Cocktails on the Beach

by Helen Hardt

  He whistles. “Impressive.”

  “Not really,” I say, suddenly shy.

  “Really.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not a bother.”

  He reaches for my empty shot glass and his hand brushes against mine. An electric jolt passes through my body, like the shock you get when you drag your feet on the carpet and touch something made of metal. He freezes and looks at me. I think he felt it this time, too. I play with the slender stem of my martini glass, sliding my fingers up and down.

  He splashes some champagne into my shot glass and sets it on the bar. His hand brushes against mine again, longer this time.

  “What’s a lad from Ireland doing working in a bar in Ibiza?”

  “Ah, sure, look. That’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “How about I tell ye the abbreviated version right now and the longer version over dinner tomorrow?”

  Oh fuck, fuck yeah.

  “Sure.” I take a sip of my martini. “Or I could buy you a drink when you’re off tonight.”

  “I would like that, but I don’t drink.”

  “An Irishman who doesn’t drink? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  He laughs, but something flickers in his eyes—pain, embarrassment, irritation—and I instantly regret my words. Nice, Marlow. Nothing like throwing down a politically incorrect insult to attract a gorgeous guy.

  “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  “Go on with ye.”

  He shrugs it off, but I sense my thoughtless comment cut deeper than he is letting on.

  “What do you do for fun in Ibiza?”

  “I surf and go dancing.

  “You’ve got moves?”

  “I’m an Irishman, gorgeous. There aren’t many moves I can’t make.”

  Okay. I see you, Boo.

  “Oh, really,” I laugh. “That’s a bold claim. Don’t be surprised if I ask to see the proof.”

  “Not a bother.”

  We stare at each other until I am practically vibrating with sexual tension. I wonder if he can feel what he’s doing to my body.

  “I am a reporter. I like a good story. Let’s hear yours.”

  “Oh, ye know. The usual story.” His tone is chill, but the arms crossed defensively, the muscle working in his handsome jaw, tell me he doesn’t feel chill. “When ye grow up in a village with only five hundred residents—and loads of them family members—it can feel like the world is closing in on ye. Like if ye don’t break free ye’ll be trapped there forever, seeing the same faces, listening to the same stories.”

  “I get it.”

  “Do ye?”

  “No,” I say, laughing. “I grew up in Los Angeles, population four million super shallow, super self-impressed people who are too busy chasing fame or the almighty dollah dollah bill to slow down and tell a story.”

  “Is that why ye became a professional storyteller, then?”

  Wow! I love words and stringing them together in a way that entertains a reader, but I never considered my deeper motivation for being a reporter. Fionn’s dead on the money. The best part of my job is the interview, when I sit face-to-face, coaxing a story from a stranger.

  “You’re more than just a hot bod and a pretty face, aren’t you?” I say.

  He laughs. “Was that a compliment or an insult?”

  “A compliment. Definitely.”

  “So, ye think I have a pretty face?”

  I want to tell him he has the face of an angel and a body built for sin. I want to say I could dive into his blue eyes, lose myself in their depths. Wait! What in the Hallmark movie is happening to me? Lose myself in his eyes?

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Never,” he says, grinning. “I won’t let your comment about my—what did you call it again? Oh, yeah. Hot bod. I won’t let that comment go to my head either.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’ve fallen for you.”

  He gasps and he presses his hands to his heart. “Ye mean ye haven’t? I’ve fallen for ye, Marlow Donnelly.”

  I roll my eyes and pull my credit card out of my pocket. “You’re a shameless charmer.”

  “Guilty as charged, but something tells me ye bring the shameless charmer out in every man ye meet, love.”

  “Careful, Irish.” I stand. “You don’t want your compliments to go to my head, do you?”

  “No. Your heart.”

  Fuck me! He’s good.

  “Shameless.”

  I hand him my credit card to settle my tab, but he pushes it away. I slip my AmEx back into my pocket.

  “Thank you.”

  “Come here. Tell me your room number.”

  “Ten twenty-one.”

  “Ten twenty-one. I’ll call for you tomorrow at six o’clock. Dress for dancing.”

  I walk out of the bar onto the empty terrace, shivering as a balmy breeze blows over my bare arms. Damn! That Irishman has me so hot and bothered I’m actually perspiring. Beads of sweat started forming between my breasts the moment he said, “I’ve fallen for ye, Marlow Donnelly.” His accent made the sweet admission sound dirty, sexy dirty. I lift my thick hair off my shoulders and let the breeze cool my damp neck. Get a serious grip, girl. So what if a fit-as-fuck Irish bartender flirted with you? He probably flirts with everyone.

  I’m on the path that leads to my room when I hear the thud of footsteps behind me. My stomach clenches and a dozen thoughts race through my mind. What if it’s Fionn? I hope it’s Fionn. It’s not Fionn. I need to get laid because I am acting thirsty.

  “Marlow.”

  I turn around and my stomach clenches again as soon as I see him standing on the path, the moonlight making his chiseled face even more handsome, if that’s possible. He closes the distance between us in two long-legged strides. We’re close enough for me to smell the soap on his skin. Remember that scene in From Here to Eternity when Burt Lancaster is making love to Deborah Kerr on the beach with waves washing over them? That’s what Fionn smells like. Sex on the beach.

  He leans down and presses his lips to mine. A tender kiss that makes my knees as mushy as overripe passion fruit. I want to press my hands to his chest, feel the solidness of him, but he stops kissing me before I can make my body follow my thoughts.

  “I have wanted to do that all night,” he whispers in my ear. “Goodnight, Marlow.”

  And then he’s gone, and I’m standing alone in the moonlight, wondering if I just imagined the feel of his lips on mine.

  6

  Game Day Sangria

  “Marlow.”

  I turn around slowly. My breath catches in my throat. Fionn is standing behind me, shirtless and even sexier than I remember. He wraps his arm around my waist, pulls me close, and kisses me. I move into him, melt into him. I thrust my tongue into his mouth. Bolder this time. My breasts against his rippled chest. His hands cupping my bum. His cock throbbing against my stomach. My hand aching to feel the weight of him, suddenly sliding into his waistband, my fingers wrapping around his—

  “Marlow. Hello?” Brandy waves her hand in front of my face. “Are you okay? Your body is here, but your mind is somewhere else.”

  “Jet lag. Sorry.”

  The truth? I’ve been in my head since Fionn kissed me. I replayed the moment in my mind like a video on loop all night, fantasizing different endings, playing with myself until I fell asleep exhausted, frustrated. I stay in my head through breakfast and on the walk to the ballroom where the workshop is being held.

  I assumed the hotel would use a partition to create a smaller, more intimate space for the handful of attendees wanting to exorcise their relationship demons. There are more possessed singles than I realized. The ballroom is packed. There must be three hundred people waiting for Ian to splash some holy water on them and drive the desperate from their dating lives. Who knew there were that many English-speaking singles with enough scratch to spend a week at an exclusive resort, listening to wisdom bei
ng dispensed by a twenty-six-year-old relationship expert, who is—no shade here—still single?

  A stage stretches across the front of the ballroom. It's designed to look like a multi-dimensional set, with a series of screens layered in the back. Focused pink, white, and red lighting gives it a slick, theatrical feel. The only seats available are located in the first two rows. Apparently, there aren’t many eager-to-impress overachievers in this crowd.

  “Ohmygod!” Brandy clutches my elbow. “There aren’t any seats left.”

  “Sure, there are. Up front.”

  She squeaks. Literally squeaks. “We can’t sit up there.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too close to the stage”—she lowers her voice to a reverential whisper—“to Ian.”

  “Good!” I fix her with an encouraging smile. “You forked over some serious cheese for this retreat. You might as well get everything out of it you can. What better way than to see Ian Chapman up close and personal?”

  She squeaks again.

  “Come on,” I say.

  Flipping my hair over my shoulders, I walk up the middle aisle before fraidy cat has a chance to run back to her room. I reach the middle of the first row, shrug out of the tight-fitting jacket that matches my strapless jumpsuit, and toss it over my chair. I’m already sitting and patting the empty chair beside me by the time Brandy arrives, her shoulders hunched to her ears, a fine line of perspiration beading her forehead.

  “That was awful.” She collapses onto the chair beside me.

  “I know.” I squeeze her hand. “You did great, though.”

  The lights slowly dim. The hum of conversation fades away. When we’re sitting in a dark, silent ballroom, the screens over the stage flash black-and-white images of random singles interspersed with clips of Ian dispensing his wisdom.

  You have to heal the past if you hope to thrive in the future.

  Reprogram yourself so happiness is your default setting.

  Building your core is the only way you can have a fit relationship.

  Personal transformation is the first step to a perfect pairing.

  By the time the stage lights flicker on and cast the ballroom in a happy, rosy glow, I’m nearly as amped up as the hundreds of hopeful romantics hooting and clapping around me. Ian is such a dynamic, empathetic speaker I find it easy to focus on him for the duration of the two-hour workshop. The last forty-five minutes are enthralling. Ian brings random singles on stage and does that whole Jedi mind-reading trick thing he did on me. Straight up? I’m blown away by his ability to ask the right questions and then accurately describe the baggage keeping each single from moving onto a healthy relationship. One hundred and twenty minutes of the Love Guru pumping his players up like Knute Rockne giving his Fighting Irish a pep talk before the big game. I expect him to turn to the audience and say, “They can’t lick us!” and for them to respond with a resounding, “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  I only think about Fionn once or twice throughout the workshop, but as soon as Ian bounds from the stage, I’m back on that damned path, wrapping my legs around the Irishman’s narrow waist. I’m lost in my dirty girl thoughts when someone taps me on the shoulder. My skin tingles and I wonder if Fionn is standing behind me.

  “Marlow Donnelly!”

  I turn around and just like that my thoughts shift from my Oh to my Ex. Terrell Rose is standing in a beam of pink light, like I’m a silly eighteen-year-old looking at her first love through her Dolce & Gabbana rose-colored sunglasses.

  “Terrell Rose.” I blame that mind-reading, ghosts-of-boyfriends-past-conjuring Ian Chapman and his exorcising workshop for this moment. I have been to New York dozens of times in the last eight years and never once have I crossed paths with my first love. “I can’t believe you remember my name.”

  He pulls back like I delivered an uppercut to his whiskered chin. I’d be a liar if I told you it didn’t feel good to verbally knock the cocky grin off his handsome face. I’m just so pissed. Our reunion wasn’t supposed to go down like this—at some sad singles retreat, with him looking like he’s People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, his tight-fitting black tee clinging to every damned muscle, a two-carat solitaire sparkling in one ear, his espresso skin as unlined and yummy as ever.

  Brandy clears her throat.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I smile at Brandy before returning my gaze to Terrell. “Where are my manners? Brandy, this is the man who tossed my love away like it was a deflated scrimmage ball.”

  Brandy squeaks.

  “I deserved that.” Terrell looks deep into my eyes before turning to Brandy. “Hello, Brandy. I’m Terrell Rose, the idiot who let this beautiful woman walk out of his life. Pleased to meet you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Terrell,” Brandy says.

  “Good to see you again, Terrell.” I turn away.

  “Wait!” Terrell grabs my arm. “You can’t just leave.”

  “That’s not what you said eight years ago.”

  I hate that I sound like a bitter bitch. Bitter never looks good on a woman, not even when she’s rocking an on-point jumpsuit and deep cut décolleté Louboutins. For eight years, Terrell was a ghost, trapped in the dusty attic of my memory. Sometimes, when I’d drink too much and get all in my feels, I’d mentally climb the stairs to that attic, unlock the door, and confront Terrell’s ghost. I’d ask him why he stopped loving me. I’d tell him about the nights I fell asleep staring at my phone, willing him to call.

  “Can we go for a walk?” he asks.

  “Sorry.” I shake his hand from my arm. “I’m not an attendee. I’m here to write an article about Ian Chapman. I’m a reporter. For a magazine.”

  “I know.” He smiles.

  “You do?”

  “I was flying to Chicago a few years ago. Conceit was one of the magazines in the seatback. I was bored so I started flipping through the pages, and there it was, an article about the architect who designed Leonardo DiCaprio’s Malibu beach house written by Marlow Donnelly.” He’s grinning now, the same way he used to grin at me when I would show up to a game wearing a barely-there minidress and thigh-high boots—his favorite. “I was so proud when I saw your byline. I ordered every back issue I could get and read all of your pieces.”

  No. No. No. No! He doesn’t get to grab my arm, to look at me with his soulful eyes, to say he’s proud of me. He lost those rights when he told me to get out of his hospital room, to forget about him, that I was just a college fling. I want to shrug off his praise like I shrugged off my jacket, but learning that my first and only love has read all of my articles warms me more than the sweltering Ibiza sun.

  “Um.” Brandy shifts from one foot to the other. “I have to…go…make a…phone call.”

  Brandy is gone before I have a chance to stop her.

  “Let me buy you lunch,” Terrell says.

  “No, really”—I shake my head—“I have to get started on my article.”

  “Dinner, then?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to eat, Marlow.”

  “I plan to,” I say.

  “Then have dinner with me.”

  “Sorry, I can’t.”

  “Okay, how about you let me buy you a sangria?”

  I imagine how it would look to Fionn if I walked into the bar with Terrell.

  “I have a date.”

  He grins again. “You do, huh?”

  “Yes, I do!” I snap. “Believe it or not, I can pull.”

  “Oh”—he gazes slowly up my body, from my heels to my perfectly styled hair, and everything in between—“I have no doubt you can pull, Mad Girl.”

  Mad Girl is the name he called me when he discovered my name was Marlow Ann Donnelly. Later, he said it was because he was “mad about the girl.” I look at his grin, remember the way he wore my initials on the back of his helmet, and a smile tugs the corners of my mouth.

  “There she is!” He claps his hands. “There’s my girl. I knew you were in there som
ewhere under that sexy suit and serious expression.”

  “I am not your girl, Terrell. Not anymore.”

  “You will be.” He winks and walks away.

  7

  Irish Buck

  “You’re a smashing bit of stuff,” Fionn whispers, kissing my cheek.

  I’m wearing a black lace mini dress with a deep V-neck, short sleeves, a cinched waist, and short-ruffled skirt. A wisp of fabric more than a dress. My legs are bare except for the shimmering bronze body oil I applied after my bath. The only things keeping me from being naked under my dress are a spritz of Flowerbomb and a strappy thong. I’m bringing my A-game for the Irish player.

  “Thanks.” I press a hand to my stomach to still the wild fluttering that started the moment I caught a whiff of his cologne—exotic and spicy. “You’re rather smashing yourself, Irish.”

  If smashing translates to stud I’ve spent the entire day thinking about riding, then yes, by all means, Fionn O’Connell is smashing, crazy smashing. He’s wearing dark, skinny summer-weight trousers rolled at the ankle, a crisp white button-down unbuttoned just enough to see a tantalizing hint of his tanned chest, and a black Rolex Submariner on his wrist. His Italian buttery-soft leather loafers are money. I wrote an article about Federico Santoni, the leather shoemaker in Bologna known for making luxury loafers like the kind Fionn is wearing, and since then I’ve had a bit of a thing for men in bespoke shoes.

  Fionn rests his hand on the small of my back and guides me out of the hotel.

  “I’ve made reservations at a new restaurant,” he says, hailing a cab. “I hope you like curry.”

  “I do,” I say. “Curry. Bold move in Ibiza.”

  “Bold moves are the only kind of moves I make, love.”

  Oh, fuck, fuck yeah!

  A taxi pulls to a stop. Fionn opens the door and steps aside. I slide into the back seat and he climbs in beside me, his thigh pressing against mine—a warm, muscular promise of the bold moves I hope he intends to make later.

  The curry restaurant, it turns out, is less than a mile from the hotel, but the Irishman didn’t want me to walk in my heels. I’m trying not to go all head over red-heeled Louboutins for Fionn, but he’s making it difficult with his Irish Coffee composition, a perfect combination of frothy whipped sweetness and heady full-bodied sinfulness.