by Poppy Dunne
“So. More champagne?” Charlotte giggles as I kiss her neck. “Or should we finally order some food?”
“Considering we’ve burned more calories last night than we did training for the LA marathon, I’d say eggs Benedict is a must.” I lean over to the phone, to call down for room service. Charlotte nestles against me, her body still flushed and heavy with exhaustion. It’s a feeling I’ll never tire of.
“Be sure to order some toast and pineapple coulis with it.” She sighs. “Something about Hawaii and great sex make pineapple irresistible.”
7
Charlotte
“And that’s the best Not Safe For Kids version I can give you,” I tell Emma on the other end of the Skype call. She’s got her cheek in her hand, and her eyes are wide with shock.
“Well, as much as I hate to think of my brother being an erotic beast of pleasure, I can’t help but be happy for you.” She winks at me. “You needed this release. I’m so glad you took this trip.”
“Thank you guys for babysitting. It wouldn’t have been possible without you.” Seriously, my other sister-in law Lily’s too, well, Lily to care for children, and I hate the idea of Sage and Sawyer lapping up their grandmother’s “you shouldn’t vote” ideas for a full five days. “Where are the kids?”
“They should be right around here with Fraser.” Emma beams. “They love him so much. He’s wonderful with them.”
Speak of the semi-British devil. Fraser and the kids walk into the background. Well, actually Sawyer’s dancing in front of him, twirling on her new pointe shoes. “Uncle Fraser, can you clear the floor? I need to try pirouetting,” she says.
“I’m a bit busy,” Fraser grumbles, partly because grumbling is his natural state and partly because Sebastian’s got his arms locked around the poor man’s neck. My little boy merrily giggles and kicks his feet against Fraser’s back. Meanwhile, Sage—yep, still wearing her space helmet, oh well—is hanging onto Fraser’s legs and being dragged around on the ground. From the muffled, high-pitched squeals, it sounds like she’s enjoying herself. “Look, I’ll buy you each a pony. Or a jet pack. Whatever you want, just let go!” he snaps.
Emma doesn’t react to any of this. She waits for them all to pass through into the kitchen, still smiling. “See? He’s the happiest.” Then, just like that, the smile vanishes and she squeezes her eyes shut. “Ugh. Hold on, demon leaving my body.” She bends over, and I can hear her deep breathing. Oh, shit.
“Em? You okay?” I’m a bit relieved when she pops back into view, looking better.
“Yeah. I made Frito and chili casserole last night. The kids love it, you know.”
“And Fraser?”
“He loves me enough to try. Anyway, I’ve made that recipe a dozen times, but I think I overdid it on the shredded cheese. My stomach’s been weird all day.” Just as she finishes her sentence, there’s a clanging, metallic sound. It sounds like every pot and pan we own in the kitchen has come crashing to the floor at the same time. Above it all, I hear Fraser’s very manly scream. Emma doesn’t even blink. “Okay. First, I gotta take an antacid, then I have to save Fraser’s life. Being married is a gas.” She blows a kiss. “Have fun banging my brother!”
“You!” I giggle and log off the call, then stand and stretch. Justin’s out at the gym—he said he needed to run off the energy of our last two, well, three bouts of great sex. Two in bed, one in the shower. I have never been this wonderfully sore, or this deliriously happy. It’s a feeling I could get used to.
The sun’s beginning to set on the horizon, which means it’ll be time for dinner in a couple of hours. And not just any dinner. Justin surprised me with the reservations: a table for two right alongside the water, at the fanciest five star restaurant on the island. I unzip my suitcase and look over the options I brought to wear. Quite a few nice options, if I may say, but…I don’t know, there’s something too beachy about them. And even though we’re eating right by the beach, it feels too casual.
Dinner by the ocean in Hawaii was always one of those pipe dreams Justin and I had in college. Just us, some fresh oysters, maybe some killer calamari, and then maybe banging in the surf right after dinner. You know. Romance.
Well, that dream is not a pipe any longer. Ceci n’est pas une pipe. Though I’m pretty sure that was surrealist art, not an actual statement. Eh, who cares? I’m having the best sex of my life, and that’s all that matters.
I now just need the best dress of my life. Hmm.
Let it never be said this place doesn’t have many nice boutique shops on the promenade. I walk into one that’s brightly lit, with racks of beautiful dresses and smiling shopgirls with flowers in their hair. It’s paradise at mid-range prices. Perfection.
“I’m looking for something special to wear. It’s my honeymoon,” I tell the girl, Maiya, who comes over to help me. Jeez, I should stop acting so proud of that fact. But I’ve never been the subtlest of people, and that’s okay.
“I think we’ve got some good options for you.” Maiya beams as she helps me sort through the dresses based on price, cut, and color. Before too long, we’ve got it narrowed down to three items. One’s cerulean blue, which accentuates the girls to maximum advantage but is too tight around the waist. One is a creamy, pearly white, which is gorgeous but maybe a bit too high in price.
The third, the red dress with the falling-off sleeves and the slit up the leg, is something I wouldn’t have dreamed wearing after I had Sage. But in my new, confident, sexily sexed-up state, it’s the only option.
We were meant to find each other, this dress and I. Kind of like a fantasy quest, only in Lord of the Rings Frodo didn’t go to a trunk sale and finally discover the waistcoat that would fully match the color of his eyes. Though I would’ve liked to have seen that in the movie. No one ever talks about fashion in high fantasy.
Okay, back to earth.
We ring up the order, and a few minutes later I’m back in the room doing my hair and makeup. The red dress, and the pair of strappy, heeled sandals I got to complete said dress, are waiting for me on the bed. As the sun starts going down in earnest, I slip in and zip up the newest purchase, turning for myself in the mirror. I turn a few too many times, and nearly get dizzy and fall over. Well, at least I didn’t make that mistake. Well, I made that mistake only once. We’re fine.
I grab my clutch purse. Justin isn’t coming back to the room; we agreed to get ready separately and meet each other at the restaurant. Sort of making a grand entrance that way. Candlelight, good wine, some Macadamia nut encrusted halibut, and the perfect man I married. It’s going to be a great night for love.
And sex. Had to add that one, too.
8
Justin
I’m showered and fresh from the gym, doing up the final buttons on my cuffs and jacket, and am more than ready to get myself out of the hotel and down on the beach. This place, the Blue Hawaii, is supposed to have the best Macadamia encrusted halibut on all the islands. Charlotte will probably go for that. Hell, I’ll probably go for it too.
Dinner, music, then hopefully frenzied lovemaking right on the edge of the ocean. The sand will be an issue; as a certain Skywalker once said, it’s rough, coarse, and irritating. But when a man’s this deeply in love, he’ll overcome anything.
Except watching the Star Wars prequels again. Much as I love Charlotte, if she wanted that I’d probably have to skip out.
She wasn’t in the room when I got in, which is just as well. I got the heady scent of her perfume as I went into the shower. She’s planned on making this a great night. I aim to deliver on that.
The doors open to the lobby, and I’m about to step out…when Stephen appears in front of me. “Damn. I feel like I need to put a bell on you,” I say, after jumping with surprise.
“You don’t survive the hotel business without catlike reflexes,” he says cheerily. His grin is megawatt tonight. “You going somewhere?”
“Dinner with my wife. I’m in kind of a hurry, so—”
> “Ah.” Stephen makes a kind of pained face. “Okay, so here’s the deal: Mr. Lee wants to talk to you in his office again. Like, he really wants to talk to you. He literally just called up to your room but no one answered.”
My entire body freezes, which is difficult in Hawaii. “Oh?” I’m playing this casual, like a guy trying to score a girl’s phone number, if that girl also owned a chain of successful destination hotels. Stephen nods. “Well…how about tomorrow morning? Early? I’ve just got to—”
“He’s leaving tomorrow. Early.” Stephen glances around, like he’s a Soviet spy dropping a lot of illegal information on me. “You want to go to this meeting, man. I promise.”
Damn everything. “Well, can’t we get on the phone tomorrow? Does it have to be in person?”
“Mr. Lee is kind of anal about things like these. He once flew a prospective sous chef here all the way from Argentina just so he could look him in the eye and assess how honest he was. He’s incredible, but he’s also kind of strange. In a good way!” Stephen panics a bit. “Tell him I meant in a good way!”
“Are you telling me that if I don’t go to this meeting right now, this…opportunity, shall we say, might not come again?” My temples are throbbing. How the hell is this happening? This just affirms the opinion I’ve had since reuniting with Fraser: mega-rich people are bizarre.
“I think you get my drift.” Stephen touches his nose like it’s a secret signal for a club that we don’t have. “What do you say?”
Okay. My blood’s up, my teeth are lengthening…well, they feel like they should be lengthening. I am in full Lawyer Shark mode, and this could be the meeting that makes Brightman & Collins. (No, I don’t have a partner. Collins is my mother’s maiden name.) If I go in there and come out substantially wealthier, it’ll be worth losing twenty minutes of our dinner date, tops. I just need to call Charlotte and tell her…
Oh, fuck me. I saw her phone on the hotel bed; I left mine beside it. We agreed that there’d be no calls on our date tonight. No calls, no cares, no crying children or screaming Fraser to deal with. Mostly the screaming Fraser part. I can’t get in touch with her.
“Listen, my wife’s at the Blue Hawaii next door. Can you call over there, let her know I’ll be a little late?”
Stephen beams. “You got it. Man, this is gonna be so great!” His eyes shine like beacons. Really young, really hungry beacons. “Maybe one day, if I spot enough talent, I’ll make it to the concierge desk.”
I’m not sure that’s how it works, but whatever makes the kid dream big. “Great. Take me to Mr. Lee.”
Stephen leads me back to the offices with the promise to call the restaurant right after. My heart’s racing. This is it. Twenty minutes and I’m out of here, tops. Charlotte can have a martini at the bar while she waits. Then after I get this account, I’ll have them bring over the finest, oldest champagne they have on reserve.
Tonight’s the night.
9
Charlotte
I have been waiting. In this bar. In this five star restaurant. In this knockout red dress. For forty. Five. Freaking. Minutes.
There was a minute there where I thought Justin might have called. The man at the host station got a call, then asked if there was a Whitman at the bar. He kept calling for Whitman so much I almost wanted to check, and in fact I did. Did he mean Brightman, by any chance? Nope, he said. Definitely a Whitman.
Fuck. So I drank two Grey Goose martinis with a twist of lemon, and waited for my dashing husband to arrive. And I kept waiting until the happy buzz from the vodka turned into a soggy, weepy unhappiness.
I called the hotel front desk from the bar phone, and they patched me through to our room. No answer. I tried three times in a row, but nothing.
Should I be more worried than I am? God, what if Justin’s been injured? What if he took a wrong turn and ended up in the ocean? What if he’s on another island? In another dimension? What if we really went on vacation in the Bermuda Triangle?
How would that even be possible? How is any of that possible?
You know what? It’s too late now for dinner, and not late enough for another martini, and my dress is wilting and I don’t have my phone which means I can’t call Emma or play Farmville. I’m calling the hotel room one last time, and if Justin doesn’t pick up I’m heading back, ordering a big meal, and waiting in the corner of the suite with a baseball bat until he shows up as long as he’s not dead good lord what if he is what am I going to do?
First you’re going to stop acting like a drunk crazy person. That’s the first thing you can do.
Sometimes my brain is a very good thing. I head back to the bar phone. The bartender looks politely resigned as she hands it over. I dial back to the hotel, ask them to patch me through. The phone rings twice, three times, and I’m about to hand the receiver back when…someone answers.
Not just any someone. My someone. Justin.
And he sounds in bad, bad shape.
“H’lo?” He slurs a bit, like he’s waking up from a groggy sleep. At first I’m ready to read him the riot act, but then I consider. My whole body goes numb as I imagine the possibilities.
What if he was getting out of the shower, slipped, and fell and hit his head on the bathroom floor? What if some be-leid thieves broke into the hotel room, beat him up, then stole everything? What if he accidentally got into my Nyquil tablets?
I mean, that last one’s unlikely. Unless he was fumbling around in the dark, because the lights went out in an emergency blackout! An emergency blackout that only affected our suite!
That’s what happens when you’re a mom of three and anything goes wrong. You catastrophize to your heart’s content.
“Babe, are you okay?” I grip the phone cord.
“Char? Oh god,” he moans. I don’t even stop to think. I’m in full reaction mode right now. It’s like the Terminator, but with more hugs.
“Stay right where you are! I’m on my way.” I toss the phone back to the bewildered bartender and charge out the door, my heart racing. I sprint up the path to the hotel, doing damn nicely in my strappy heels. My mind spins as I run back into the lobby. Should I have called back to the hotel, had them send someone up? Only the worst kind of happening could make Justin miss our romantic evening. Something truly terrible must have gone down.
I can barely wait as the elevator crawls back up to our floor. Then I’m racing down the hall, nearly bowling over a hapless kid delivering room service. I drop the keycard twice as I try to get the door open, and finally push into the room to find…
Justin. With his coat off and his shirt unbuttoned a bit. With his hair mussed. Sitting on the bed. Looking drunk out of his gourd.
Okay, there’s something going on here. I mean international spy levels of something. My ever thoughtful, considerate husband wouldn’t think for a second of forgetting our dinner date just so he could get a load on. He’s not like that. He’s the opposite. In fact, the guy in front of me might be Justin’s doppelganger. Maybe an evil twin I never knew about.
I’m just saying, people keep secrets in marriages all the time.
“Babe. What happened?” I kneel down in front of him. He rubs his eyes and blinks hard. My stomach drops as I consider the possibilities. “Did you get a call?”
“Call?” He stares at me, like he’s trying to remember who I am. Fuck, is this like some body snatcher type deal? Like from that old movie Emma made us watch and had me cowering behind a pillow while Fraser loudly declaimed how not afraid he was and why couldn’t he have married a woman who liked romantic comedies for God’s sake?
“Yes. Call. On the phone. Like this.” I pick mine up by way of illustration. Then Justin blinks at me again, and…smiles. Like, looks as if all his dreams of world domination and perfect abs came true on the same day smile.
“Babe. Baby.” He takes me by the shoulders and pulls me to my feet before kissing me hard. It feels scratchy and tastes a lot like scotch. He takes me into his arms. “We did it.”
He’s practically glowing with triumph.
“We? What? What’d we do?” Now that my initial fear is wearing off, I’m replacing it with righteous indignation. “Please tell me it was legal.”
“You are looking,” Justin says, taking a step back as he releases me, “at the head of the firm that now manages this entire resort chain.” He holds out his arms, grinning widely. “Even I didn’t understand the full size of the job until Henry offered it.”
“Who’s Henry?” I swear to God, if he snapped and Henry is his imaginary friend…
“Henry Lee. He owns everything. He’s like a god, but with better hair.” Justin flops back onto the bed, the springs screaming beneath him. He swipes a hand through his mussy hair. “Mine’s pretty good, too,” he says in drunken, amiable conversation.
“When did this happen?” I’m close to snapping, though Justin doesn’t notice.
“Just now! Well, a little while ago. I’m not sure, I was a few drinks in by then.” He blinks. “Henry wanted a couple of rounds of drinks to seal the deal. There’s this Japanese whiskey that’s.” He makes a vague gesture that looks like a duck flying. “I told him we had to make it quick, because.” He scrunches up his face, trying to remember. Then I watch as he does, and his expression drains away to horror. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“I’m so sorry. Jesus.” He rubs his eyes again, and then all the anguish melts away like that. Like it means nothing now that he and Henry are such fabulous drinking buddies. “I’ll make it up to you. With the payday from this retainer, we can get a condo out here. Hell, we can have our own private beach, and our own private five star restaurant. We can have—”
