by Lila Monroe
He kisses my cheek. “I’m going to kill you,” I murmur quietly in his ear.
“Sure thing, peaches.” Ryan looks smug as hell.
My dad takes the whole thing in stride. Well,” he says, “Olivia’s always been tenacious.”
“That’s one word for it,” Ryan agrees. “One time, she even showed up at my apartment wearing a trench coat and nothing else—Wait,” he stops himself with a chuckle. “That’s a private story, isn’t it, doll?” he winks.
“Oh my God, Livvie, you animal!” Vanessa squeals. “I love it. Sometimes you just have to show them who’s boss, if you know what I mean.” She makes eyes at my dad. “We have a pair of handcuffs you can borrow if you want.”
It’s a good thing I haven’t eaten all day, because something would definitely be on the way back up right now.
“Good to know,” Ryan answers for me. “But Livvie likes it best when I take charge. Show her what a real man can do.”
I shove my fork into his thigh, and Ryan finally shuts up, but dammit if his words don’t make me blush.
Because the idea of Ryan bossing me around in bed?
It’s not the worst thing in the world.
In fact . . .
“Food’s here!” Vanessa thankfully breaks that train of thought, and conversation turns to more normal things, like wedding plans and football war stories. We finish the rest of brunch with no more major drama. Vanessa can’t get enough of Ryan—not surprising, since she’s never met a hot guy she didn’t like—asking him all about his plans for PowerBar and the celebrity athletes he knows, laying her hand on his muscular forearm and gazing into his eyes. I feel a weird hit of jealousy before I remember he and I aren’t actually together.
Then I just feel dumb.
Finally, my dad heads out to the valet and Vanessa toddles off to powder her nose, leaving Ryan and me alone at the table. “I think that went well,” he says pleasantly, stretching.
“Seriously?” I ask. “Was that fun for you?”
“It was, actually,” Ryan says, draining the rest of his beer and grinning at me. “I’m having a great day.” His gaze lingers on my bare shoulders an extra moment, and I feel myself blush.
“All right,” I say, trying to keep my voice professional. This is a business relationship, right? “That stupid twin bed is way too small, so we should probably set some ground rules about sleeping arrangements—”
I snap my jaws shut as I spy Vanessa out of the corner of my eye. Ryan spots her too, but instead of standing up so we can head outside he takes the opportunity to slide a hand behind my head and pulls me in for a kiss.
I burble against his mouth, surprised. Ryan draws back slightly and gives me a look, like we’re supposed to be selling this romance.
He’s right.
I close my eyes, and a moment later, he’s kissing me again.
And boy, is he kissing me.
Mmmm . . . His mouth is warm, and purposeful, and he tastes faintly of beer. My hands flutter absently before they finally land on his broad, solid chest. He’s an amazing kisser—just for a moment I forget what this is and the world narrows to only the two of us, and a surge of electricity I feel right between my legs.
When he finally pulls back I’m left blinking, shocked into silence, but Ryan is already smiling at Vanessa. “Oh hey,” he says, one hand still stroking my hair. “We didn’t see you there.”
Vanessa holds her hands up. “Don’t let me interrupt you lovebirds,” she coos, looking impressed.
Ryan grins. “Oh, we won’t,” he promises. And is it terrible that I hope he’s telling the truth?
Back at the house, my long day finally catches up with me and I let out an almighty yawn. “Tired?” Ryan asks.
I nod. “I’m thinking I might take a quick nap. I’ve been up since 4 a.m., and I’m dragging so hard that even the lumpy twin mattress in the pool shed sounds good to me.”
“Knock yourself out,” he says. “Me and Jagger here are going to get to know each other.”
The old lab is already panting at Ryan like he’s one of those groupies, so I slip out of my heels as I make my way across the deck, enjoying the warmth of the concrete on the soles of my feet as I head down to our love nest, aka the shed.
Then I freeze. The doors are thrown wide open, and everything that was in here this morning is gone—the old lamps with their fraying cords, the dusty CD player, even the treadmill.
Also: my suitcases.
No!
I hurry inside, and search around, but they’re nowhere to be seen. Ryan’s designer duffel bag is sitting right there on the bed, but as for my carefully-packed wardrobe—not to mention hair-styling tools, makeup, and accessories that I need to make it through not just all the wedding events, but Ryan’s investor schmoozing too?
Gone.
Please let this just be a mix-up. I race back into the main house, trying not to freak the hell out. Did we get robbed? Or are my things just in one of the guest-rooms now, moved by mistake? I search the house frantically, but there’s no sign of them.
So where the hell is my stuff?
The answer is right in front of me—upside down on her yoga mat, wearing a sports bra and tiny yoga shorts that could moonlight as a thong.
“Um, Vanessa,” I interrupt, trying to keep my voice even. “Have you seen my bags?”
“Shh,” Vanessa says, eyes closed and toes still pointed directly at the ceiling. “I’m chanting.”
“I see that,” I tell her, biting my tongue hard enough to taste blood. “But this is important. My suitcases were in the shed, but now they’re gone. I can’t find them anywhere.”
Vanessa keeps her eyes closed, so I’m not even sure she’s listening until finally she kicks herself forward and stands upright. “Whoopsie,” she says, with a little grin. “I called from the restaurant and had the groundskeepers clean out the cottage, just like you asked. I guess they got mixed up and thought your stuff was trash.”
I take a breath. “They thought my matching designer suitcases were trash?”
She shrugs. “Sorry?”
I can fix this, I promise myself. I can fix this. “Well, where would they have taken them?”
“The dump?” she guesses cheerily, then launches herself into another headstand. I would be impressed by her athletic balance—if I didn’t want to break every limb in her toned little body.
I stumble into the living room, my mind racing. Is she seriously saying that all my stuff is gone? I’m half tempted to call up the dump and then go rummage around to find them, but I can already tell, it’s no use. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that whatever mixed messages the crew got, they included instructions to sink my belongings so deep in the garbage I couldn’t find them with a submarine.
And there I was, thinking Vanessa was trying. Trying to drive me completely round the bend!
“Uh oh, what’s happened now?” Ryan comes strolling in with Jagger trotting happily behind. Clearly, they’re BFFs now, but I’m too stressed to appreciate it.
I quickly explain the situation. “All my stuff! Everything!” I groan. I’m not high-maintenance—OK, I’m not super-high-maintenance—but any woman will tell you it takes more than just soap and water and wishful thinking to look effortlessly put together. Every carefully planned outfit, all my makeup—hell, even my underwear. All sitting at the bottom of a swamp getting munched by gators as we speak.
“Can’t you just buy some new stuff?” Ryan asks. “I saw some stores in town, and it’s just a few days, right?”
“Sure,” I agree, trying not to laugh hysterically. It’s not even the bags, it’s the principle of the thing. Because Vanessa has just made it clear she’s out for blood.
And failing that, my super-luxe-retinol moisturizer.
God, why did I agree to this again? Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to get directly back on a plane to New York. “Only a few days,” I mutter, taking a deep breath. “I can do this.”
Jagger far
ts loudly in agreement.
6
Olivia
I wake with a luxurious stretch the next morning, starfished out on a king-sized mattress. Deliciously well-rested, and blissfully alone.
Now this is more like it.
After yesterday’s luggage debacle—and the macrobiotic mocktail hour on the veranda, and the revelation that one of Vanessa’s bridesmaids is a sleepwalker with a tendency toward physical violence—I put my foot down and checked us into a hotel near my dad’s. It has clean sheets, an ocean breeze, and a sizeable mini-bar, too. Ryan’s in the adjoining room in case anyone drops by, but that connecting door is staying locked shut.
Bliss.
I get dressed and call Alice, who’s holding the fort back in New York. “How’s it going up there?” I ask, switching to speakerphone while I do my makeup.
“All quiet,” she promises, and I can’t tell whether I’m imagining the hint of wistfulness in her voice. “I’m just running client research, taking messages. Everything’s totally under control. What about you?”
“Well, I made it through a whole day without melting down, so that’s something,” I sigh. “But faking happiness for my dad takes a lot of energy. At least I’ll get a break today,” I add. “We’re heading into Miami for Ryan’s big investor meetings. That, I can handle.”
“Of course you can,” Alice says loyally. “If you want, I can call ahead and book you some spa treatments at the hotel?”
“You’re the best,” I tell her, blotting my lipstick with a tissue. “I’ll bring you back a drink in a coconut.”
“I’d also accept a handsome fisherman,” she says with a laugh. “Have a good time.”
I’m just hanging up when there’s a knock on the connecting door between my room and Ryan’s. He eases it open with one theatrical hand clapped over his eyes. “You decent?” he calls.
“Come on in.”
Ryan lowers his hand, his face breaking into a grin. “That is . . . quite the ensemble.”
“Thank you.” I look down at my hot-pink tennis skirt and screaming-green Key West is for Lovers T-shirt, which I’ve paired oh-so-tastefully with yesterday’s nude pumps. “It was all they had at the gift shop. I’ll go shopping for real when we get to Miami.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, making a big show of checking me out. “I think you look kind of cute.”
“Uh-huh.” I laugh, and strike a pose. “Vanessa’s going to have a field day with this.”
“You’re sure she trashed your bags on purpose?” Ryan asks. “I don’t know, that sounds kind of . . .”
“Petty? Mean? Psychotic?” I finish for him. “Sounds about right to me! I know her, remember? She would pull this shit in college all the time. Once, she borrowed my favorite shirt, spilled wine and vomited all over it, then put it back in my closet and swore blind she’d never touched it. It literally had puke stains all down the front. She said maybe I’d blacked out I was so drunk and forgot!”
He laughs. “Well, remember I’m here as a buffer. If you feel like you’re going to say something you regret, just let me know. I’ll run interference.”
I pause, touched. “Thanks. I’m going to run down and get coffee before we go. Do you want anything?” I add.
“I already had my shake and went for a run,” he says.
“Of course you did.”
“Hey, just because I’m out of the game, doesn’t mean I don’t need to stay in shape.” He flexes and winks at me, and dammit if his body doesn’t look great in that cotton button-down and jeans. “Just let me just grab the rest of my stuff and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“See you down there.”
I exit the quaint, beach-front hotel and head down the block to the nearest coffee shop. It’s another hot, humid day, and when I catch sight of myself in the glass, I can see my hair is already puffing up to twice its normal size.
This is what happens when you take my super-smoothing de-frizz serum away.
I make another note on my phone to stock up when we hit Miami. Thanks to my control freak—I mean, super-organized habits, I made lists of everything to pack, which should make it easy to replace everything, at least. I’m just scrolling the list when I step into the coffee shop.
“Just an iced coffee, thanks.”
The voice makes me stop in my tracks. Is that . . . ?
I whip my head around, and there he is. Standing at the counter waiting for his order, dressed in a pale-blue polo shirt and pair of madras plaid shorts, is none other than—
“Tristan?”
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, then does a double take. “Olivia!” he says, his handsome face breaking into a wide, toothy smile. “Oh my God, hey!”
He enfolds me in a hug. “Can you believe all this?” he asks, shaking his head as he releases me. “Vanessa and your dad?”
“Tell me about it.” I manage a smile, eagerly looking him over. Sure, he looks slightly older—and, OK, paunchier—than he did on Instagram, but who hasn’t used a filter from time to time?
It’s Tristan. My teenage self’s number-one crush. And he’s here.
And I’m looking like a color-blind tourist who just stepped off the cruise ship.
I reach up and fluff my hair, hoping to distract from the fact that I’m dressed for a Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes theme party.
“So how are things, huh?” I ask brightly. “What have you been up to?” As if I couldn’t recreate his entire calendar based on my social media deep dive.
Tristan smiles. “Same old,” he says, like it hasn’t been nearly ten years since we saw each other last. “Busy with work. Getting in some time on the golf course, you know how it is.”
“Oh yeah? What are you up to these days?” I’ve always imagined him doing something exciting in D.C.—speechwriting for a high-profile senator, maybe, or lobbying for human rights reform on Capitol Hill. The kind of job someone would make a smartly-written-but-still-inspirational TV show about.
“I’m in insurance,” Tristan replies. “Number one salesman in my region, three years running!”
“Oh?” I blink. “OK! That’s cool. Do you like it?” Maybe there’s something fascinating about coverage and premiums I don’t know about.
“I love it,” he says, taking his coffee from the barista. “I do boats, mostly.”
“Boats?” I repeat.
“Sure,” he says. “Yachts, for instance. Fishing boats. Schooners.” He ticks them off on his fingers, like that guy in Forrest Gump naming all the things you can do with shrimp.
“Wow,” I say, nodding enthusiastically. “Boats!”
He smiles again, and just like that, I feel nineteen again. “What about you, New York City girl?” he asks. “I’ll be honest, the one bright spot of coming all the way down here for this circus was knowing I’d get to catch up with you. And you look amazing.”
My heart does an ecstatic cartwheel inside my chest. “I feel exactly the same way,” I confess. “It’s been way, way too long since we saw each other.”
I’m about to ask more about his life when Ryan strolls into the coffee shop. “Hey babe,” he says, slinging one arm casually over my shoulder. He plants a kiss against my cheek and holds one hand out in Tristan’s direction. “Ryan Callahan.”
Tristan’s eyes widen. “Oh, wow, hey, dude. I’m a huge fan.”
“This is Tristan,” I explain as they shake. “Vanessa’s brother.”
“Great to meet you,” Ryan says, keeping his arm around me.
Tristan looks back and forth between us, a little uncertain. “Are you two . . . ?”
“Sure are,” Ryan says, grinning wider. He’s taller than Tristan—broader, too, in his chest and shoulders—and next to him, Tristan looks kind of . . . small. “We’re headed to Miami for the night—little couples getaway—but we’ll see you around for wedding stuff, yeah?”
“Sure,” Tristan says, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining a flicker of disappointment across his delect
ably symmetrical face. “I’ll see you guys around.”
“Bye, Tristan!” I call after him.
“So,” Ryan says teasingly, once we’ve gotten our coffee and are headed down the street. He’s still got an arm around my shoulders, his body warm beside me. “Tristan.”
“Uh-huh,” I murmur vaguely, taking a sip of coffee. I made the executive decision not to mention him to Ryan when we were planning this trip. It just didn’t seem like information he needed, but now a part of me wonders if possibly he just figured it out anyway. “We knew each other back in college,” I say, with a shrug. “Not that it should matter, PS. Fake jealousy is not part of this fake relationship.”
“Oh, I’m not jealous,” Ryan says cheerfully, winking at me as he unlocks the car door. “I just wanna send him a signed jersey. You know, make his day.”
I slip into the passenger seat. “So tell me more about these investors,” I say, pulling a notebook out of my purse and uncapping my favorite fountain pen. “Anything in particular I should know before this party tonight?”
Ryan glances at me out of the corner of his eye as we get on the road. “Are you taking notes right now?”
I grin. “Possibly.”
“You are a trip, you know that?”
“I have been told that in the past, yes.”
“I bet you have,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then he clears his throat. “It’s a team of investors headed up by a guy named Mason Dubeck,” he tells me. “He’s the one who invited me down for the weekend so I can see what they’re about.”
“And vice versa,” I point out. “Speaking of which, why do you think PowerBar is a good fit for him, exactly?”
“It’s the next wave of fast food: healthy, delicious, and convenient . . .” Ryan launches into his pitch, and although I’ve heard it before, and I’ve done a little research of my own, I’m still surprised by the knowledge and enthusiasm he’s got for this project—facts and figures, plus a unique, personal spin. “I think even your new step-mom would love it,” he finishes, “and lord knows she’s a fucking weirdo about food.”
