Sea Legs

by Nina Hatch

  The July heat must be getting to my brain. The Mediterranean humidity is definitely getting to my hair, which has formed a frizzy halo atop my head.

  All I’m looking for is a guy who’s stable, tolerable, and appropriate. Someone who won’t embarrass me at corporate functions. Is that too much to ask?

  I guess I’m not exactly one to talk about stable, seeing how I got into the current mess I’m in by acting like an irrational six-year-old who’s jealous she’s not invited to her friend’s make-believe tea party and invents an imaginary friend to cope.

  But after the year I’ve had, who could blame me?

  It turns out my last boyfriend, the very appropriately-selected Connor Brighton — who I like to refer to as the reigning prince of the boring, entitled, premature ejaculators society — was fucking my little sister for almost the entire time we were dating. I probably should have seen the signs earlier, but I was so focused on the future I thought I was setting up with him, that I didn’t find out until I walked in one night to find him jerking off to a picture of her tits on Snapchat. When I confronted my sister about it, instead of apologizing, Emily told me that she and Connor were in love, and that I needed to be more sensitive to her feelings.

  Splendid. Fucking splendid.

  Connor may not have ever made me feel weak in the knees, but I had spent a lot of time vetting him as a suitable candidate, and I couldn’t afford to fall behind any further. According to my five-year plan, I should already be moving up the corporate ladder at Glendon & Howe Financial and on my way to establishing power couple status and reliability with someone in my field.

  I figured the whole thing between Emily and Connor would blow over. I’d regain my bearings and Emily would get bored and flit off to the next shiny object that caught her eye like she always did.

  I just didn’t know that the next shiny object would be an engagement ring the size of Staten Island.

  I remember knowing there was going to be trouble from the minute I walked into my mother’s Upper East Side apartment last Thanksgiving. Emily had insisted that we all eat together: my bitterly divorced mother and father, my passive aggressive aunts and uncles, and my self-righteous cousins, all gathered for a WASPy November nightmare.

  Before I could even take off my coat, Emily pranced into the room. “Connor proposed and we’re getting married!” she sang out, spinning around to take in the general praise and jealousy of everyone assembled.

  I, on the other hand, could only envy the turkey in the oven at that moment.

  I was trying to evade the pitying glances being sent my way as our family converged to fawn over Emily, when my father, tall and stiff, pulled me aside, a thin line of smoke curling out of his cigar.

  “Olivia, I need to talk with you,” he started. Never a good sign. “Your sister tells me you’ve been most unsupportive of her new relationship, and you really need to step up and help her plan this wedding.”

  My mouth fell open in disbelief. This was so like Emily to run to daddy and play the victim. She’s always reminding me of how she has our father tied up in a neat little bow around her pinky finger. I could see the prying eyes of my mother and her sisters pivot toward me, always ready to eavesdrop.

  “Now, I covered for you,” my father continued, seeming to stand up straighter the more I felt like crumbling. “I told Emily you’ve been busy at work, but I don’t think that’s the case either, because I heard from Connor that he got a big promotion at his financial company last month, and I haven’t heard the same from you.”

  There’s a good reason for that, I think.

  Only one week before, I’d been called into the office at Glendon & Howe to be informed that I was being passed over for a promotion this year. I didn’t understand. Even though I hated every moment of being at my job, I was at least as good as my colleagues in terms of performance.

  “You have to tell me, Olivia, is it the fashion thing again? Because we’ve talked about this before. Grandma Imogene said you made that jacket she’s wearing today, and you can’t be wasting any more of your time on all of that.”

  That one stung.

  Right after high school, I’d started at the Fashion Institute. It was the best year of my entire life — even better than I’d dreamed of — but it also meant dealing with my father’s constant admonishments and judgment that my dream of being a fashion designer was an unstable non-plan. One with only risk and no future. A dalliance I could maybe think about once I made my first million.

  After that one year, I took down the sketches of dresses and the magazine clippings of runway looks that I had stuck to my bedroom wall. I transferred to business school the next fall and was quickly recruited to Glendon & Howe right after graduation, but that year in fashion school was the reason I fell behind my peers, and the reason I needed to nail this five-year personal and professional plan.

  The one that I was watching slip through my fingers.

  As I tracked Emily’s sparkly left hand making its way around the room, something stirred me into a blind panic.

  “Our promotions aren’t announced until the spring,” I blurted out, “and I’m in love with the perfect guy.” I was surprised at how easily the lie slipped out of my mouth as all heads swiveled my direction, the expressions of pity now replaced with nodding approval.

  Was the lie petty? Yes. Childish? Absolutely. But lies were like buttery Thanksgiving rolls in our family. Everyone had at least one on their plate, but no one dared to acknowledge them. Keeping up appearances by ignoring both truth and carbs was a Quinn family custom dating back to the Mayflower. Who was I to shirk tradition?

  By pretending I was settled and unaffected by Emily and Connor, I shut down the inauthentic concern everyone seemed to have for me, buying me time and space to get myself reassembled.

  And the thing is, once I told the first lie, the rest came so easily. My make-believe man was rich, handsome, charitable, and perfect. And of course he’ll be at Emily’s wedding, Grandma! My life is fantastic and on-track, so please stop asking! Really, please stop.

  My slapdash plan was working out great…until I forgot to find an actual fake boyfriend.

  I think I was in denial that Emily and Connor’s wedding would really happen. I put in my vacation days for a long weekend, I went to my bridesmaid dress fitting, I booked my flight to Naples with a connecting shuttle to Schiaro — wherever that was — but I saved every receipt, always counting on a refund.

  Two days before my flight, I started getting texts from the family wanting to know my mystery man’s entrée selection and cummerbund size. That’s when I panicked, and that’s where Jordan McCall came in.

  Doughy, drab Jordan McCall, the only one who showed up for last Wednesday night’s financial networking and speed dating round in the basement of St. Patrick’s. There he was, ready to become my knight in shining armor. Or at least be a warm body for an evening.

  But where the fuck was he now? I pick up my phone and punch in his number again, waiting as it rings.

  From our brief conversation last week, he seemed a little neurotic, and maybe a smidge sexist, but despite all that, he was the winner of a free trip to Italy just by showing up when I needed someone and promising that he could memorize a basic script. In return, I had to be his fake girlfriend for any two TBD social events of his choosing. Done deal.

  My call goes to voicemail again.

  Damn it.

  “Signorina?” I turn to see the check-in clerk waving for my attention. “I just got a call from one, Jordan McCall, was it? M-C-C-A-”

  “Yes, I know who you mean,” I say, nostrils flaring. Five-star service my foot.

  “He said to tell you he’s not coming. He’s sorry. He hopes you will still be able to attend his high school reunion next week.”

  I don’t even have words. Evidently, even having a fictitious boyfriend is more trouble than it’s worth.

  I need a drink.

  Leaving the snarky clerk, I head straight for the hotel b
ar and ask for something strong. The bartender gives me a wordless nod and passes me a delicate, tulip-shaped glass of the region’s finest grappa. I take it down in one gulp and tap on the counter for another as the clear liquid still burns in my throat.

  When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I pull it out assuming it’s Jordan, saying he’s sorry or maybe that he’s coming after all, but it’s not. It’s my sister again — Emily the Bridezilla — texting to ask me where I am, did I happen to bring a ‘something blue’ for her, and if I didn’t, could I run out and find something real quick? Something special?

  I slam the phone on the bar and take another swig. Since I arrived here yesterday, I’ve already been sent out for a plug adapter, earphones, a groom’s gift for Connor, a silk pillowcase, Nutella, bath salts, and a charcoal facemask. I have no idea what she packed in her four suitcases, because I seem to be in charge of equipping her with everything for this trip.

  My phone vibrates again as another text from Emily comes in:

  “And one more thing,” it reads. “I know it’s been a long time, but are there any special sex tips you used to use on Connor? I really want the wedding night to be special ;)”

  It’s that final winky face emoji that sends me right over the edge.

  Jordan be damned, I’m finding a plus-one for this wedding, and I’m going to enjoy myself tonight. I don’t need to play handmaiden to my sister anymore, or fluffer to my ex.

  Determined, I pull my hair out of its tight top knot and try to tousle it as best as I can, unbuttoning my blouse a few notches with my other hand. Swirling the remaining grappa in my glass, I start scouring the bar for potential suitors. I see a German banker who still has most of his hair, a near-sighted British barrister, and — the cocky, gorgeous playboy from the lobby.

  A thrill shoots through me, piercing me straight to the core. He’s staring right at me from across the bar, his icy blue eyes raking over my body in a way that’s almost feral. It’s a look that makes me feel naked, that makes my toes curl — a look that makes me sweat. My hand flies self-consciously to my blouse, re-buttoning it all the way up to the top to conceal my flushed chest.

  I lick my lips and swallow, reconsidering my idea of picking up a stranger. This is not like me, and it’s clearly not what I need right now. I’ll just tell my family that my mystery boyfriend came down with something and he needs to rest. Or, God forbid, I’ll tell them the truth.

  All I know is, I need to get out of this bar right now before that Greek sculpture in a suit makes his way back over to me. He’s making me feel like I’m about to combust from the heat of being in the same airspace as him.

  I charge my drinks to the room and turn to leave, but Connor has clearly been sent down to find me, and now he’s blocking my path. I still can’t believe I’m going to be stuck with my douche ex for a brother-in-law.

  “What is it?” I snap.

  “Your sister is looking for you, Olivia. Why aren’t you answering her texts?” Connor asks.

  The effects of the grappa are starting to set in, and he really shouldn’t push me in this emboldened state.

  “You want me to answer her, do you? Okay, fine.” My thumbs start tapping out a response that I recite aloud as I write.

  “You want to make the wedding night special?” I read to him. “When he’s about to come — that is to say, two minutes in — Connor loves it when you stick a finger or two right up his ass.” I shove my phone back in my pocket with finality.

  “Don’t we all, pal,” a distinctly masculine voice rumbles from over my shoulder. “Jake Rochester, Liv’s boyfriend.”

  Holy. Fuck. It’s Lobby Adonis.

  He extends his hand, tan and large, over my shoulder to shake Connor’s while placing the other on the front of my hip, nestling me against his body as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  I’m mortified, but I have never been more grateful for objective standards of beauty. Connor stares in blinking silence at the sexy beast of a man who is standing behind me — claiming me — and I know that the memory of his dumbstruck face will make me a happy woman for the rest of my days.

  “Oh. Olivia’s…oh,” Connor murmurs, still staring at Jake. “Right. Well, we’ll see you both tonight at seven then.”

  Connor turns to go but circles back. “I thought Liv said your name was —”

  “— I go by Jake,” he cuts across smoothly.

  Still rattled, Connor makes one last attempt to get the final word: “Emily said we never got your entrée choice for the reception. Did you want chicken or fish?”

  “Fish,” Jake responds, giving me a playful nudge. “Babe, you know clams are my favorite thing to eat.” He winks, and I don’t know if my cheeks go more red or Connor’s do, but Connor walks out fast and doesn’t look back.

  Now that I’m alone with Jake, I don’t know what to say. I obviously can’t take him to the wedding and expect him to behave.

  Can I?

  But Jake is already holding up the signed bar receipt I left on the counter. “Room 812,” he says with authority, pointing to my handwriting on the slip. “Pick you up at six, Princess.”

  Chapter Three

  Jake

  The door to the Continental Suite is trimmed in gold, with machine-made ornamental flourishes in the four corners. This isn’t the first time I’ve been to this room, although last time I didn’t have to put in this much effort.

  What am I doing here? I wonder, knuckles poised to knock. There are at least a dozen chicks down at the hotel bar, primed, willing, and ready. Women not looking for conversation and flowers, women just looking to fuck.

  Actually, there are fourteen candidates downstairs that meet that exact description. I know because I counted them through the window when I went out to pick wildflowers by the beach.

  That’s right. I brought mother fucking flowers.

  I lower my hand. I don’t know what I was thinking. This chick doesn’t even want me here, she made it perfectly clear that she finds me repulsive.

  That’s it, I’m turning around, and heading downstairs, I tell myself with resolve.

  Which is why I can’t explain why I’m knocking right now.

  The heavy door swings open and I’m greeted by a small woman with lavender hair. She looks like she must be in her 70s, and she has Olivia’s exact shade of green-gray eyes. She’s also wearing a huge smile, which, from my experience so far, is not a trait she shares with her granddaughter.

  “You must be Olivia’s sister,” I say to her. “Congratulations on your big day.”

  She beams at me. “You just earned yourself an extra slice of wedding cake, young man!” She has the tittering giggle of a girl sixty years her junior, and she loops her slight arm through mine, escorting me in.

  The mood of the rest of the room is not as cheerful.

  “Olivia, you are planning on doing something else with your lipstick, right? That shade makes you look like a common whore.” I take it the woman presiding over the room must be Olivia’s mother. She’s too busy spearing the olive in her martini to see the crushed look on her daughter’s face.

  “Oh, leave the girl alone, Charlotte. Livvie, your date is here,” says the small woman on my arm, “and he brought you flowers.”

  I think I see a hint of a smile play across Olivia’s lips when her eyes meet mine, but she quickly gets it under control, replacing it with a look of indifference.

  Taking in the opulence of the room, I wish I had thrown the flowers in the garbage on my way up. The small yellow blooms look more like weeds compared to the lush peonies and roses that fill every table. I lay them on top of the grand piano, hoping no one will notice them.

  “Thanks, grandma, I’ll take it from here.”

  When she steps forward, I feel like something ignites in my chest. Olivia is near angelic in a pale pink dress that hugs her breasts. A ribbon cinches around her waist before the rest of the gathered fabric flows to the floor.

  “Wow, you look —”
but she cuts me off before I can finish, pulling me aside.

  “Listen, I don’t want you here, but if you’re going to be hanging around anyway, I guess you could be of some use. That guy you met downstairs is my ex, and he’s marrying my little sister tonight, so I’m just trying to get through the evening in one piece. Beyond that, you don’t need to know a thing about me, and I don’t need to know a thing about you. I just need you to pretend to be a decent human being for one night.”

  “It’s a tall order, but I’ll give it a go if you do,” I say in challenge.

  She glares at me, but seems to accept the deal. “Oh,” she says, remembering, “I also need you to pretend that you’re heir to a freighting fortune. And that you rescue dogs from puppy mills. And that you have a vacation home in Aspen where your ill mother lives, so that’s why no one has met you before.”

  “Anything else?”

  I’ll admit that I haven’t been listening to her list very carefully. I’ve been studying the shape of her lips, picturing how they would look wrapped around my cock.

  She averts her eyes, suddenly shy to say the next words. “And maybe, you could…pretend you’re in love with me?”

  “Now that, I can handle,” I say with a wink. I take the opportunity to reach out and give her ass a smack.

  Her cheeks blush scarlet and she looks livid, like she’s about to rip me to shreds. Luckily, her grandmother interrupts before she has the chance to flay me.

  “Did Livvie tell you that she made my dress for the wedding?” she asks, twirling around slowly in her velcro flats. “Emily wanted all of us wearing Wanda Vaux, but I demanded an Olivia Quinn original instead.”

  I can’t help but smile at how proud she is. “You really made this?” I say to Olivia. She nods. I know I’m just here to try to get in her pants, but I’m impressed in spite of myself.

  Impressed and intrigued.

  “Show him the jacket you made,” her grandmother says with a nudge.

  Olivia pulls an emerald green trench coat from her luggage and lays it in my hands. It looks like it could be in one of the vintage flicks Ernesto likes to watch. It would be the coat the husky-voiced starlet has on when she makes her grand entrance.