsuit a couple weeks later.
I’m in my office, court order in hand, sifting through older emails and trying to pick through documentation when my door is kicked open by Ian. In one arm, he balances two coffees, and in the other he holds a box, lid open and revealing donuts.
Today he’s wearing a suit, which normally dictates the worst days. It means he’s going to court later. The only plus side to this is that I am graced by his presence in a tailored suit. It’s like sex just wandered into the room. With donuts.
Be still my heart.
“Morning, Nia,” he says, gearing his leg up to knock the door shut again. He places the items on my desk, on top of papers that definitely did not need donut glaze on them. I dig them out from underneath the sticky box and put them aside. “Whoops,” he says with a shrug.
“Thanks for that.” I take a strawberry-coated donut from out of the box and then look around for somewhere to put it. Finding nothing convenient, I place the glazed treat on a blank piece of paper next to me. “Did you forget plates?”
“Can’t have it all,” Ian says with a chuckle before settling himself down on the chair across from me.
“And you didn’t bring your laptop?” I ask. I shouldn’t be shocked he comes unprepared, as this is not a new thing. At least he brought breakfast.
“Nah,” he says before poking his index finger to his temple. “It’s all in here.”
“Every single law?” I deadpan. He smirks, slightly lifting the corner of his mouth. It creates a small crease beside his lip.
“Try me.”
I roll my eyes and print out a few emails I’ve saved, walking him through the evidence I’ve accrued for the case so far and communicating potential risks and items of concern. His head is angled at the wall beside him as he nods slowly, soaking all the information in. I can see the wheels turning in his head. I can also see that his hair is perfectly curled at the ends with a hint of styling gel still in it. He’s started trimming it shorter on the sides. And did he shave today too?
“So, what are we concerned about?” he asks after a moment of silence.
I exhale. If only he could pay attention. “Were you even listening?”
“I heard every word, but my question is, what is the concern? He has no case.”
“He was terminated with a disability,” I say, repeating myself with irritation. “We have paperwork from his physician a week before he was terminated. We also have performance reviews stating he’s been underperforming and unreliable, but they’re outdated.”
“But he wasn’t fired for the disability,” he corrects. “And that’s the case his lawyers are presenting.”
He’s smart, and it’s so darn attractive that I might curl into a ball and die.
Ian’s eyes shift to the wall behind me, and after a moment, he leans forward. “Is that your name?” he asks, pointing. I turn around to see that he’s looking at my college diploma. I framed my Bachelor of Arts in Sociology, as well as my Master of Science in Human Resource Management. On both of them is my full name: Apollonia Smith.
“Yes,” I say, turning back to look at him.
“That’s Greek,” he says. I nod. “But you’re not Greek.” I nod again. “Doesn’t that name mean ‘destroyer’?”
“Okay, why are you analyzing my name?” I ask.
He shrugs and sticks out his bottom lip. “No reason. Just seems weird you’d have a Greek first name. Although—” he laughs, “the meaning is accurate.”
While my parents may have pegged my future controlling personality with absolute accuracy, I’m pretty sure my very non-Greek mother simply lost a bet to my also incredibly non-Greek father when it came to naming their bouncing baby girl. By the time you’re birthing your fifth kid, I guess you run out of ideas and disregard compassion for your child’s elementary school well-being, but hey, I’m not bitter or anything.
“Thanks?” I say. “My dad is a history teacher. He thought it was a good, strong name for a woman.”
“I like strong women,” Ian says, picking out a donut for himself and taking an arrogant bite out of it. How can a man take an arrogant bite, you ask? Just trust me. He does.
“That’s inappropriate,” I say, reaching to take the printed emails back from him.
“How so?” He cocks his head to the side in innocence and tightens his grip on the papers, causing me to jerk it out of his hand.
“We’re co-workers,” I say.
“I wasn’t talking about you, though,” he responds. “Plus, I have a girlfriend, so that automatically negates any additional connotation.”
I feel sorry for the sad girl who’s stuck with Ian and his personality, but my stomach also shifts a little. Maybe it’s because I notice that, yes, he did shave. I want to run my hand over his jawline…
“Who’s the lucky lady?” I ask.
“Well, now, that’s inappropriate,” he sa
ys with a smile.
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” He laughs. “Lighten up, Apollo.”
“Never call me that again.”
“I’ll try something different next time.”
I think he throws me a wink, but honestly, I’m unsure. I clear my throat and stack the papers, setting them to the side.
He picks up his coffee to sip it and hisses as it hits his lips. “Too hot.”
This elicits a small smile from me—completely involuntary—and I pick my own coffee up, cradling it in my hands and lightly blowing on the lid’s opening.
“Are you dating anyone?” he asks over the top of his cup. I can see the edge of his smile peeking out, and I want to change the subject. In fact, I know I should. Talking about dating situations is a big no-no. Additionally, talking about dating situations with a good-looking, confident man like Ian is completely off limits. Well, maybe my HR training didn’t exactly specify that, but I’m drawing my own line in the sand.
“Let’s get back to the issue at hand, shall we?” I say, narrowing my eyes, but he leans forward, and I can tell he has a different idea in mind.
“You aren’t, are you?”
“I am not talking about my dating life”—or lack thereof—“with you.”
“What happened, Apollo? Who hurt you?”
“This isn’t appropriate.”
“Apparently nothing is.”
“Nothing with you.” The statement slips out before I can stop it, which catches me off guard. But, true to form, Ian doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he says.
“Can we please focus on this case? I’m busy today and can’t deal with you this early on a Monday.”
He chuckles. “Sure thing, Apollo.”
“What did I say about calling me that?”
“Right. Sorry, Polly.”
12
Nia
Present day
Ramona insists we all go to a bridesmaid brunch the next morning, and I am more than happy to leave the hotel and go to a place that is any distance away from Ian.
To say last night was a disaster would be an understatement. And to think—I was actually sort of getting used to his presence again. But, in true Ian form, he opened his mouth and said something ridiculous and inconsiderate. Sometimes good looks simply can’t save a person.
The bell above the door dings when we walk into the breakfast eatery. It resembles just about every other restaurant in the local area: lots of seashells, wicker chairs, and a general musk of seaweed and coconuts—though that might be artificial. Are there even coconuts here? Do they put it in the vents and just let it waft around the seaside?
I fully expected Ramona to greet us with shirts saying #BridesmaidBrunch, but I was happily surprised to find her with only the black bag of stuff I dropped by her room yesterday. I made sure to take the dirty movie out and slip that under my pillow. Though now that I think about it, I wonder if housekeeping will find it. I exhale.
Grace settles in her seat with her eyebrows drawn in. “You okay, Nia?” she asks.
“Yeah, perfect.” I breathe out with a forced smile. The corner of her mouth tugs into a half-hearted attempt at returning the gesture, but her concern is apparent. I don’t even know how I feel. Upset? Angry? Flustered? Well, I have a porno in my bedroom that I bought due to pressure from a handsome man who makes me want to stab my eyes out. Well, maybe not my eyes since he’s pretty easy on them, but ugh, my emotions are too much for me right now. I’m a walking Cathy cartoon.
“How did yesterday go?” Grace asks.
“Ooh, yes!” Ramona says, pulling her own chair up to the sticky table, which I’m already consciously making an effort to not allow my elbows to rest on. This place oozes syrup from every crevice—the walls, the chairs, the tabletop. Even after the hostess wipes it down with a rag, the remnants of the syrupy meal prior to ours is glued to the table, and no amount of scrubbing with an equally sticky, damp, mop-water rag is going to rid us of its almighty reign.
I place a napkin in my lap. “Fine.”
“If you don’t tell me you’re the best of friends, I want nothing to do with either of you,” Grace says with a joking smile.
“It’s impossible to be best friends with Ian,” I say, glancing over to Ramona in hopes that she isn’t offended, but she’s already nodding her head solemnly in agreement.
“It is known,” she says, patting my knee with her eyes still closed, as if in prayer.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” I start, trying to defend him. I’m not sure why—he doesn’t deserve my defense after last night. But, admittedly, okay, sure, I had a teensy bit of fun with him prior to his asshole behavior. “He’s okay, but he’s still infuriating.”
“I’ll take that rather than you guys’ constant hate-fest,” Grace says.
“I’m sorry,” I respond. “He opens his mouth and I just—rrg!” I shake my fist in anger, and Ramona busts out laughing.
“Welcome to my life,” she says, wrapping her hair up in a haphazard fluffy bun.
“I’m sure being greeted by him after your car broke down wasn’t the best,” Grace says. I forget how absolutely wonderful she can be behind that fiery exterior.
I wave my hand. “No, don’t even apologize. I should be thanking you for the trip.”
“Damn right,” Grace says with a laugh, scooting the new water toward her and ordering us a round of mimosas, specifically making a point to order a fourth.
“Who is joining us?” I ask, looking toward the door.
“Oh, my cousin Corinne. She’s the third bridesmaid,” Grace says. “I didn’t want a lot of bridesmaids, but I would feel weird if she wasn’t here.”
“Oh, you’ll love her, Nia,” Ramona says. “She’s really interesting. Blonde like you. Very, very Khaleesi.”
“How can someone be ‘very Khaleesi’?” I’m suddenly aware that my Game of Thrones knowledge is lacking, and I can’t help but feel judged by Ramona’s gawking stare.
“Shame, shame, shame!”
“Okay, enough with the references,” Grace says, batting down Ramona’s hand, which looks as if it’s ringing a large bell at my forehead. “Oh, there she is!” Grace says, getting out of her chair and rushing toward the woman walking into the restaurant.
She looks strikingly similar to me with light blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, a braid trailing up the side. Her eyes, unlike mine, are remarkably blue. They’re not reminiscent of Ian’s ice blue, but they’re vibrant and captivating. She wears a long, flowing skirt and a tan crop top with a purple bralette peeking through. She immediately embraces Grace.
“Corinne!” Ramona screams.
Before I know it, they’re hugging, I’m being hugged, and it’s just one giant squealing hug-fest.
“It’s so great to meet you!” she says. “Not at all Greek like I thought you’d be!”
“It’s the name,” I say.
“Love the name,” she responds, swatting her hand at me as she sits.
Of course she’s the sweetest person alive.
“Do you go by Polly?” she asks. Memories of Ian from last night begin drifting back. I have to exhale to push my angry thoughts to the dark corners of my brain.
“Nia, actually,” I correct with a fake smile. She does not deserve your anger, you jerk. Tone it down.
“Oh, sorry!” She grins sweetly. “I’m sure you get that mistake all the time.”
Ramona lets out a sharp laugh. “Ian’s the culprit for that.”
“Ian!” Corinne practically squeals, clapping her hands together. “Is he coming?” My heart rate increases at her obvious joy that he is present, but why? I am much too old to be playing comparison games with another woman. My feminist bones are mad at myself for even flirting with the idea.
“He’s at the beach with the guys,” Ramona says. “He’ll be so excited to see you again!”
“Oh
, how long has it been?” Corinne says wistfully, her eyes glancing toward the ceiling. “Three years? Four?”
What does that mean? How do they know each other? Do they have a history? What does she know that I don’t? Admittedly, probably a lot. I only know him as co-worker, lawyer man Ian. She probably knows him on a much deeper level, a more personal one. I gulp to keep my stupid irritation at this cute girl from invading my mind.
“It’s definitely been a while,” Grace agrees. I’m about to ask how Corinne and Ian know each other, but Grace is already taking the newly arrived mimosas and lifting hers. “Thanks for coming, you guys. I know Cameron and I are a lot of responsibility sometimes. We’re a mess and a half, but it means a lot that you’re on this journey with us.”
“Ew, gross,” Ramona says. “Journey.” She scrunches her nose and gulps down half of her flute before we can even toast. Grace clinks her glass against Ramona’s with probably a bit more force than is necessary.
“Your love is beautiful,” Corinne says. “We’re happy to be a part of it and to be cringing at your cheesiness together.”
“Hear, hear!” Ramona says, clinking her half-full glass with the rest of our untouched ones.
They spend the rest of the morning downing bottomless mimosas, which I’m fairly sure get less and less champagne as time goes on, but I’m continuing to drink my water. Grace seems to be on the same page as me, nursing water the entire morning as well. I’ve never been one for heavy drinking, and I’m sure even two small mimosas would have me knocked out by the end of the afternoon.
Corinne and Ramona have settled into a giggle frenzy by the time we’re heading back to the hotel. I escort the women up the elevator because they all insist on changing and going to the beach. When we walk down the hall, I hear a closing door and see Ian wiggling the handle of his room to ensure that it’s locked behind him. He’s much too handsome in his simple gray tee and striped beach shorts. Slightly below the hemline is the puckered edge of his scar, and even higher up is the section of the bathing suit that is leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. It almost angers me to realize I’m staring at his crotch. Why did my stupid eyes immediately drift there?
