by Mia Sosa
“Yep. Sit tight.” Which he’ll have no problem doing since we appear to be stuck in traffic anyway. “We should have a new location soon.”
I return to my emails, and sure enough, Jewel’s text comes through ten minutes later.
Tried to book a secluded villa but no availability on short notice. New hotel is Eagle Bay Beach Club. Mix of families, newlyweds, and singles. Low-key according to travel agent. Have fun. And watch out for crabs!
I gift her with a thumbs-up emoji and share the new location with Derek.
“You got it,” he says as he maneuvers an illegal U-turn. “So the idea of wall-to-wall women doesn’t appeal to you?”
Why is everyone in my personal business this week? I shake my head as I continue to read my emails. “Usually, yes. This week, no.”
Derek nods at my succinct response and returns his attention to the road.
There’s nothing of importance in my inbox, so I search Google and find the Eagle Bay Beach Club’s website. The image gallery displays a sprawling ten-acre property on the northernmost point of Aruba’s hotel row. A typical beachfront resort with all the amenities a single guy could need or want. Well done, Jewel.
A minute of whistling-while-he-drives later, Derek again tries to engage me in conversation. “So what do you do?”
The response falls from my lips without much thought. “I’m in between jobs right now. Taking a vacation while I figure out my next steps.”
“Not a bad place to figure out next steps. You look familiar to me. Are you famous or something?”
His narrowed-eyed gaze suggests that he’s ready to pounce and say I knew it. But retreating into my shell will only make Derek more curious, so I snort and give him an open smile. “If I were famous you wouldn’t be asking me that question.”
Derek purses his lips and nods his head slowly. “Right. Of course.”
I glance in the rearview.
Derek’s squinting as he looks back at me, one question away from asking too much. Fuck. I should probably keep the beard while I’m here.
Minutes pass. I drum my hands on my lap as I pretend to enjoy the scenery outside my car window. “It’s gorgeous in Aruba. Wish I had enough money to live here year-round.”
I scan Derek’s face for any signs that he knows who I am. As his face relaxes into a plane of serenity, the tension in my own muscles dissipates.
“You don’t have to be rich to live on the island, trust me,” he says. “That’s the real draw of the place, in fact.” He maneuvers the car around a taxi unloading its passengers and parks in the circular driveway. His long whistle is meant for my ears. When he knows he has my attention, he juts out his chin in the direction of the cab at the curb. “Actually, that’s the real draw of the island.”
I follow the trajectory of his gaze with my own. Good gravy, I’d know those curls and that ass anywhere. They belong to the woman who will never be my wife. Well, well, it’s good to see you again Tori-not-short-for-Victoria.
What are the odds?
I whip out the billfold in my back jeans pocket and watch her like an assassin keeping an eye on his target in a crowded square. She strides down the walkway leading to the resort’s lobby and glides inside, an eager bellhop walking by her side and chatting her up. Reenergized, I spring out of the car and chuckle to myself. If it weren’t for the beauty pageant, I’d be at another hotel. Now Tori and I will be spending some time together after all. Not exactly how I thought this day would play out, but Fate, you’re a cunning mistress, and it’s my duty to follow your lead.
Chapter Four
Tori
THE BAR ADJACENT to the pool area boasts a lovely view of the sun setting over the ocean. A few feet away, three men tend to an open-fire barbecue pit, filling my nostrils with the smell of smoked meats and taunting my empty stomach. The sticky air coats my skin like a layer of scented lotion. Makes me feel like I bathed in coconut oil and reminds me of my grandmother’s best dessert, tembleque, a creamy coconut pudding that literally jiggles on the plate. When I was young, I’d scramble underneath her arm as she kneaded dough for her empanadillas and tap the tembleque to watch it shake. Abuela Clara would promptly swat my hand away and shoo me from the kitchen, and I’d smile on my way out of the room, listening for her ever-present throaty laugh.
Abuela’s long gone, but her wisdom is with me today: “You’ll always know when you matter to someone. Sometimes it’s something said. Other times it’s something done. But it’s always in their eyes. Even when the person’s angry, the eyes will show they care.” She said all of this in Spanish, with her head cocked to the side and a weathered hand on her hip. I’d nod, pretending to understand, but her sage advice didn’t sink in until now.
Mason never looked at me as though I mattered. Abuela would have said that was the only sign I needed. I’m not bitter. Not exactly. Mostly, I’m pissed at myself for remaining in a relationship that gave me so little and exposed me to so much. The manipulative little shit didn’t deserve me.
A breeze washes over me as though it’s signaling the time to forget the past and live in the present. With so much natural beauty around me, doing so is easy. The sunset casts a majestic glow over the pool area. I snap a picture of it and post it on Twitter: “Sometimes the best thing you can do for your mind and body is relax and enjoy your surroundings. #Aruba #vacation #longoverdue.” Other times, the best thing to do is tip your head back and guzzle a cocktail. I draw in a deep breath and lift my finger to get the attention of the nearest of the two male bartenders.
He reaches me in seconds, thanks to a dramatic shuffle across the length of the bar, and leans across the counter. “Just you, pretty lady?”
I sigh. “Yup. I’m alone in paradise. All the good ones are taken.”
He casts a sideways glance at his coworker and grins. “Well, let’s make you feel better. What can I get you?”
“A pineapple upside-down cake, please.”
The bartender bites his bottom lip and furrows his thick brows. “Not familiar. But I’m sure I can make it. Tell me what you need.”
I use my fingers to tick off the ingredients. “Vodka, bourbon, pineapple juice, Peach Schnapps, and a maraschino cherry to top it off.”
He winks at me and leans his elbow on the counter. “Know your drinks, eh?”
“I was a bartender in college,” I explain.
He extends his hand for a fist bump, and I oblige him.
“What’s your name, handsome man?”
“Damon.”
“Nice to meet you, Damon. I’m Tori.”
“A pleasure, Tori,” he says with a sweet smile before he turns away.
I watch him work, admiring how he imbues every movement with energy, his hands sweeping everywhere as he gathers the liquor for my cocktail. A sheen of sweat kisses his impossibly smooth skin. It’s the perfect canvas for just about anything, and my tongue is all too willing to serve as a paintbrush. He and the other bartender step around each other, a clumsy dance that makes them laugh, and then I catch the way they almost lean into each other at one point, a look of longing passing between them. The moment’s so thick with tension I catch my own breath.
Ah, okay, no licking the bartender, then.
His apparent unavailability is a good thing. It reminds me that I’m not here for a fling anyway. I’m here to unwind and let loose. Also on the to-do list: forgetting that I dated Mason King for over a year. Thankfully, my pineapple upside-down cake will help me achieve both.
Except the drink that’s placed before me is in a martini glass, its sexy maker apparently under the misimpression that I intend to sip it daintily. “Damon?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m going to need another one of these in a few minutes,” I say, pointing to the cocktail.
“You got it, Tori.”
He drops a napkin next to my drink and heads off to the other side of the bar. I cup the glass with both hands and take a long gulp. The liquor slides down my throat in a sat
isfying rush. The resulting burn intensifies and then abates, a warm sensation flowing like lava from my chest to my stomach. I’m hopeful this is the first step toward oblivion. Pineapple upside-down cake, don’t fail me now.
“Is this seat taken?” a man’s voice to my right asks.
Shit. I’m not in the mood to fend off someone this early in my vacation. My mistake, though. I should have ordered room service and thrown a pity party in my pj’s.
I peer into my martini glass. “That seat’s not taken. Nor is the one next to it. Or the one next to that one.”
My voice is low and husky, irritation laced with a layer of “Get lost, dude.”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t want to sit next to you,” he says. “I was just hoping to snag the stool.”
Good cover, I suppose. Without raising my head, I give him a dismissive wave. “It’s all yours then.”
“Boyfriend not showing up anytime soon?”
Ha. Hardly. “Definitely not.” And this is beginning to sound like the worst pickup attempt in the history of pickup attempts. With the cocktail still in hand and poised to connect with my lips, I turn to give my would-be harasser the “say anything else and you die” stare. My eyes cross instead. Him. Momentarily confused, I drop my head and bump my mouth against the rim of the glass. Damn. That’s going to leave a mark. My gaze whips up to his face. “You.”
“Yes, it’s me,” my skinny, icy-eyed seatmate says.
“Okay, this is super creepy. You know that, right? I mean, I meet you on a plane and now you’re asking if it’s okay to take the chair next to mine? What gives?”
He tilts his head and considers me. His cool gaze doesn’t stray from my eyes, and I really want to squirm. My muscles go rigid as I wait for him to say something. Finally, he quirks his lips as if he knows something I don’t. Then he lifts the stool. As he walks away, he says, “I didn’t follow you here, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
That’s exactly what I was thinking. “You’re telling me this is nothing more than a coincidence, then?”
“Exactly,” he says over his shoulder.
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
“Sorry to bother you. Have a nice evening.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I observe him plant the stool behind me, next to a table—with no chairs.
I guess if he wanted to sit at the table he would need the stool. But my suspicious nature nevertheless refuses to believe his presence here is pure happenstance.
His cell phone rings, and the background noises fade as I try to listen in on his end of the conversation. Who’s the stalker now, Tori?
“Yes, Jewel,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. I never should have doubted you.”
A bit of silence as he listens to the person. Then, “No, hell, no. I’m not saying that.”
He inhales deeply and lets out a long, slow breath. “Fine. You are a phenomenal personal assistant,” he says, and then he mumbles, “my PPA for sure. Are we done here?”
The person on the other end of the line cackles—so loudly I hear it despite the hum of the island music and bar chatter around me.
My seatmate—his name escapes me—then says, “Enough with the crabs already. And yes, you’ve more than earned your two days off by scoring me reservations at the perfect resort. Good-bye.”
He ends the call and slides the phone across the table as though he’s willing himself not to pick it up.
If someone made these reservations for him, I suppose it’s unlikely he stalked me from the plane. Dammit. Looks like an apology is in order. And what’s a fate worse than standing idle on a plane as I wait to disembark?
Yep, you guessed it: admitting I made a mistake.
I trudge to his table, where he sits with his back to me. He straightens his shoulders when my shadow appears, and of course I should say something, but I’m transfixed by the soft waves of his inky-black hair. I’m not inclined to reach out and touch the strands. I’m not. But I press my hands together anyway, just in case my brain engages in mutiny.
My throat doesn’t cooperate when I open my mouth to speak.
He turns his head in my direction. “To quote someone I don’t know, ‘This is super creepy. You know that, right?’”
His humor and the shaky smile he gives me break the logjam of awkwardness.
I sidle up to his bar table and rest my hands on it. “Look, I shouldn’t have assumed you were a stalker. I’m sorry about that.”
He points his thumb behind his shoulder in the bar’s direction. “That just then, or the lie you told me on the plane?”
“What?”
“On the plane, you claimed to be meeting someone at an undisclosed-to-you location. That wasn’t true, right?”
“Not that you’re entitled to that info, but yes, you’re right. I’m not apologizing for that, though. You don’t ask a woman traveling alone where she’s staying.”
He pretends to scribble something on a nonexistent sheet of paper. “I’ve made a note of that in my book of small-talk etiquette. Thanks for the tip.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and debate what to say while he pretends not to care whether I disappear altogether. I mean, yes, he’s picked up his phone and appears to be unable to draw his eyes away from it, but his shoulders are almost touching his ears, suggesting he’s tense and waiting for my next move. Typically, I’d say something snide or sarcastic and ensure that my seatmate never speaks to me again. But he’s done nothing to suggest that he’s a bad guy, and for a moment on the plane, he’d almost charmed the panties off me. Plus, I’ve discovered that drinking alone is a drag. I could use his company. If nothing else, having him around will ward off any weirdos. “Come join me at the bar. I’ll buy you a drink.”
My voice is frustratingly tentative when I hold out the olive branch. This guy unbalances me, and worse, I don’t understand why.
“Do you even remember my name, Tori-not-short-for-Victoria?”
“I don’t. Sorry.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and purses his lips. “I’m hurt. The name’s Carter. Carter Williamson.” His eyes remain shut as though the revelation that I don’t remember his name truly offends him.
Right. It comes back to me then. “Hey, Carter-I-won’t-forget-your-name-again-Williamson.”
My pronouncement earns me a smile and a quick once-over. “That’s great to hear,” he says. “But I think I’ll pass on the drink.”
It takes me more than a few seconds to register that he’s turned me down. Huh. I gather he’s still pissed that I lied to him about my companion, but I don’t care. Move on, Tori. You’re not meant to be friends with him.
I stride back to the bar and plop down on the stool. “Damon, let’s cancel the fancy cocktail order. A row of vodka shots instead, please. Preferably the good stuff.”
Damon stops wiping the bar counter and drapes the towel over his shoulder. “You sure about that?”
“Very.”
Damon makes a show of preparing the shots, his broad chest and arms flexing as he reaches for the glasses and a slim bottle of vodka. He draws an audience, the people standing near the bar gathering around for the entertainment.
After a spiral toss in the air, he spins and catches the bottle behind his back. The crowd cheers. Never breaking eye contact with me, he unscrews the cap, pours the vodka, and places the shot near my clasped hands. “As you wish.”
With deft hands, I slide the rim of the glass across my lips. I take a deep breath before I down the entire shot, and then I breathe out, slamming the glass on the counter. The small group of revelers roars with approval. One down, six more to go.
Damon shakes his head, his eyes lighting up with humor. “Not a novice, I see.”
“Certainly not.”
I demolish the second shot in a similar fashion, and the warmth that’s spreading in my belly makes me sway to the beat of the band’s steel drums.
Carter drags his stool to the counter
, the scraping sound interrupting my hard-earned buzz. His face—a challenging jigsaw puzzle of sharp edges, hollow cheeks, and intense eyes—compresses into a look of concern. “Tori, you might want to—”
“Oh no!” I say as I shrink away from him.
He flinches. “What?”
“You have the telltale posture of a mansplainer. Body leaning forward. An elbow on the bar. The pointed finger. You were going to say something about my alcohol tolerance, weren’t you?”
A flush works its way across his cheeks as he drops his jaw. Then he snaps his mouth shut and grins.
Pointing an accusing finger, I smirk at him. “I knew it. Don’t worry, Carter. I can handle it.” I look him up and down, and he straightens under my assessing gaze. “In fact, I bet I could outdrink you any day.”
With my challenge issued, his composure returns. Shifting in his seat to face me, he places the balls of his feet on the bottom rung of my stool. “You really think you can outdrink me?”
I paste on a bright, fuck-yeah smile. “Yup.”
“How would we determine that?”
“The first person to beg for mercy, or fall flat on his face, loses.”
“And what would I get if I took you up on that bet and won?”
I size him up: the scruffy beard, the adorable cowlick, the shy smile. “I’ll help you catch the attention of someone . . . man, woman, or both.”
“A woman,” he offers.
I shrug as I caress my empty glass. “Whatever works for you.”
His mouth drops open as he watches me. Finally, he draws back and shakes his head. “So you think I need help picking up a woman?”
“Let’s just say my help couldn’t hurt.”
“You’re cute.”
He says that as though he knows it will annoy me. And it does. He vacillates between being tentative and bold, and I can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t know which version of himself he wants to be. This is more than I want to think about during my vacation, though. “Okay, John Grizzly Adams. Never mind.”
His hand drops over mine in a flash. “No, no. I’m intrigued. What do you want in the unlikely event that I lose?”
