The Red Bikini

by Lauren Christopher

“God, no.”

  Her expression remained dubious. “Fin?”

  “No. I got it in Mexico a long time ago.” He told her the whole story, about the woman with the burned legs, and even dug out the man’s ring from the ashtray to show her the original purchase. But he left out the part about the hundred bucks, not wanting to seem like a complete sap, just saying he paid a little extra.

  Giselle nodded, seemingly satisfied, then grabbed the door handle.

  “Uh . . . there’s one more thing,” he said.

  “There’s more?”

  “One more detail. It’s a bit crazy.”

  “Crazier than the fact that we’re supposed to be engaged?”

  “You’re a baker.”

  “What?”

  “A famous one.”

  “A famous baker?”

  “You write cookbooks and you sell cookies all over the world. You’re like Mrs. Fields, only newer and hipper.”

  Her eyebrows knit. “Because . . .”

  “Fox—for some godforsaken reason—blurted out at the last contract negotiation that I was ‘settling down’ with the next Mrs. Fields. When you came in with those cookies at Rabbit’s, I just thought . . .”

  Her face fell. She turned back toward the handle as if she couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.

  “Wait, Giselle.” Did he say something wrong? Was it just too much? “If you don’t want to go through with this, I understand.”

  She settled back down and stared into her lap. The sadness in her face, the slump of her shoulders, made his chest clench. . . . He was an asshole. She was trying to be someone else, and he was forcing her back into a role she probably didn’t want to play anymore. He stared out the window and tried to figure out how to fix this.

  “Is Fox the cool vice president?” she asked.

  He paused. Was she considering this? “Yes.”

  “I’m not doing some kind of cooking demo, am I?” She avoided his eyes, but didn’t look quite as horrified.

  “No, nothing like that. But someone might ask what you do.”

  “All right, then,” she said, opening the door. “Let’s go. While we’re walking, you can tell me the rest of our story.”

  He was so relieved that the slump to her shoulders was gone, so grateful she was agreeing, and so amazed that a woman like this would help him, he simply blew out a breath and followed her through the parking lot.

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  "So how long have we been dating?” Giselle said, slipping her fingertips into the crook of Fin’s arm.

  Her disappointment continued to fall around her at each crunch of gravel beneath her heels, but she smoothed her sensible dress and glanced at him for an answer.

  “A couple of months?” he said.

  She nodded and slipped her hand farther into the fabric. This was the fourth or fifth time she’d held his arm already, despite having known him less than thirty-six hours. Yet it felt strangely comfortable. And it kept sending a shiver through her as she felt the ball of his biceps beneath the suit fabric.

  His body was rigid as they made their way through the parking lot. It probably took a lot out of him to give her that ring—to have any kind of hint at having a fiancée. He kept averting his eyes. Normally, she would have been irritated that he hadn’t told her all of it from the beginning, but she figured she’d put him through some hoops, too. They were both just doing their best, grasping at something in each of their lives that was slipping away, each with what reserve they had left.

  “Do I own a local business or national?”

  “Local, but you’re thinking about expanding; you just moved here.”

  “From where?”

  “Wherever you want.” He glanced down at her. “Want to say Indiana? Make things easier?”

  “Perfect.”

  She watched her footsteps to make sure she didn’t slip, and he slowed so she could maneuver the steps in her high heels. The evening’s honey-colored light made the pebbles around the shrubbery sparkle like metal.

  “How did we meet?”

  “Through Rabbit?”

  She nodded.

  “You were here in California, scouting a new location, and he invited you to a party I was having.” He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and glanced at it. The bandage on his nose and the start of the black eye, along with the tuxedo, made him seem like a tough, young James Bond.

  “What about Coco?” she whispered.

  “Yes, I’m marrying into a family.”

  Another shiver shot straight to her fingertips at the ease with which he said that, right before he slipped his cell phone back into his pocket. Silly, she reprimanded herself. Get ahold of yourself. He was spinning this story as he thought of it, not having romantic visions. He only picked her because of her cookies.

  She tightened her grip as they crested the top. The sounds of an orchestra billowed across the courtyard. Strands of tiny white lights swung against the surrounding trees, sparkling against the light blue sky and lending the terrace a theatrical feel. Clusters of people milled on the concrete, all in tuxedos or long gowns of silky fabric. An ocean breeze swept along her ankles.

  Giselle smoothed her dress against her thigh. Thank goodness she’d changed out of the fiery red number. Fin was right—it wouldn’t have fit in at all.

  “Fast engagement. When are we supposed to be getting married?” she whispered.

  “Let’s keep that part vague.”

  “Spoken like a man.”

  Fin chuckled. His shoulders relaxed, and her own hand softened, too.

  “Finnegan Hensen,” came a booming voice from their right.

  “Mr. Randolph.” Fin held out his hand to a balloon-shaped man with clusters of white hair around his ears.

  “What the hell happened to your face, son? Don’t tell me you got clocked by a board?” Mr. Randolph turned to a colleague beside him and pointed at Fin. “This is our wet-suit model. We have to protect this investment.” He laughed and gave Fin a fatherly hug. “We’re going to have to move you to Mahina flip-flops if you don’t watch that face of yours.”

  “Mr. Randolph, I’d like you to meet Giselle . . . McCabe.” Fin’s hesitation over her name was barely noticeable, but Giselle almost laughed. He didn’t even know her last name. He’d simply attached the name he knew as Lia’s. She bit back her amusement, but it was starting to mingle with worry.

  “Lovely meeting you,” she said.

  Mr. Randolph pumped her hand with an enthusiasm that didn’t seem warranted, then refused to let go as he turned to wave down a companion. “Let me introduce you to . . .” He waved again. A slender, silver-haired woman in an eggplant-colored suit caught his greeting and approached. “Donna! I want you to meet someone.”

  Giselle’s eyes met Fin’s. Donna? The corner of Fin’s mouth quirked up as he focused on his shoes.

  “Donna, this is Fin’s friend, Giselle McCabe. Giselle, meet my wife, Donna.”

  Another silvery couple came up behind them, the man clapping Fin on the back and asking about his face. The evening breezes ruffled through the trees, and sent the lights dancing to the orchestra. A distant scent of night jasmine drifted up around them. Giselle kept shaking hands with new couples from the board of directors—all with white or silvery hair—until one of the women in a wildly patterned scarf noticed her ring.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, taking Giselle’s hand and holding it up. “Tom, look.” She gazed into Giselle’s eyes with interest. “Is this what I think it is?”

  Giselle swallowed. She glanced at Fin while words and lies eluded her.

  Fin met Giselle’s gaze and smiled grimly, as if this were all a runaway train he couldn’t stop. His face grew ruddy.

  “When did you get engaged?” the woman asked Fin.

  He cleared hi
s throat. “A little while ago.”

  “Oh! How romantic!” Another older woman grasped Giselle’s hand and turned toward Fin. “I’m so happy for you. It seems like we just met—” She moved her hand as if to call a name out of her memory, but then flushed in embarrassment. “Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re so happy for you, Fin. We’ve been hoping you would settle down soon. You two make a dashing couple.”

  “Thanks.” Fin avoided Giselle’s eyes while the orchestra grew louder. A metallic sound clanged behind them, and they all turned to see the huge steel doors of the gallery swinging open.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said in a rush, resting his fingertips at the small of her back.

  Fin pressed her forward, slipping his fingers just low enough to send goose bumps down her back. She couldn’t remember ever having a man touch her there, not even her ex, who didn’t like public displays of affection. Fin glanced down at her right then, his eyes dark.

  “Thank you,” he said into her ear.

  The low whisper of his voice sent a chill across her neckline. She wanted to meet his eyes, decipher that darkness, but a balding man in a dapper tuxedo whirled toward them as they crowded through the doors and shouted to Giselle to ask whether she liked art.

  “I do,” she admitted, tearing her eyes away from Fin. “I always like learning more about it.” She enunciated everything clearly, since the man’s decibel level hinted that he was hard of hearing.

  “What kind of art do you like?” the balding gentleman continued.

  Giselle tried to concentrate, ignoring Fin’s fingertips at the top of her panty line. She wondered what he was thinking. She wondered whether his eyes went navy because he was uncomfortable, or because he was grateful, or for some other reason she had yet to learn. She had the vague notion he might look that way in bed, and a runaway fantasy flitted through her head and made her drop her gaze before anyone could see her blush.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met an Impressionist painting I didn’t like,” she said.

  The man nodded with enthusiasm. “Are you familiar with California Impressionists?”

  Another gentleman pulled Fin away as soon as they shuffled into the glass-walled lobby, wrapping an arm over his shoulders in a fatherly gesture, and Fin broke away, leaving a coolness at the curve of her spine.

  “I’m from Indiana,” she enunciated to the balding man, “so if there are California Impressionist paintings here, that would be a real treat.”

  “Oh, you’re in for a delight,” he shouted. “There are amazing California Impressionists on the second floor. Let me take you.”

  As Giselle followed him toward a circular marble staircase, she glanced back at Fin, who had kept her in his radar as soon as they separated. He raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  Another well-dressed gentleman—this one a bit younger than the other board members—approached Fin from behind like a shark and clapped him on the back.

  “Hey, Fox,” she heard Fin say as he turned away.

  Giselle left Fin surrounded by several other tuxedoed men, who began laughing boisterously. She followed the balding man, who reminded her a bit of a condor and whose name turned out to be Turner, to see the California Impressionists.

  She’d make her own impression.

  For Fin.

  • • •

  Fin watched Giselle glide up the staircase with Mr. Turner and felt a strange rush of relief and gratitude, combined with a terrible discomfort, all at once. An emotional cocktail. He turned back to Mahina’s VP and did his best to smile.

  “Fuck!” Fox frowned. “What the hell happened to your face?”

  “Would you believe I got hit by a door?”

  “Would you?”

  Fin smirked. He liked Fox. He was the contract VP, so Fin worked with him most. They’d been working together since Fin was about twenty-one—the year Fox started at Mahina. Fox himself was probably only twenty-nine at the time, and Fin was his first contract. They’d hit it off from the start, and—even though they had to maintain a professional relationship in contract negotiations—in their off-hours, Fox would invite himself surfing with Fin, or they’d knock back a couple of Coronas at the beach bars on the weekend. Fox had always seen something in Fin that went well beyond what he could do in the water. And Fin had been eternally grateful.

  Now, however, he stared at Fin in disbelief. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Honestly. It was a door.”

  Fox shook his head. “I’ll tell people you got hit by a board.”

  “That’s what Randolph concocted anyway.”

  “You’re a fucker. Are you trying to make my job hard?”

  The main-level exhibit was modern art, and the two of them wandered through the sculptures, their dress shoes shuffling along the travertine. The sky was turning a brighter orange behind the glass walls, providing a quiet illumination for the shining materials in the artwork.

  “Good job on the date, though. She’s beautiful,” Fox said.

  Fin nodded once, not wanting to say any more. He didn’t want to perpetuate this lie. But Fox said he knew what he was doing. He wanted Fin to get the contract with Mahina—more than he wanted Caleb to get it, or any of the other new “pissers,” as Fox called them. But Mr. Makua, the company owner, had issues with Fin’s behavior over the past few months. Mr. M had worried that Fin was too depressed to compete, and that he’d never rally back. But Fox had been willing to bet otherwise. And Fin was grateful for that.

  They stopped in front of a red-copper twisted structure, raised on a pedestal in the middle of the floor, illuminated from its base.

  “I don’t understand this stuff,” said Fox, shrugging.

  “I don’t think it’s part of our job description.”

  “Thank God.” Fox waved down the waiter with the wine tray and snagged two off the edge.

  They moved toward another piece made out of painted license plates.

  “Make sure to have your picture taken with her, okay?”

  Fin nodded.

  “And make sure they get your left side.”

  Fin nodded again. But this felt wrong. He felt like a sellout. He felt like a liar for maneuvering photos, faking his acceptance. And he felt bad, all of a sudden, for using Giselle.

  “You’re still heading out to South Africa for the Ballito competition?” Fox asked.

  Fin managed to get another sip of chardonnay around the sudden tumbleweed in his throat. “Yep.”

  “Do you think you’ll do well?” Fox asked.

  Fin studied another piece of sculpture that resembled a female form. He should. He’d won it before. But, given his strange year of losses after Jennifer, he really wasn’t sure.

  “I should do all right.”

  “Mr. Makua might delay your contract until you compete there. And win.”

  Fin stared at him.

  “I know. It sucks. You’ll have to get back on the tour to get the contract, I’m thinking. You’ll have to win Ballito, and probably the U.S. Open, too. Sorry, Fin. It’s the best I could do.”

  Fuck. Fin shook his head. He didn’t know whether he could win both of those.

  “And, you know, you’ll have to be on good behavior,” Fox said, low. “How’s the drinking?”

  “It’s . . . under control.”

  The phrase “your contract” was still hanging there like a carrot—at least he thought he’d heard it. But he switched his thinking to follow Fox’s train of thought.

  “We just need to know you’re stable, Fin. We don’t need to be employing another Caleb Anderson. His year in jail killed us.”

  “I understand.”

  “No more benders, wild parties in Bali . . .”

  “No.”

  “No arrests, no fights . . .”

  “No.”

 
“No more fucking black eyes . . .”

  “Got it.”

  They shuffled into the next gallery, where a small crowd had gathered. They stood behind the others, eyeing the splotchy paintings on the walls.

  Fox regarded him with sympathy. “Look,” he said, his voice dropping. “I know you’re not the asshole the press is making you out to be, but they’re ripping you up, man.”

  Fin nodded.

  “You being a loner all these years—it’s not doing you a bit of good. Get out there if you can, but doing . . . you know . . . good things. Show off your Surfrider Foundation work, or talk about your Make-A-Wish stuff. Talk about how you’re financing that kid’s surf school. . . . Or be seen with people like her.” He nodded back in the direction of the staircase again.

  “Her name’s Giselle.” A wave of irritation rode through Fin.

  Fox shot him a sideways glance.

  Fin didn’t do the environmental work or the Make-A-Wish work to show it off; he did it because he wanted to. And having to posture for the public—when all he wanted to be judged on was how he surfed—was making his skin crawl.

  “Listen, man.” Fox turned toward him. “I know this is fucked-up. But this is part of the game. I hate it, too, but I’ve been playing for years. It’s all about image now, Hensen. Sorry, but true.” They circled an orange sculpture made of rods. “Introduce your lovely lady to Mr. Makua.”

  “Giselle.”

  A strange smile crept across Fox’s face. “Of course. Introduce her. And do well in Ballito. And the Open. I need you back on board, man.” He clapped Fin on the shoulder as the board of directors’ treasurer, Pete Wilkins, approached from the side. Before Fin could press for more details on the contract, Fox sauntered away, deep in discussion with Pete.

  Left alone amid the marble, Fin drained the rest of his glass and turned to find Giselle.

  • • •

  From the second-floor landing, Giselle watched Fin take the stairs with his hand in his trouser pocket, all elegance and fine lines, with the little bit of roughness in his battered face. But this time there was a strange, distant shot of anxiety. She smiled at Mr. Turner’s description of the painting they admired.