The Red Bikini

by Lauren Christopher

  “Dan Manfield?”

  “I think that’s what she said.”

  “Dan the Man?”

  “I guess so. . . . That’s who Rabbit thought it was. . . .”

  But Fin was already staring out past the guests, a look of incredulousness on his face.

  A tuxedoed man stepped out to the entrance to a set of double doors where dinner was being held, ringing a bell in the orange lobby light, while guests began funneling into the room in a swirl of haloed gowns and tuxedoed legs.

  Fin watched them vacantly. “Dan the Man?” He frowned at her again.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yeah,” he said, but then shook his head. He took her elbow and steered her toward the stairs. “I should get you home.”

  He directed her through the set of doors on the opposite side of the lobby, cradling her elbow as if he were directing an elderly aunt.

  A lump rose in Giselle’s throat at how quickly he seemed to want to get rid of her now. She was probably too matronly for words. Maybe he was used to young and exuberant bikini models, thrilled to be near a famous surfer. Maybe they did things like sneak him out here among these patios, finding hidden railings and pressing him against them to kiss him, pushing their hands through his tousled hair. Maybe they touched his crotch while he was driving, leaning in and smiling suggestively. Maybe they took their underwear off and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

  Giselle glanced at the outdoor rail as they shuffled past. It seemed pretty cold and metallic.

  She inspected the front of her dress, trying to remember what underwear she was wearing, wondering whether she could manage to get it off. But she remembered it was a very plain, dull white—cotton, nonetheless—it wouldn’t look very sexy sticking out of his pocket. Plus she’d never in a million years get it off gracefully like his bikini models probably could.

  The temperature had dropped about ten degrees when they stepped out, and Giselle completed the image of the elderly aunt by tugging her sweater over her shoulders. She didn’t care anymore. Fin pressed her toward the parking lot, and she did her best to keep up, her lungs filling with salt air and despair.

  When they got near the car, he beeped it open, but then stopped, his hand on her door handle. He stared at it as if he weren’t sure what he wanted to do next. Their breaths were coming short and harsh. A few crickets were making an early-evening trill.

  “Giselle—” He studied his shoes then, as if deciding whether he wanted to say what was on his mind.

  Then he ran his hand down his face.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  Fin punched through six or seven songs in the car, then leaned back to something loud and cutting. He knew Giselle wouldn’t like this song, but he needed to get rid of her now. She was just reminding him of what a jerk he was. And obviously Lia thought so, too.

  Dan the Man?

  What was Lia thinking?

  Clearly she wasn’t thinking of him.

  But he knew that, right? Why would Lia set her perfect, beautiful sister up with a loser like him when she could instead set her up with . . . Dan the Man?

  Dan Manfield was the local real-estate-agent-turned-investor mogul. Everyone in Sandy Cove knew him—he had his mug plastered all over the place. He was about two hundred years old, but rich . . . steady . . . smart . . . stable. . . .

  Damn. Fin pulled his driver’s-side visor down as low as it could go against the assaulting setting sun. Those were the things Giselle said she’d wanted in a husband, weren’t they? And why was he upset about this?

  He jabbed his way to a Van Halen song and sat back into the seat.

  “Are you mad at me?” she whispered.

  He frowned. “Of course not.” I want to take you home and fuck you. But he bit his Neanderthal tongue and looked away.

  He needed to get out of this mess now. She had served her purpose—just as he’d served a purpose for her—and now they needed to get out of each other’s way. He wanted her—suddenly desperately—but he knew he shouldn’t. Lia wanted her with someone like Dan. And how could Fin ever be any more than a lay anyway? And he was leaving for South Africa in three days, and she was going back to Indiana. Certainly Giselle deserved more than that, especially right after being jilted.

  “I can go with you tomorrow night if it’ll help,” she said quietly.

  “No.” He took a deep breath and loosened his bow tie. He needed to stop acting like an ass. But he really had to get rid of her. Every second in her company was giving him another chance to be the jerk he didn’t want to be.

  He also needed to stop thinking about her going out with Dan. The jealousy that was engulfing his ears right now was a strange and loathsome new feeling for him.

  But first he needed to feed her. He hadn’t thought this part through. What kind of asshole invites a woman to do him a favor, plies her with booze, then takes her home with no dinner? Trouble was, he didn’t know where to bring her. Sitting across from Giselle at a table for two—where he could stare at her cupid-bow lips and the way her breasts rose when she sighed—might be the end of his good manners tonight. He tried to think of a place nearby where they could fill up and not sit too close together. . . .

  “What did you want to say back there—in the parking lot?” she asked.

  He glanced at her. The parking lot? Oh. He shook his head. He hadn’t known, really. He’d been about to apologize, he supposed. Or maybe tell her how much he appreciated her being so great with Mr. M. Or maybe lean her against the car and kiss her again until neither of them could think. He wasn’t sure which way it was going to go.

  “It seems you have trouble expressing yourself,” she said. “Sometimes it’s best to just blurt out what’s on your mind. That’s what I always tell Coco.”

  He slid her a sidelong glance. “You don’t want me to blurt out what’s on my mind, Giselle.”

  He needed to shut this conversation down. An apology took on a vague form in his mind, like a vapor trying to materialize. He’d had fun with her these two days, and she’d helped him. She was sweet, and good-hearted—she certainly didn’t deserve to be shuffled out of an event like that. He loosened his tie to tug it out of his collar and tried to formulate how he was going to say this.

  “It’s because I’m too old, right?” she said softly.

  He set the tie in his cup holder and frowned. “What?”

  “You don’t want to bring me tomorrow night because I’m too old and matronly.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I mean, I’m a decade older than you, and—”

  “You are not.”

  “I am.”

  “You are not. How old are you?”

  “Some fiancé you turned out to be.”

  He smiled, despite himself. “Yeah, I suppose I should ask some of these things beforehand, like your last name and general decade of birth. But really, how old are you? You’re not forty.”

  “You’re not thirty.”

  “I’m twenty-nine . . . almost.”

  “I’m thirty-five . . . already.”

  He shook his head. “Well, math was never my thing, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t add up to a decade.”

  “It’s close enough.”

  “It’s not close at all.”

  She turned away, toward her window, allowing the now-setting sun to illuminate the side of her face in goldenrod as they sped down the freeway.

  “It’s six years,” he said gently. “How is this making sense to you?”

  “It just matters.”

  Thirty-five? Didn’t bother him in the least. And obviously other parts of his body didn’t care, either. But this discussion, as amusing as it was, was getting him nowhere. He was not going to seduce her. A
nd bringing her tomorrow night would just test his limits.

  But the expression of “failure” on her face was starting to kill him. It reminded him of her devastated eyes when they were sitting at the church and she was glancing at the hot number next to her ex.

  “I should take you somewhere to eat,” he offered.

  She blinked back surprise, maybe at the turn the conversation just took. “That’s not necessary. I have fish sticks at home in the freezer.”

  “I’m not dropping you off to have frozen fish sticks, Giselle.”

  “This isn’t a real date, Fin. It’s fine.”

  A wave of anger, or guilt, or some such thing rose from his collar. The tiny tuxedo button was stubborn, but he managed it loose. He hit his blinker and merged furiously. Logic forced him to acknowledge that he wasn’t angry at Giselle—he knew that—but he couldn’t quite corral all the other things he was angry at. He was angry at himself, for making Giselle feel even the remotest sense of the insecurity that her ex had made her feel. He was angry at Fox, for wanting him to play to the public just to prove he wasn’t an asshole. He was angry at Lia, for not wanting to set him up with Giselle. And even angrier at himself that Lia was right—he wasn’t capable of dating Giselle. Dating was what normal people did—people who didn’t have careers that took them around the world for forty weeks of the year. It was what you did when you wanted to get to know someone better, in hopes that you might carve out a possible future with this person where you both resided on the same continent. His version of “dating” had deteriorated into flat-out sex. Ten years of one-night stands with groupies in other countries and women like Catalina and Veronica, who waited for him for the few weeks he’d be in the U.S. for the year, but never pretended to have feelings for him.

  He sped off the freeway, cutting off a bright red Mercedes, whose driver promptly leaned on the horn, and headed toward Sandy Cove Pier, where he could hopefully get her some food, get this night over with, and walk her home. He didn’t quite know how to deal with all the anger, resentment, sadness, sexual frustration, jealousy, loneliness, and embarrassment. It felt like every emotion he’d been tamping down over the last year—or, who was he kidding, over the last ten years—was simmering under the surface of his skin.

  All tracing back to Giselle.

  Who he wanted to be with, and get rid of, at the same time . . .

  Damn.

  CHAPTER

  Thirteen

  Giselle maneuvered down the sandy sidewalks onto the wooden slats of Sandy Cove Pier. Alone. The sun was beginning to set, and the light blue wooden rails of the pier stood out against the pink-orange sky.

  She put her name in at the place Fin told her, The Captain’s Hull, the only restaurant on the pier. It sat teetering above the waves on wooden pylons that held it over the lapping foam of the ocean. Fin had offered several excuses for why he should drop her off to put their names in, but it was becoming clearer and clearer that he wanted to spend as little time with her as possible.

  Giselle wandered down the uneven wooden pier to begin the wait, then drifted toward the right-side rail where she could lean over and see nine wet-suit-clad bodies bobbing in the ocean, waiting with hopeful expressions for evening waves. The wind picked up the farther down the pier she walked, whipping tendrils out of her chignon.

  She leaned against the rail and twisted Fin’s turquoise ring around her finger as she tried to ignore the tightening in her chest. It was the same tightening she always felt when she knew she was letting someone down.

  She’d had a wonderful time with Fin these two days—despite the bizarre circumstances. She’d loved every touch of his fingers against the small of her back, every glance he gave her from beneath his bangs, every flex of his muscles when she held his arm, and especially the way his eyes had lingered over her tonight. It had been such a thrill to have a man gaze at her that way for the first time in so long. And especially this man—this hunky, golden, chiseled man, who had youth and energy breathing through his fingertips. It was sad to have it end this way. She wasn’t sure whether she’d let him down, said something wrong, or if he was just cutting the attentive act he’d been pretending for forty-eight hours. Either way, it was clear he wanted to be rid of her now.

  Which reminded her of Roy.

  Why did she have this effect on men?

  She took the ring off and pressed it into her palm as she gazed at the surf. Seagulls called overhead, and she could smell bonfires starting up in the sand. Her mouth felt like it was filled with cotton.

  When Fin approached from behind, about fifteen minutes later, he stood well apart from her.

  “You should take this back.” She held out the ring.

  A few beats went by where Fin stared at it, almost as if he didn’t recognize it, but then a light dawned. “No, you keep it.”

  “I can’t keep it, Fin. It’s yours.”

  “No. Just . . . keep it.” Guilt or maybe some kind of sadness etched his features. “How long is our wait?”

  “They said thirty minutes.” She reluctantly put the ring in her purse.

  The surfers were lined up where the waves broke, and she tried to focus on the beauty of the rugged palm-tree-dotted coastline of Sandy Cove. The horizon was a distant line, separating the orange sky from the blue ocean, and the fiery sun was dropping steadily. Thin rows of clouds were colored like rainbow sherbet.

  Ignoring the sunset, Fin watched the surfers, who continued to bob on their boards, waiting for waves that were barely rolling in.

  “They’re not going to get much,” he mumbled, pushing up his sleeves. He still wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he took a deep breath and leaned into the rail, tugging at the black-corded bracelet that had been under his shirtsleeve.

  “Listen, Giselle . . .” He licked his lips and studied the ocean. “I’m sorry for rushing you out of there tonight.”

  He started to say more, but then closed his mouth and ran his hand over his jaw. Giselle stayed quiet with hope he’d continue. She hoped she hadn’t let him down. The wind rushed up again from beneath the pier, and she smoothed tendrils of hair away from her lips.

  “I felt bad I was”—he shook his head—“making you pretend to be something you’re not. I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t be pretending I’m something I’m not, and I shouldn’t be dragging you to do the same.” He stared at the ocean, seemingly drained already from so many words.

  Relief swept through her. Maybe Fin hadn’t been angry—maybe he’d simply felt guilty, the same way she had at her event.

  “That’s how I felt when we were at the church,” she said. “I felt terrible for bringing you to the funeral, and making you lie.”

  “I didn’t mind that, though.”

  “I didn’t mind this. I felt bad for asking you to lie, and to be someone you weren’t.”

  “The dude who drove the surf van?”

  She laughed. “Right.”

  “I didn’t mind that, though. But this—I was asking you to play a role you were uncomfortable with.”

  “Honestly, Fin, it’s fine. I had fun. And I’d really like to go tomorrow, if you want me to. It might help with your contract, meeting your boss and—”

  But he was already shaking his head and turning back toward the ocean. He rested his arms along the rail. “I can’t bring you, Giselle.”

  She straightened. She tried not to think about why he didn’t want to bring her, and—more important—not to care. But she couldn’t. All of her insecurities rose like the ocean wind, and she felt frozen, her chest tightening, standing there watching the orange sun sink into the sea. Fin was saying the same thing Roy had: You didn’t let me down, but I can’t be near you anymore. She didn’t understand what was wrong with her. She wanted to slip through the pier slats.

  The sherbet light threw shadows across his face as he glanced at her acro
ss his shoulder and then did a double take. “Giselle.” He squinted at her. “Whatever you’re thinking right now—that’s not the reason.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “Based on your expression, I’ve got a pretty good guess.”

  She tried to rearrange her face, but ended up just turning away because it was too exhausting.

  “You’ve got that beaten-down look you have when your ex is around,” he mumbled.

  Giselle’s spine stiffened. Beaten down? “Is that how I come across?” She could hear a note of anger rise in her voice.

  “Only around him.”

  Giselle was stunned into silence. No one had ever told her that before. She wondered whether this was what Lia saw, too. And Noelle. And their mother. She wondered, with horror, whether Coco saw it, too. . . .

  “Look, Giselle, that’s the last thing I want you to be feeling at the end of our night—whatever it is your ex makes you feel. I think he’s an asshole for making you so insecure about yourself that you want to be someone else. So, to make sure I’m not doing the same thing, I’m going to admit a lot of stuff to you right now that I have no business saying out loud. I’m just going to blurt it out, like you said.”

  He glanced at the ocean as if summoning some kind of strength. “I’m not sure what all to admit to, here.” He ran his hand down his face. “I guess, for starters, I’ll admit I’ve been picturing you out of that dress for the last four hours.”

  Giselle’s breath hitched. She glanced up to make sure she’d heard him correctly.

  “And I’ll admit that the first time we talked, at the party, I couldn’t stop staring at your lips. You’ve got an incredibly sexy mouth.”

  Giselle’s hands began shaking.

  “And I asked you not to dress too sexy for my event, not because I thought the board members might not like it, but because I was afraid I’d be staring at your body all night. And that kiss in the parking lot?” He turned and caught her gaze, holding it hostage. “As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I think I even dreamed about it last night.” His attention drifted to her lips. As the seagulls cawed overhead, though, he looked away. “So if you’re thinking I don’t want to bring you tomorrow night because you’re too ‘old’ or that I’m not attracted to you, or any such foolishness, just . . . stop. Nothing could be further from the truth. I don’t want to bring you because I’m doing way too much thinking about how to get you into bed. And I shouldn’t.”