by Lila Monroe
“Is does, right?” Ryan glances at me for a moment, then back at the beach. “Should probably put some more sunscreen on,” he says, then dives under the waves before I can reply.
We stay on our island for the rest of the day, but eventually, I know, we have to get back to reality. Besides, there’s a get-together for the wedding guests tonight at a beach bar in town, and I don’t want to let him down, so Ryan and I load up the boat as the sun begins to sink lower in the sky. I’m helping him shake the sand out of the blanket when I glance down and gasp.
“What?” Ryan looks up, alarmed. “Did something bite you?”
“My ring,” I gulp, holding up my naked hand as evidence. There’s a thin white strip around the base of my index finger, a tan line from where it usually sits. “My mom’s ring, I mean. That little gold band.”
“What about it?”
“It’s gone.”
As soon as I say the word I’m absolutely sure I’m about to burst into tears. I swallow hard, grateful for my sunglasses, but Ryan is already at my side, looking stricken. “OK,” he says. “Don’t panic. I mean, panic if you need to, obviously, but try to think. When was the last time you saw it?”
I take a deep breath, trying to keep it together. Fuck, how could I have let this happen? That ring was the only piece of my mom I have left. “I definitely had it this morning,” I remember. “And I was wearing it during the photo shoot, I think.”
Ryan nods. “We can have the photographer check the pictures,” he says soothingly. “But in the meantime I’ll help you, OK? We’ll look together.”
We sift through the sand where we set up for the next half an hour. Ryan is unflaggingly optimistic—I can see why he was such a good team captain—but I know in my heart it’s a lost cause. All those jokes about finding a grain of sand on the beach? Try finding a ring, and it’s just as impossible.
Finally, I know, it’s time to admit defeat.
“Come on,” I say finally, trying to keep the heaviness I feel in my chest out of my voice. I know it’s just an object, and I still have all the memories, but I can’t help feeling like I’ve lost my mom all over again. “We’ve got to get back for drinks.”
“Are you sure?” Ryan asks. “I’m happy to look a while longer.”
I shake my head. I get the feeling he’d probably search all night if I asked him to, and I’m incredibly grateful, but in the end, I know we won’t find it. “It’s going to be dark soon anyway,” I say, nodding at the rapidly setting sun. “There’s nothing else we can do.”
We take the boat back over, and pull up at the dock near the hotel just as dusk is falling, the sky filling with streaks of pink of purple and gold. I head to my room and quickly shower off, then pull a silky black sundress over my head, winding the leather straps of a pair of Grecian sandals up my calves and sliding on a couple of gold bangles. My hand feels naked without my mom’s ring, but I force myself to swallow back my emotions. This is a party for my dad, and I don’t want to be the buzzkill moping in the corner.
I meet Ryan in the lobby, and we walk over. The bar is just a few blocks away, right on the beach. It’s an old-fashioned Key West dive with colored lights strung up behind the liquor bottles and UB40 plinking cheerfully away on the sound system. Instead of stools, wooden swings hang from the thatched roof with lengths of heavy rope.
Outside, I take a deep breath. “Ready?” I ask.
“What, to be your fake boyfriend again?” Ryan grins, holding the door open. “Of course. I’ll tell you, Liv, the Agency delivers. I’ve got the best-looking date in the place.”
Heat floods my cheeks, but before I can reply, Vanessa is squealing my name from across the bar. “Livvie!” she wails, wrapping me in a hug so tight it knocks my breath out, her fruity cocktail splashing onto the floor. “I’m so glad you’re OK! I thought you were with us! Nobody realized you were gone until we got back here!” She releases me. “You just blend right into the scenery, I guess.”
I bite my tongue. After my peaceful afternoon with Ryan and the cold shock of losing my mom’s ring, the photoshoot feels like it happened a million years ago, which doesn’t stop me from being annoyed all over again. Still, there’s no point in making a scene. “These things happen,” I manage, signaling the bartender for a drink of my own.
Make it a double.
I try my best to enjoy myself, chatting with my dad and some of his buddies, including Craig and Joel, a couple who run an antiques store on the main drag in Key West. “Hi, sweetheart,” Craig says, wrapping me in a Versace-scented hug. “How’s the trip been?”
The three of us spend a while catching up, before Vanessa and the Bride Tribe climb up on a couple of tables and launch into an impromptu Taylor Swift singalong. “How old is she again?” Joel mutters.
“Who, the blushing bride? She’s thirty,” I reply, pasting an innocent smile on my face. “You know, same as me.”
“Well, as long as Larry is happy . . .”
“Mmhmm.”
All three of us take long gulps of our drinks.
I’m headed to the bar when Tristan suddenly appears. “Hey, beautiful,” he says, ducking his head to press his freshly-shaved cheek against mine. “You look fantastic.”
“Thanks.” I smile. He’s wearing a sport coat, oddly formal for a place like Sharky’s, with his hair slicked back and a polo shirt open at the neck.
He nods at my empty glass. “What’re you drinking?”
“Just a beer.”
“I’ve got this.”
He flags down the bartender and gets us some drinks. “So,” he says, “glad to see you made it back ashore OK. I heard from my sister you had a little bit of an adventure.”
“Something like that.” I open my mouth to tell him about the day’s craziness, then close it again. The idea of trying to explain it all feels suddenly exhausting. “It was fine, actually,” I say, shaking my head. “Ryan bailed me out.”
“Ah.” Tristan’s smile falls. “Gotcha.”
Neither of us say anything for a moment, an uneasy silence descending before he gamely launches into a story about an insurance client with an enormous sailboat. I don’t know what’s going on—I remember Tristan being easy to talk to back at college. I used to want to tell him everything, down to what I’d eaten for breakfast. I don’t know if he’s changed, or I have.
Maybe both.
There’s only one person I really want to talk to in this bar right now, I realize, and I’ve barely seen him since he got swallowed up by a crush of adoring fans when we first walked in. I scan the bar until I spot Ryan near the back, playing pool with some of my father’s friends. I glance over at him once, then again, watching the muscles in his back shifting underneath his T-shirt.
“Uh, Olivia?” Tristan asks, and suddenly I realize I haven’t been listening to a single word he said.
“Sorry,” I say, patting his arm as the bartender sets our drinks down in front of me. “There’s someone I need to see. But I’ll find you later!”
I head back toward the pool table, trying to tamp down the butterflies in my chest at the sight of Ryan’s easy smile. “How’s it going?” I ask, bumping his shoulder with mine.
“Hey babe,” Ryan says, slinging an arm around me and ducking his head to press a kiss against my temple. He smells like saltwater and skin, a mix that goes straight to my head. “Just kicking a little ass over here.”
“I can’t even be mad at him for smack talk,” Ethan says. He does something in e-commerce, Kirsty mentioned, which seems to fit with his short-sleeved button down and hipster glasses. “He is, objectively, kicking our asses.”
Two days ago I would have rolled my eyes at guys’ tendency to fall all over themselves where Ryan is concerned, but right now I’m just enjoying it. I even feel proud. “Yeah, well,” I say, slipping a hand into Ryan’s back pocket. “He’s good like that.”
The rest of the night passes in a blur: Joel and I dance to “Margaritaville.” Tristan makes a bland, res
pectable toast, and then Crystal makes a wild, drunken one, too. I’m nibbling on some coconut shrimp when Ryan comes up beside me, ducks his head and takes a bite right out of my fingers.
“Oh, sorry,” I laugh, teasing. “Did you want some of that?”
“Yep,” he says, and I can’t tell if I’m imagining the hungry way his eyes flick up and down my body. “I did.”
I swallow hard, taking a long sip of my beer to cover. Because that electric swoop in my stomach I was wondering about earlier? Here it is, right on time. Again, I understand why so many of my clients’ setups have turned into the real deal. After all, it would be easy to get caught up in the fantasy. The casual contact and Ryan’s warm smile, the way he takes my hand as we head out of the bar—it all feels like the genuine article.
But he’s just acting. And so am I.
And it’ll be better for everyone if I remember that.
10
Ryan
Early the next morning, Olivia heads off for a spa day with the Bride Tribe, and Larry invites me to play eighteen holes with the rest of the guys. Golf’s not really my sport—I’m not much for the polo-shirt-wearing, country-club life—but I’m always happy to stroll around outside drinking beers for a couple of hours, so I agree to tag along. Besides, I need to get my mind off this PowerBar pitch—and off the thought of Olivia in that tiny black dress last night.
Because damn, I wanted to get her out of it.
I figure the fresh air will clear my head, but by the seventh hole, I’m starting to regret my decision. “Might want to take it easy over there, buddy,” Tristan says, slapping my back too hard for it to be strictly amicable. The guy’s been on my jock all morning, talking trash and offering me plenty of “friendly” advice. “We’re not at Giants Stadium anymore, am I right?”
“Uh, yeah dude,” I say. What the fuck does that even mean? “Thanks for the tip.”
“Any time, man. I mean, we’re practically family.” He takes a long swig of his beer. “So how long have you and Olivia been together?” he asks.
And there it is. Fuck, I knew this guy had a hard-on for Olivia the second I saw him drooling all over her in the coffee shop. “Not too long,” I tell him easily. “We’re getting to know each other, taking it slow. Going great, though.”
“Yeah, sure thing.” Tristan nods like a bobblehead. “You ever need any advice, you let me know. When you’ve known Olivia as long as I have, you’re bound to pick up a few tricks.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, wary. “You guys go way back?”
“To college,” he says. “She was so shy and quiet then, though. I had no idea she was going to turn into such a fucking fox.” Then he grins. “Uh, no offense.”
“None taken,” I say blandly, reminding myself that I don’t actually want to get thrown off this fancy golf course for punting this dude across the green. Olivia and I aren’t even really together. Which doesn’t make it any less obnoxious that this guy is trying to get me to join in a dick-measuring contest like we’re in junior high.
The worst part is how it’s kind of working.
I’m not the jealous type, normally. Especially over a woman who’s made it pretty clear she isn’t interested in me that way. I made my move up against that wall, and she neatly side-stepped it without even ruffling her outfit. Cool, calm, and collected as ever. But it’s also true, what I told her the other night. I didn’t grow up around this kind of money. The opposite, in fact. Back in high school I used to wake up at six a.m. to bag groceries at the supermarket, then swing back to work the late shift after football practice. And that was before I even started my homework.
It’s not like I feel sorry for myself or ashamed of how I grew up or anything like that—I think it’s good for a kid to learn a good work ethic early on, and knowing the value of a dollar definitely helped me when I got drafted in the first round back in college and things got really crazy. But it means that I’m never quite comfortable around dudes like Tristan. I can’t get over the suspicion that no matter how much they might kiss my ass because I can throw a football, they still think I’m a dumb jock from the sticks.
“Anyway,” Tristan says now, leaning jauntily on his golf club like it’s a silver-tipped cane, “the point is, if she’s happy, I’m happy. But you break her heart”—he breaks off with a corny I’m watching you gesture—“football star or not, I’ll come after you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. Look, the guy’s a total douche, but I can’t even blame him for wanting to try his luck with Olivia. The truth is, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. I don’t know what happened—it’s like she burrowed her way under my skin somehow, her hair and her voice and the smell of her, and that body . . .
When I met her, I thought she was an ice queen.
Now all I want is to make her melt.
None of that actually matters, though. After the other night it’s pretty obvious she wants to keep things professional, and I‘m not going to go panting where I’m not wanted, so professional is exactly what I’m going to do.
Even if it kills me.
I head over to grab a fresh beer out of the cooler, then offer one to Larry, who is sitting in a golf cart, happily munching on a hot dog. “Don’t tell Vanessa,” he says, waving it guiltily. “She’s got me on the what do you call it, the paleo diet.”
I grin. “Are hot dogs not paleo?”
“Apparently not,” Larry says sadly, then shrugs and finishes the rest of it in one bite. “So,” he says once he’s swallowed, popping the top on the beer. “You and my daughter.”
“Yes sir,” I say, unsurprised by the sudden segue. Olivia prepared me for this conversation—and, let’s be real, many others—complete with a bulleted list of approved talking points.
“Your intentions are honorable?”
“Completely,” I assure him, feeling a twinge of guilt even as I say the word. It’s one thing to keep up the charade around Vanessa, who’s dumb as a post, or Tristan, who’s like a dopey minor character in a Judd Apatow movie. But there’s something that feels a little shitty about deceiving Olivia’s actual dad.
“I don’t doubt it,” Larry says, settling back in the golf cart. “Olivia wouldn’t keep you around if they weren’t. She’s got a real talent for reading people.”
“She’s incredible,” I agree. “The way she built up that business from the ground up? I’ve got a lot to learn from her.” That last part wasn’t actually on the Olivia-vetted list of responses, but it’s not like it isn’t true.
Larry smiles. “We all do,” he admits. “And I’m glad she’s found someone who appreciates her. She deserves that, after everything she went through.”
I’m not exactly sure what he means by that, but I nod anyway, and after a moment Larry goes on. “She had it hard, after her mother died,” he explains. “Before that, even. Olivia was the one who took care of Junie after the cancer diagnosis—sat with her through her chemo and coordinated with the hospice workers. She had to grow up fast, and a lot of that was my fault. I couldn’t handle what was happening. So I checked out.” He rubs at the back of his neck for a moment, the regret clear on his face. “And then after the funeral, when I was too depressed to work, she posed as my assistant and single-handedly kept the business afloat.” Larry shakes his head. “The girl was sixteen. She should have been out with her friends, not negotiating business mergers.”
“Wow,” I say quietly. Beyond the fact that her mom died when she was a teenager, I had no idea about any of this. I don’t like to think of Olivia having to go through all that by herself. I wish I had known her back then, even if it was just to make her laugh with dumbass pirate jokes. “I bet she was good at it, though.”
“Oh, she was the best,” Larry says with a smile. “But even so, it takes a toll on a kid.”
“I bet.” Suddenly her take-charge—OK, anal-retentive—attitude makes a lot more sense. I’d be a stickler for details, too, if I’d never been able t
o count on anyone else taking care of them. “I didn’t realize.”
“Well, how could you?” Larry says with a shrug. “She doesn’t like to talk about it. She doesn’t like to talk about herself at all, if you’ll notice.”
“That’s true,” I say, though I hadn’t put the pieces together until now.
How many times has Olivia redirected the conversation when things got too personal? How many times has she subtly shifted the focus away from herself? Hell, her whole entire business model revolves around other people’s wants and needs.
“In any event,” Larry says finally, “it gives this old coot a measure of peace to know that Olivia’s got somebody like you in her corner.” He holds up his beer for a toast.
“Yes sir,” I say as we clink, lying like a cheap rug. “I feel really lucky to be the one.”
The girls join us just as we’re finishing up the round. They look rested and refreshed—with the exception of Olivia, who looks pale and drawn despite the heat. “Hey,” I say, holding my hand out for hers and pressing a kiss against her temple. “How’d it go?”
“Oh, great,” she says before making a face and lowering her voice. “Somehow Vanessa and the Bride Tribe accidentally forgot me in the sensory deprivation tank for an hour and a half.”
“Holy shit.” I try not to laugh and mostly fail. “Are you serious?”
“Yep,” Olivia says, sitting down in the seat of the golf cart and taking the bottle of water I offer her. “It was like that George Clooney space movie. I thought I was just going to spend the rest of eternity floating in nothingness.” She twists the cap off gratefully, taking a long sip. “Which, now that I stop and think about it, would probably be better than spending the rest of the weekend with these people.”
“Come here,” I say, pulling her to her feet and wrapping her in a bear hug before I can talk myself out of it. Fuck, what was I just telling myself about keeping things professional? “I’m sorry that happened.”
