by Ember Leigh
Maybe that should be my motto for the whole damn week.
“Oh, you have friends!” Keko exclaims a moment later, looking over at me with that devilish brand of excitement glinting in his eye. His pitch-black hair is plastered across his forehead in a hilarious windblown sweep. “Well yes, you should have them come over. It turns out we have friends too.”
“The more the merrier, I always say.” Elliot’s laying the British charm on thick now, adding in a half-bow. His British accent got thicker since he started talking to the blonde.
“And what about you?” The blonde heads my way, a dimple flashing in her tanned cheek. I catch the lilt of her accent—something Scandinavian I bet—as she blatantly checks me out. I’m shirtless on a beach, sure, but you’d think she might try to gawk less at my pecs. Even if they are pretty killer.
“Uh, yeah. I’m a friend.” I flash her a grin, the type of smile that I know girls eat up.
See, I’m part of the Daly family. This shit is second-nature to us. I can pick a woman up with five words and a well-placed smirk. I could make this blonde my Aruba girl faster than Keko could ask her where her friends are from. My brothers are pussy hounds, and they shaped me in their image. By the time I hit adolescence, my oldest brothers Dom and Grayson had already perfected the art. All I had to do was sit back and lap up the lessons.
Yet none of them realized that I'd become the resident expert. That’s what world travel taught me, at least.
“You look a little weird,” the blonde says, narrowing her eyes playfully. She wants me—it’s written all over her face. She zeroes in on me like a laser beam.
“Was that a compliment?” I tease. She’s making this too easy. I can have her putty in my hands within five minutes.
But do I want to? Undecided.
She laughs, trailing the wide-brimmed hat behind her as she heads back toward Keko and Elliot. She shouts something in Finnish or Norwegian as she walks back up the beach, gesturing for us to follow. This is definitely the type of situation where I would follow. But a deadpan voice cuts through my evening beach reverie.
“You know, she looks like the type of girl who’s going to lead you to your untimely demise.”
I turn and find Nova and Amelia behind me. Nova has her long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, and the breeze is plastering her dress to her full figure. All of my comebacks dissolve on my tongue as I behold her. The year and odd months apart has done her good, but I can’t put my finger on what exactly has changed. She’s fresher, somehow. Probably snarkier. And sexy in a way I don’t remember noticing before.
“Like, you know those movies where some pretty girl lures unsuspecting tourists into an organ-harvesting trap,” she goes on, when my silence must have convinced her I didn’t understand. “I’ve seen it happen in the jungle before. The beach is another popular location. You just might want to watch out.”
“I’m staying back, mate,” Rhys says, because of course he would. He’s about to get married to his own beach blonde. “Not because of the organ harvesting, mind you.”
“That wild pig didn’t seem to be a good sign either,” Nova adds unnecessarily.
I glance at the retreating figures of Keko and Elliot. I should follow them because it’s what I do. It’s who I am. Follow the trail for the biggest adventure. Always hop to the next experience, the next woman, the next flight.
“You sound a lot like someone who has insider information about the black-market organ trade,” I tell Nova.
“No, no. Not personal experience,” she clarifies. “Not yet.”
I stifle the snicker that wants to escape. I must not confirm Nova’s funniness to her face. After all, we’re in a stand-off, even if neither of us exactly know why.
“Well, thanks for the advice. I’m going to go sacrifice my kidneys now.” I tip an imaginary hat to Nova, Rhys, and Amelia, and then begin my sandy trek along the shoreline toward my friends.
Even though there’s a weird yank in my gut telling me to stay back.
It’s not because of the organ harvesting. It’s because of Nova.
But hell if I’ll listen to anything she has to tell me. If I listen to her, then I run the risk of getting to know her. And if I get to know her, I might really like her.
And that doesn’t fit into my five-year plan. I don’t want to fall in like with her, or with anyone. My life is set up to achieve my specific goals: constant travel, a fascinating life, and finally obtaining that elusive success that every single fucking person in my life—and especially my family—has achieved except for me.
In order to do that?
I need to catch flights, not feelings.
Chapter 3
NOVA
Warm, late-evening sunlight bathes me in a golden pool of perfection. I have not moved from this spot on the charcoal gray chaise longue in twenty minutes, because I am in Aruba.
“Nova, babe. Let’s go.”
Amelia’s super-chill voice breaks through my sunlit reverie. Sure, I might have left late spring in upstate New York, but compared to this island getaway, my little hometown not that far from the Canadian border might as well be in the icy throes of winter. I heave a long, contented sigh, grinning up at my best friend.
“Can we move here?”
She snorts. “Trust me, Rhys and I have already started checking out property here.”
“Thinking a second home?” Rhys is one of those ambiguously wealthy people. Come to think of it, so is Amelia. In fact, pretty much everyone in their bridal party is well-off without seeming to work much. I feel like the lone blue-collar plebe who’s just trying to prove to the elites that I’m like them. I would never admit to Amelia how long it would have taken me to save up the funds for this trip—which means I’m extra grateful they bought my ticket for me. She told me that footing the bill for my flight and room was still cheaper than bringing out a different photographer for the wedding, which allowed her to shoot two birds with one camera. My words, not hers.
“Well, just trying to get a feel for the markets in different places,” she says breezily, in the same way a tastefully wealthy fifty-something might comment on designer watches. “We can’t decide where we want to settle yet.”
“I love that you guys can even consider anything that isn’t on your parents’ backwoods property,” I say as she leads me toward our next scheduled activity. I was given a bridal party itinerary upon arrival, but it’s already been swallowed up into the exploded luggage in my fuchsia—not teal—tiki hut.
Amelia sends me a sympathetic look. She knows how much my parents dislike the idea of me venturing past the New York state lines. “What are they gonna do when you get married and, I dunno, want to move out of their backyard?”
“I’m not sure they’ll let me,” I say ruefully, squinting into the painfully beautiful scenes as we stroll along the boardwalk. I don’t add that it’s unlikely I’ll ever get married. Something must have happened generations ago to curse me in the romantic interest department, and I don’t know enough witches to undo the spell. Yet.
“Get married or move away?”
“Move away,” I clarify. “They definitely want me to get married. I think they’re arranging my wedding as we speak.”
Amelia snorts. “Wait, did I miss something? You weren’t dating anyone, last I knew.”
“I’m not dating anyone. That’s the thing.” I run my finger along the stitched seam of the little purse slung across my body. “But they really want me to date Jimmy.”
“Jimmy?” The name sounds dull on her lips, which part of me wants to read as a sign.
“We went to high school together. We’ve always been friends, but we’ve been hanging out more. So obviously my parents think we should get married.”
Amelia snorts. “Right.”
“I think they’re terrified that their dating-challenged daughter won’t have any other opportunities to become a Mrs.,” I say. “Which, joke’s on them, even if I do get married? I’m not changing my las
t name.”
“You guys should create your own last name,” Amelia gushes.
“Who, me and Jimmy? No, we just play pool together. I’m never going to, you know, play with his other balls.”
Amelia grips my arms as the laugh rockets out of her. “What’s wrong with his balls?”
“I don’t know. They’re probably fine. I plan on never knowing the truth about them. I’m just not physically attracted to them. I mean him.”
Admitting this seems sacrilegious somehow. How could a woman like me, with so few dating prospects, turn down the first man in my post-college life who has shown a real, long-term interest in me? I must be an ingrate. I must be demented. I must be unforgivably stupid.
That’s what society tells me. And my family sometimes hints at this with less harsh words. But dammit, I want to at least feel a flutter of sexual attraction to a man before I commit my life to him.
If only I could put Weston’s abs on Jimmy’s body. And probably Weston’s face, too. At least his insanely blue eyes. But also those powerful thighs, which look amazing in damp board shorts that get plastered to his legs. And his collarbone. For some reason, the man has a sexy collarbone.
So basically all of Weston’s physical appearance in place of Jimmy’s, and then maybe I’d consider forever with him. As long as Weston’s personality didn’t somehow get attached to Jimmy’s body, too. Because that would be a dealbreaker. Weston has already drawn the line in the sand, literally and figuratively, in the five hours I’ve been on this island. He’s already chosen some beach blonde over me. Even though I do not want him to choose me, I desperately want him to choose me.
“That’s the thing about relationships, right? You can be with the greatest guy in the world,” Amelia says, “but if he doesn’t light your fire, then you’re just dating your brother.”
“Jesus. I never thought about it like that, but thank you for making it creepy.”
Amelia giggles exactly in the way a mischievous fairy might. Even though I am profoundly disgruntled with my life back home, right now, everything seems right in the world. This is the power of a best friend. And, you know, a beach paradise.
“Maybe you’ll find some outrageously sexy man this week,” Amelia says encouragingly. “Love is in the air, you know. Rhys and I will leave the island married, but you could leave the island engaged.”
“Ha! If only this resort’s boyfriend menu was half as good as their cocktail menu.”
My phone dings with a new message. Of course, it is Jimmy. Because I’m sure he could feel me not wanting to be with him from a thousand miles away.
JIMMY: I miss you already. Is that weird?
No, it’s not weird. Because I also miss my friends when they’re not around. But Jimmy means it with an extra level of romance baked in. He’s been giving me moony eyes and lingering hugs the past few months. I know he’s trying to be a gentleman, to take things slow. But part of me wishes he’d stop beating around the bush so I could just squash this thing. The other part of me is whispering that nobody else will ever want me like he does, so I should just say yes and run with it.
I don’t know which truth to abide by: the truth that tells me I’m exactly as ugly and small-town as I’ve ever believed, or the truth that tells me I should hold out for an amazing life I’ve only ever dreamt of in secret.
So far, all signs are pointing to the former. Especially my parents. The debt load that my family carries isn’t just crushing, it’s glacial: an enormous harbinger of a financial Ice Age, which is definitely going to take forever to leave. I have to help out, because how could I not? I’m not going to let my gram starve, even though she eats like a bird and sometimes just chooses Budweiser for dinner. The least attractive part of the whole Jimmy concept is that I think my parents want me to be with him more because of his job. He makes great money in his union job, which would mean more income, and a faster road to shoveling ourselves out of debt.
It’s practically a debtor’s arranged marriage, and if I go through with it someday—a thought that makes me shudder—then so help me God, they better make a Netflix special about my story.
“At the very least, I want this week to be fun for you,” Amelia goes on as we breeze toward a tiki temple in this elaborate maze of beachy huts and outposts. “I know how hard it’s been for you back home since we graduated. Honestly, I just wish you could come travel with Rhys and me.”
Isn’t that the dream? Getting away for more than two weeks every other year. If my finances would allow it, then my parents would disown me for spending my money frivolously. It feels like a brutal cycle. But if I suffocate my dreams just so that I can pay my bills, I might snap one day and shove my car loan booklet into Dad’s woodchipper. I don’t know where the happy medium is.
For now, I’ll continue to sacrifice my time while I try to figure it out.
Amelia pauses at the tiki hut where a big cream-colored sign says BRIDAL INTIMACY. My brows shoot to the heavens.
“Oh, is this the first item on tonight’s agenda?”
“I know the name sounds weird, but it was one of their highest-rated activities. Apparently this intimacy coach is world famous, and she made a cool group bonding class for the wedding parties that come here.”
All of these things sound slightly nerve-wracking but overall pleasant. And as Amelia pulls open the wooden door, an additional layer of pleasantness wafts through the air in the form of exotic incense, something between patchouli and religious temple. Low hums fill the dimly lit hut, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s music playing…and that the hut is nearly filled with participants.
“Welcome, welcome.” The soothing voice of the instructor immediately sets me at ease. Her curious tonality alone is worth international fame. She probably sounds tenth level chill in the middle of a hurricane, too. “You’re just in time. Sit anywhere you like. We have the beautiful blessing of combining two wedding parties this evening!”
So that’s why there are so many people in here. I’m the first from Amelia’s side to arrive on the island, and the bridesmaids aren’t showing up until tomorrow night. From then on, wedding guests will be arriving daily until the big rehearsal dinner on Friday night, followed by however you say the big Saturday event in Dutch.
I sink onto an empty mat, anxiety licking through me. The hut is just shrouded enough that I can’t tell who is who without squinting and peering, but who wants to be the person that inspects the attendees in a chill group class? I’m supposed to be unruffled. So I will be ruffled quietly, while looking at no one.
“Since we’re all here in the spirit of solidifying the futures of two people into one, for two different blessed couples, it seemed fitting that our session this evening would focus on drumming up heat.”
I glance around, wondering if Senorita Chill’s words are making anyone else distantly nervous. Does drumming up heat mean melting into a sweaty puddle?
“Since so much of a wedding is focused on logistics—preparations and flower deliveries and cake arrangements and all of that—I wanted us to take an evening where we could focus on the sensual side of what brought us all here in the first place.”
Actual sweat breaks out on my forehead. The sensual side of what brought us here? It seems like she wants us to watch Rhys and Amelia have sex, which I am not down for.
“Through a focused and intimate group coaching session, the plan is for all of us to channel our love and respect and admiration into a vortex of support for the two couples about to be wed this weekend.”
Phew. Some of my muscles relax. So no group sex.
“Let’s start by pairing up,” Lady Chillax says, and all my relief re-hardens into terror. Elementary school trauma is real, and every school in the nation has that one kid who was always picked last in gym class. Well, that’s me. My unofficial name is Nova AlwaysPickedLast.
While I’m sitting as rigid as a tree trunk, our instructor lights a few more votives, allowing me to catch the features of the people
around me. Murmurs spread through the expansive hut as people begin assessing their intimacy mate. I am too meek to even move. I want to shrivel into my mat and express my adoration for Rhys and Amelia some other way.
“If you are stuck without a partner”—I think she’s talking directly to me now—“let me know and I’ll find you someone. We have an even head count, so everyone will get a partner.”
Great. This feels a lot like my love life, now that I think about it. Just sit here petrified until someone else swoops in to match me off. Maybe this is the sign I’m looking for that I should suck it up and marry Jimmy. Then I can bait Amelia into my own love-and-honor vortex in a different tiki hut in upstate New York.
“Is everyone paired up?” Her voice is the equivalent of the warning beep of a kitchen timer. Time is almost up. I had one task, yet I have accomplished nothing except critically analyze my love life. I begin to raise my hand, and the instructor whooshes toward me.
“Here we are,” she says, gesturing for someone else to come my way. “Last two. If any of you are unfamiliar with your partners, please introduce yourselves. This intimacy exercise is perfectly appropriate for friends, lovers, and even strangers.”
Her words are not consoling, even less so as my new “partner” emerging from the shadows of the well-scented hut turns out to be Weston Daly himself. Everything inside me groans. But a very specific part of me is excited. I choose to ignore that part.
I don’t catch Weston’s expression as he sits beside me, but I do catch his defeated sigh. He doesn’t look at me—I’m sure he’s less than thrilled to have to be near me. I just wish I could let him know I’m even less thrilled than he is.
“Don’t get excited,” he tells me in a low voice. “This was her idea, not mine.”
“I’m shocked you even needed a partner,” I tell him as the instructor weaves her way through paired off couples headed for the front of the hut. “I thought you had a new beach girlfriend.”
