by Poppy Dunne
She needs better. She deserves better. That’s why I wanted us to take this honeymoon, to remind her that she deserves only the best that I can offer. And if I could turn the honeymoon into a celebration of a brand new, high end account, one that could match and even exceed what Fraser’s paying my firm? That would only make the whole thing sweeter.
“Yeah, Jeff. Well, we’ll try again when I get back.” I try to sound positive as he chuckles.
“Yeah, yeah. Boy scout. Go enjoy your damn honeymoon, will you?” He snorts. “You’re not leaving Charlotte all on her own by the pool, are you? Damn, you know those cabana boys’ll be all over her.”
“Asshole.” I can’t help grinning, though. How am I still married to Charlotte? I ask myself that every morning, but when I stood with her on the balcony just now and looked across at her…the way the sunlight hit her dark hair, the way the breeze ruffled her sun dress and flattened it against her shapely, incredible body…it was like being in college again.
Apart from the terrible meal plan. Jesus, those Sloppy Joe nights.
When I hang up with Jeff, I stand outside the door to my hotel room for a minute, trying to prime my confidence back up. I know my wife can’t still want me the way I want her. There’s no way that kind of passion can last for fifteen years on both sides. But I don’t want her to regret marrying me. After the hell we went through when I lost my job, I want to be a hero in her eyes again. Or at least, I want her to be proud. Amazed. Aroused.
All right, I really want the third one.
I open the door to find Charlotte standing in the middle of the living room, hiking a beach bag up her arm. She’s got her sunglasses on, her bathing suit at the ready with a floppy hat on her head.
“Hey. Maybe we should get a little Hawaiian sun? Pace ourselves?” She grins, and I try not to let the disappointment show. Of course she doesn’t want to climb back into bed as badly as I do. She’s a saint for even trying.
“Why not?” I take her in my arms and kiss her. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
3
Charlotte
This hotel has a bar in the center of one of its five pools. All you need to do is float out to where a shirtless bartender is standing in waist deep water underneath a straw-thatched roof. He’s surrounded completely by a circular wooden bar, and there are underwater stools just waiting for you to plop down and enjoy a drink. If I needed any convincing that Justin had chosen the perfect spot for our honeymoon, all that convincing went out the window. I’m lying on my stomach, the sun sizzling above me, and as soon as I’m ready to scrape myself off this reclining chair and roll into the water, I’ll be getting a Mai Tai.
Married life is the best life. At least, when it involves Hawaii.
At least, when it involves Hawaii and my husband emerging slow motion from the pool. Yes, my toes are curling, and I’m sliding my sunglasses down my nose to get a clear look. The pool water is running in rivulets down his sculpted physique, and his swim trunks are clinging to his legs, accentuating every lean line of muscle. The water shines in his hair, and it catches the growing stubble on his squared jaw in just the right way. I love it when he doesn’t shave for a day.
I love to feel that stubble everywhere, on every part of my—
This is a family pool. Children are cannonballing to the right. Behave yourself.
Eh, I have to scratch that raunchy idea, partly because of common decency and partly because I’m inwardly comparing Justin’s god-like physique with my own. And you know, I’m not one of those needy, shy women who can’t think a good thing about myself. At least, not when I’ve got all my clothes on. But in situations where everyone is scantily clad, and there is a whole crew of lithe young under-twenty-five women running around in string bikinis, with everything that needs to bounce bouncing and everything that needs to be flat as flat as an economics professor’s monotone, it’s a little hard to feel comfortable in your own skin.
This would be a great time to be able to steal someone else’s skin, but I’m not yet sick and twisted enough to entertain that option. Not yet.
“You should get in. The water’s amazing.” Justin towels off and drops down beside me on his own chair. He leans over, kissing my bare shoulder. Mmm, a few cool droplets of water trail across my skin, waking me out of my sluggish stupor just enough. I roll over onto my side, look up at my husband with what I hope are languorous bedroom eyes. Odds are I look like I’m squinting, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.
That water is refreshing. I wonder what it’d be like to lean over and lick the water off Justin’s—
Not in public, Charlotte. Again, you’re a mom of three kids. Your husband’s going to think you’re ridiculous if you start panting and slavering all over him.
I hate reality sometimes.
But then Justin leans over, and his lips are cool against mine. It’s only the briefest of tastes—way too brief—but it melts me. Crisped by the sun on the outside, molten internally because of carnal instincts: it’s a good day.
“Want to get a drink at the bar?” He slides a lock of hair out of my eyes. “Or walk down to the beach?”
A drink is fun, but a walk is better. There’s a chance we’ll find a quiet, sheltered corner with no tourists and hardly any seagulls and then we can give in to passion.
“A walk sounds very fun.” I quirk my eyebrow in what I hope is a suggestive look. Justin stands up, slides on his sandals, and pulls me to my feet. His hand slips into mine effortlessly. Just like the days before we got pregnant, got married, had kids, crammed to get through law school. Those two years when it was just us wandering the campus, drinking at the local dive until two, lounging in bed all Sunday long with frequent bursts of, ah, activity.
Is it crazy to hope we can recover some of those feelings? I don’t think it is.
Of course, as we’re walking away from the pool I do catch a glimpse of a gorgeous young woman. And I mean Victoria’s Secret airbrushed levels of perfection. She’s tall, thin, lissome and blonde, with a fresh, suntanned face and white teeth displayed in a stunning smile. I do catch Justin looking at her for a second—hardly a crime, since I’m staring as well. Still, that moment, that glimpse, drags me back down to earth a bit. We can’t go all the way back to being twenty years old, because gravity and three kids have done a number on me in the intervening years.
Not that I don’t look good, or like myself. But Sebastian was the one that put the nail in the coffin of my beach body, and I’m never getting those three inches of waist back.
“You look like you’re thinking hard about something.” Justin tightens his grip on my hand. “You okay?”
“Thinking about the kids.” I all but sigh. “I guess that’s what I’ve got to talk about these days. The kids. Feeding the kids. Bathing the kids. Well, not Sawyer. That’d be weird at her age.”
“What should we talk about that isn’t child related?” We walk off the concrete path and onto the sand now. The wind’s whipping up overhead, shaking the green palm fronds against the shockingly blue sky. Justin leans over and kisses my cheek. There. Off to a good start. “Reading any good books these days?”
“Yes.” It’s in my mind and out my mouth before I can stop it. “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.” Damn, Charlotte. You really know adult conversation. “Sage, ah, loves that for bedtime reading.”
“Hey, at least you’re reading anything that isn’t legal briefs. I envy you.” He places his arm around my waist, pulling me closer. I inwardly kick myself. Like I said earlier, I have nothing interesting to offer. I’m like a cherished family nanny that can give really good handjobs if just given the chance.
“We’ve become those people, haven’t we?” I sigh and lean my head against my husband’s shoulder. “The Smith-Waterman people.”
“Who?” Then Justin gets it, and stops dead. His eyes widen in horror that is only slightly pretend. “No, not Harry and Margot. We haven’t become them yet.”
“It’s getting closer.�
� Harry and Margot Smith-Waterman were a couple we met at a dinner party a few years ago. He was an accountant, she was a stay at home mom, and they were so boring that I had to jab a salad fork into my thigh to stay awake. Justin didn’t even manage that trick; I had to nudge him in the ribs a few times when he started snoring. When we got home, we could barely get enough breath from laughing so hard. We did Harry and Margot impressions all while getting ready for bed. When we were in bed and getting frisky, the imitations stopped, because that would’ve been a little too weird.
“Think about it,” I tell Justin, facing him and twining my hands in his hair. God, this man still has such glorious hair. “All I can do is talk about, what was it? Oh, yeah. My ‘precious, precious children.’” I roll my eyes. “Margot always had to double down on her adjectives. Probably because she had so few words in her arsenal. Remember? Precious, precious children. Nice, nice lobster. Flaccid, flaccid penis.”
Oh, shit. I blush, but Justin throws back his head and laughs. That sets me all a-tingling.
“God, Harry was worse. ‘What is this, water?’” Justin does a fantastic interpretation, with the world’s flattest monotone and squinty eyes. “’Mmm, water is my favorite flavor. Are those walls beige? Beige is my favorite color.’”
Now I’m the one who’s laughing too hard. I even start sliding down to my knees, putting me eye level with my husband’s, well, most cherished appendage. If we’re alone, this might be a good time to get busy. Nothing turns me on more than making fun of the Smith-Watermans.
“We’re never going to be Harry and Margot. So what if we need to pick up some new books, or get out more?” Justin pulls me back to my feet, brushing my hair over my shoulder. His fingers skim my neck, making me flush harder. “You make me laugh, Char. More than anyone.” His blue eyes meet mine. My lips part, and I find I’m speechless. The way he’s looking at me, it’s like—
“Watch out!”
And before I can turn to find who shouted at us, a volleyball comes right the fuck out of nowhere and beams my husband in the side of the head. Justin stumbles, but doesn’t fall. I, on the other hand, can’t help shrieking, hands clamping over my mouth. And that’s before I hear someone say,
“Man. That, like, went rogue, didn’t it? You okay?”
I can guess at what he looks like before I even see him. A white guy with a scraggly beard and dreads in his hair, skin bronzed from the tropical sun and the hint of marijuana in the air around him. He walks over to us to collect his ball, and to his credit, Justin stands fine and nods at the beach bum.
“Never better.” Justin tosses the ball back, but my wifely indignation is up.
“You clearly don’t know how to play,” I snap. Maybe I shouldn’t be this angry at a perfectly harmless hippie, but that’s the father of my children, dammit.
“Sorry, lady,” the guy grumbles. Behind him, there’s an entire volleyball game that’s stopped to watch this unfold. It consists of a group of attractive suntanned people and, yep, as luck would have it, there’s the unbelievably beautiful girl I saw by the pool. She’s joined the onlookers, and she’s cheering me on.
“Yeah, Avery!” she yells at the hippie guy. “She’s right. You’re totally the worst!”
Avery scratches his shaggy head and tosses me the volleyball. “You wanna, like, show me how it’s done?” There’s a challenge in his voice. This child does not know whom he’s messing with.
“Don’t look at me.” Justin grins, his eyes crackling with amusement. He knows I was a killer at college volleyball. “I played football. But my wife’s going to eat you alive.”
I smile, and hit the ball perfectly. It sails through the air, arcing over the net. I do believe Avery goes green beneath his tan.
“Game on,” I say.
Half an hour later, I’ve wiped out the early twenty-something competition, and I’m feeling like a goddess. A goddess whose shoulders are starting to burn, but still. Justin’s watched this whole time, arms crossed over his chest. I think he looks proud.
That, or baffled that I’m wasting precious honeymoon time playing with a bunch of kids. That sours my victory a little bit.
“Game over. Lady, you’re super good for, like, a mom.” Avery high fives me, a good sport. “Listen. We’ve got a little luau going on the other side of the beach later tonight, if you guys are free?”
“I mean, what do you think?” I turn to Justin, wondering if he wants to have a more private party in our suite. Even though the food might be good, and I’ll bet we’d get a nice secondhand buzz just being around all these kids. Justin wraps himself around me from behind, arms around my waist. He kisses my shoulder.
“A bunch of desperate twenty-somethings and weed? This is the only way to relive college,” he teases.
Well. A little bit of disappointment notwithstanding, I think a trip down memory lane would be nice. Especially if there’s roast pig.
4
Justin
I don’t know what I was expecting out of this luau, but it wasn’t Avery coming over to us with a plate of fresh mango and a pineapple shaped bong. He’s got a crown of flowers in his hair, and as the sun sets he’s looking as glazed and happy as a jelly donut on a Hawaiian beach. “Try this, man,” he offers. I take the fruit but say no to the bong, and Charlotte does the same.
“I feel like we sort of stick out.” She nibbles on her mango while scanning the crowd of beachy regulars. It’s true. Everyone else is about one stiff breeze away from being totally naked. Apart from the lei of white flowers the girls gave her when we arrived, Charlotte’s in a floral, floor length muumuu. Somehow, even in that long, loose dress, she’s the sexiest woman here.
Tell her that, Justin. Make her feel as desirable as she is. That voice in my head is egging me on, but I’m still too ashamed. I don’t want my wife to look on me with anything like pity if I tried romancing her too hard. After all we went through two years ago, and after all this time like ships passing in the night, she’d see it as a desperate attempt to get back to the way things were. I can’t have that. Instead, I clear my throat and say, “Hungry? Looks like they have paper plates and greasy food. Perfect for a first night dinner.”
“You take me to the nicest places.” She giggles, and I try not to let it hit me in the heart. Is she joking? Or is there some hint of truth to that? What if I’m doing this honeymoon all wrong, and we’ve only gotten started?
And what if we get dragged into doing the hula later on? Already I can see a couple of middle-aged hotel guests who’ve wandered to this side of the beach, and they’re wearing grass skirts and gyrating fervently to some ukulele music. It’s enough to make you wonder if you’re still sane.
I kiss Charlotte once, and head over to the fire pit. There’s plenty of food on display, from skewered and roasted pineapple to some kind of grilled fish. As I load up two plates, there’s some guy that sidles up to me. He’s thin and kind of pasty, with the look of a Midwestern tourist who took a stopover in paradise and is regretting it. Too much scalp, and a tight, unhappy grimace on his face. Poor bastard.
“This place is kinda dive-y,” he sniffs at me. He even goes so far as to slug me in the arm. I pull my shoulders back and look at him square in the eye. I’m pretty easygoing, but we don’t know each other well enough for that kind of bro-y douchebaggery.
“I think that’s part of the charm,” I tell him.
“Yeah, yeah.” He glares at some of the young women from the beach. They’re laughing and dancing to the music. “Bet those’d never give me the time of day. Just like every other woman around here. You looking to score?”
I think I’m close to putting this asshole in a headlock. “No. I’m married,” I say evenly.
“Your loss. Bet they’d actually get with a guy like you,” the asshole grumbles, taking a swig out of a beer.
“Like I said, I’m married. I’ve got a little insight into women. Want my advice?” I lean in closer, and the creep jumps back. Nice. “Stop treating women like hate
ful objects, and they might just give you the time of day.”
The creep only mutters, probably something profane, and slouches away. Great. I catch the eye of a couple of the hotel attendants wearing crisp white polo shirts. One of them looks at the guy, then at me, and rolls his eyes. Great. Apparently I’m not the only one getting an earful today.
I pick up the plates and return to Charlotte, who’s watching some beach kids twirl flaming batons. She looks half delighted, half horrified. “Here. I’m pretty sure we should get away from the flame squad,” I tell her, handing over dinner. She groans at the sight of the fish tacos.
“What would I do without you?” She rests her head against my shoulder as we walk away. My skin is on fire at her touch, my blood boiling. Fuck, I think I’m a little hard just at the scent of her perfume. I’m not backing away tonight. I’m not going to let my shame get the better of me. I want to possess this woman I’m married to, utterly. I want her to feel how special she is, how much she means.
When we’re a comfortable distance from the party, I pull her close against me. I feel her gasp as she senses my arousal. “Justin.” She looks down, and part of me is ashamed. She’s embarrassed. She doesn’t know how to tell me she’s not in the mood.
Fuck off with that. Charlotte’s never been afraid to tell me anything in her life. I doubt she’ll start now.
“Is this good?” I whisper before capturing her mouth in a kiss. She moans, her lips parting. She gasps in surprise as my tongue flickers inside her mouth, then returns me stroke for stroke. A deep, insatiable hunger is rising within me. I don’t remember what happens to our food; I think I threw it into the sand. Such is life.
