by Lila Monroe
Ryan considers that for a moment. Then he looks behind me and grins. “You know,” he says, nodding across the ballroom, “somehow, I don’t think you have to worry about him licking his own anything one way or the other.”
“What?” I follow his gaze across the veranda. Sure enough, there’s my dad already flirting up a storm—with Kiki, I realize, shaking my head. God, some things never change.
I’m drowning my sorrows in another glass of champagne when Hallie swings by “Should I be taking pictures of this?” she asks, grinning. “You know, for the non-wedding album?”
“Who the hell even knows?” I ask. “I mean, I don’t think anybody is going to actually want to remember this day, right?”
“I want to remember it,” Ryan chimes in, slinging an arm around me. “Take one of us, Hallie.”
Hallie looks to me for permission. “Liv?”
She winds up taking a whole slew of photos, Ryan hamming it up for the camera—pressing a kiss against my temple, twirling me around to the music before lowering me into a big, exaggerated dip. I’d be embarrassed, if I didn’t feel so mind-bendingly happy.
We’re just finishing up when Ryan’s phone buzzes inside his jacket pocket. “It’s Mason,” he says, pulling it out and glancing at the screen. “I’ve got to take this.”
“Of course.” I send him away with a slap on the ass. “Good luck. Come find me when you’re done.”
I do a lap around the ballroom and run into Craig and Joel, who lift their martinis in a twin salute. “I guess we all dodged a bullet, hmm sweetheart?” Craig asks me.
“Looks that way,” I say. Then I realize something, “I can’t imagine where my dad got the idea to tell Vanessa he’d given all his money away.”
The two of them look at each other, then back at me, both shrugging innocently. “Fakes have a way of exposing themselves sooner or later,” Joel tells me. “That’s a little lesson from the antiques business.”
I kiss them both, then head off to mingle, catching up with some of my cousins and grabbing another glass of champagne at the bar. Finally, I head out in search of a bathroom, and as I’m strolling back to the party, I run into Tristan. I’d almost forgotten about him in the chaos.
“Looks like we’re not going to be family after all,” he says, lifting his beer bottle in a tired-looking salute. He looks handsome enough in a gray suit, a boutonniere of succulents pinned to his lapel. I think of how Vanessa had the Bride Tribe up all night putting the flowers together, and I can’t help but cringe at the waste. “Seems that way,” I agree.
“I can’t act like I’m upset about it.”
That surprises me. “Oh no?” I ask, wondering if Ryan is done with his call yet.
Tristan moves closer. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this week, Olivia,” he says seriously, “and I think I made a big mistake, acting like I didn’t know what a huge crush you had on me back in college.”
I whip my head around to look at him, suddenly alert. “Wait,” I say, “what?”
“I mean, let’s be honest, you weren’t half this hot back in college,” Tristan continues blithely, “but now—you’re the whole package. I mean, you’re organized. You’re financially independent. You have an amazing list of professional contacts.” He smiles at me lovingly. “I’ve run the risk assessment on you and me, and I have to tell you, it’s very low.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, sure that I must be misunderstanding him somehow. I don’t know what’s more mind-boggling: the fact that he thinks this is at all romantic, or the fact that he’s saying it at all. “I don’t—”
“In any event,” Tristan finishes grandly, cutting me off, “the real reason I’m glad my sister isn’t marrying your father is that I’m pretty sure it’s bad form to do this to your step-niece.”
That’s when he leans in and kisses me.
Hard.
On the mouth.
There’s a moment when I’m too shocked to react, then finally I get it together enough to push him roughly away. “Tristan,” I exclaim, but he just grabs me again, landing another smacker on my mouth. Finally, I manage to pull away. “What are you doing?!”
“I could ask the same thing.”
A familiar voice comes, and I whirl around. Ryan is standing right behind us.
And so is Mason Dubeck.
21
Ryan
Three years ago, I took a hit that ended my career. I felt it, even before I hit the ground. My Achilles tendon ripped clean through, and fuck, if that wasn’t the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life before.
But it turns out, that wasn’t rock bottom. There’s like another ten levels of pain waiting on the other side. Because that tackle is nothing compared with seeing Olivia with some preppy asshole’s tongue shoved down her throat.
His hands on her body.
Her lips pressed against his.
And the sinking feeling that despite everything, I’m still not good enough for a woman like her.
Let me tell you, I’d take another football injury any day compared to a knife through my fucking heart.
22
Olivia
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I blurt immediately, wincing even as the words come out of my mouth. It’s like something out of a bad movie: Ryan’s stricken face, Mason—and Arianna—with their eyes as wide as dinner plates. My lipstick smeared all over Tristan’s mouth.
“So you weren’t just kissing him?” Ryan asks, his voice dangerously calm.
“No! He was kissing me,” I protest, but he’s already holding both hands up to ward me off like I’m contagious.
“Clearly I’m interrupting something here,” Ryan says. “I’ll get out of your way.” He looks at Mason and Arianna. “If you two will excuse me, I think I need to get a little air.”
“Ryan?” I call after him, but he’s already gone, his broad body disappearing into the crowd.
I turn back to Mason and Arianna, shrugging helplessly. “It was a misunderstanding, that’s all.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to explain to them—after all, we hardly know each other—but they’ve been so incredibly decent all week long that I’d hate if they somehow thought less of me. Or worse, if this mess somehow jeopardized Ryan’s PowerBar deal.
Luckily, that doesn’t seem to be happening. “These things happen,” Arianna assures me, laying a hand on my arm. “If I could count the number of times one of our staff fell in love with me . . .”
“Hey!” Tristan protests from behind me. “I’m not staff!”
I ignore him.
“Go explain,” Mason nods. “Don’t worry about us.”
I exhale in relief. “Thank you,” I tell them gratefully. I start to hurry off down the hallway, then turn back at the last minute. “Um, enjoy the party! Make sure you try the crab puffs!”
I head back through the crowded ballroom, trying to spot Ryan through the crush, but Tristan blocks my way. “Olivia,” he says urgently, but I shake him off.
“First of all, you can’t just go around kissing women who don’t want to kiss you!” I tell him, furious.
“But—”
“No buts!” I shove him aside. “This is never going to happen. I’m in love with somebody else.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can think, but as soon as I hear them aloud I know that they’re true. It may be crazy quick and a little bit wild. It may never have been part of the plan. But I love him.
And I need to make this right.
I’m expecting Ryan to be easy to find in the throng of not-wedding guests—after all, the guy is six foot three—but it feels like forever before I finally track him down, on a deserted patio at the side of the hotel. He’s looking out over the beach with a drink in one hand. The sun is sinking over the water to the west, a brilliant fireball in the sky casting his face in pink and gold.
Achingly handsome.
Clearly furious. And I don’t blame him. That little kissing stunt of Tristan’s could have blow
n our cover with Mason. His whole company is on the line, and the last thing he needs is to reveal our act—even if it doesn’t feel like an act anymore.
“There you are,” I say, crossing the distance between us as fast as my four-inch heels will carry me. Halfway there I finally I stop and yank the damn things off, hurrying the rest of the way in my bare feet. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
“Why?” Ryan turns, and then I see his face is like stone. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him breathlessly. “But everything’s alright. We’re still fine with Mason and Arianna. They don’t think anything’s wrong. I don’t know what the fuck Tristan was thinking, pulling something like that.”
I thought he’d be relieved, but Ryan scoffs, a low derisive sound at the back of his throat. “I can imagine,” he says darkly. He still isn’t looking at me.
“Wait a second.” I pause, confused. “What does that mean?”
“It means that guy’s not some drunken frat bro at Mardi Gras, Olivia. He wouldn’t have just kissed you out of nowhere unless you were putting out the vibe.”
“Seriously?” I stop. “You think that was my fault? What vibe do you think I’ve been putting out, exactly?”
Ryan shrugs, still avoiding my gaze. “You tell me. I’ve seen you talking to him this week. All that stuff about how you guys have known each other forever, how you used to be so close back in college. Did you used to date, is that it?”
“No,” I say immediately. I could leave it at that—maybe I should leave it at that—but I want to be totally honest. Ryan deserves that much. “I mean, I used to have a little crush on him, maybe, but that was just a dumb—”
“Uh-huh.” Ryan’s handsome face goes hard—but also a little satisfied, like he’s been expecting something like this. “There it is.”
“There what is?” I ask, not understanding. His deal is safe, nothing happened with Tristan, so why is he acting like I just betrayed him? “Tristan doesn’t matter. It was ages ago!”
“Not that long ago, obviously.” He finally looks over, his face changing. “Wait, is that why you wanted a date for this weekend?” he demands. “To make that dude jealous?”
“Ryan . . .” I gulp, but I need to come clean. “Yes, but it was never just about that,” I add quickly. “Vanessa was being a witch, and then you came along, and the dates added up perfectly—”
“So it was about him,” Ryan interrupts me, his lips twisting. “Well, I’m glad I could help you out. Quid pro quo, and all.”
“I can’t believe you’re being like this!” I exclaim, getting angry now. “I only cared about making Tristan jealous before I got to know you. It was before anything happened between us. After that night in the club he could have been eaten by sharks and I never would have noticed. And he’s the one who grabbed me back there, and I shouldn’t have to defend myself for it!”
“That’s not how it looked,” Ryan points out stubbornly. “Admit it, Olivia. We had a good time, maybe, but at the end of the day the whole reason you brought me down here was to use me.”
“Wait a minute,” I stop him. “This was a business arrangement. You were using me too, remember? That was the whole point!”
“That was different!”
“How, exactly?” I demand.
“Because it was never about some other person for me!” he bursts out. “I thought this was a real thing, what we had going on here. And maybe that’s me not being as sophisticated as you, I don’t know,” he adds darkly, “but clearly you were just parading me around to land some other guy who’s more your type.”
“More my type?” I echo, my voice rising in disbelief. “You honestly think I’d pick Tristan over you? Now who’s being the dumb jock?”
I can tell right away that was the wrong thing to say. Ryan’s face goes as cold as Lake Michigan in January.
“Well then,” he says, a muscle twitching dangerously in the side of his jaw, “I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have to deal with me anymore. Mason is committed to PowerBar, we’ll be launching next year. So I guess we both got what we wanted out of this little arrangement.”
He can’t be serious.
I shake my head, a lump rising suddenly in the back of my throat. “Ryan, wait,” I start, a hundred different things fighting their way out of my mouth at once: I’m sorry. I want to make this work. This was the most incredible week of my entire life. I love you. “Can you please just listen—”
But Ryan cuts me off. “Look,” he says, stony again, “this is pointless. I’m just going to head to the airport and get a flight out tonight.”
I can’t believe this is happening. After everything we shared, I figured he’d at least try to understand. He’s just leaping to conclusions, assuming the worst about me, like I deserve all the betrayal in his eyes.
But maybe it never meant that much to him. Maybe I was just another fling, after all. I thought we understood each other, that even though we hadn’t known each other that long, this relationship was worth fighting for.
But obviously I was wrong.
I force myself to swallow back the tears and stand as tall as I can. “Fine,” I lie, setting my jaw. “Go, then. Do whatever you want. Like you said, you got your investment, and I got a date to the wedding. Now our arrangement is over.”
Ryan’s jaw tenses, and I think he’s about to say something else, but instead, he turns and walks away.
I watch until he’s out of sight—willing him to turn around, to come back and change his mind—but soon, I’m alone again. I stumble down off the patio toward the beach, shoving past a couple of baffled old ladies.
I make it all the way to the water’s edge before I start to cry.
23
Olivia
My luggage somehow gets rerouted to Saskatchewan on the way back from Miami, which feels like a supremely fitting end to this miserable trip. I chalk it up to one more loss and take a car back from JFK. Usually, coming home to New York fills me with a corny kind of excitement—after all, how many people actually get to live in this incredible place?—but tonight I barely register the sight of the skyline gleaming in the distance as we cross the bridge into Manhattan. I just want to climb into my bed and never get out again.
So this is what a broken heart feels like.
I figure I better cut my losses and just wallow for a while, so that’s exactly what I do. I shuffle around my apartment in a pair of increasingly-grubby silk pajamas, listening to The Best of Edith Piaf on iTunes and watching black-and-white movies on cable like some kind of eccentric old lady. I cancel drinks with my friends. I skip the gym. I even flake on work, letting Alice take care of everything at the office.
I figure that it has to stop hurting sometime, that sooner or later, I’ll snap out of this aching misery and get back to my old, poised self, but after a whole week of moping, I still feel exactly as crushed as that night, crying on the sand.
Is Ryan hurting the way I do? Or has he not even skipped a beat?
I run a bath and sink into the water, then grab my phone and type his name into Google even though I 100 percent know better, hesitating for a moment before I click Go.
Ryan’s not the kind of guy with a bunch of social media accounts, so I click over to the news tab once the search results load. And there he is, in an article from earlier this week. Food is More Than Fuel for Former NFL Star, the headline reads. Underneath it is a picture of Ryan at a PowerBar launch event the other night. He looks fantastic, wide smile and just the faintest shadow of scruff on his face, broad shoulders filling out an immaculately tailored suit.
And he’s got his arm around a tall, beautiful woman.
My heart plummets like a cable has snapped somewhere deep inside my body. I frantically scan the article for more information. It’s got plenty to say about the dozen PowerBar locations Ryan is building, the first of which is set to open downtown later next month, but nothing about the identity of his m
ystery date. Even the caption on the photo just lists them as Ryan Callahan and Companion.
“Well, that’s not very feminist of you!” I snarl, then proceed to spend the next hour searching every conceivable variation of Ryan Callahan + girlfriend with absolutely no success whatsoever.
Before I know it, the bathwater has gone cold and my fingers are pruny, and I’m feeling more than a little ashamed of myself. After all, Ryan’s not some baseless fantasy of mine, like Tristan was. I’ve got no business spelunking through the internet looking for dirt on his personal life. I just hate sitting around wondering if he’s moved on. I thought what happened between us was special—I haven’t felt something so strong, so real, so right in my whole life before.
And I let it slip through my fingers.
Or rather, he pushed you away, I remind myself, remembering how quick he was to blame me for Tristan’s wandering lips.
But still . . . I look back at that fight, and I know I said the wrong thing. I didn’t argue when he claimed this was all just a transaction.
I didn’t risk it and tell him how I felt.
I’m just climbing out of the tub when my phone dings with a text from Katie. Seb’s working late and I’ve got a recipe for soup that needs testing. Want to come over?
I hesitate. On one hand, I could probably use the company. Let’s be real, I’m basically one brightly-colored head scarf away from turning into Little Edie over here. On the other, I don’t have the energy to pretend to be my normal, pulled-together self—and I hate the thought of letting anyone, even Katie, see me like this. Think I’ll pass this time, I type. Thanks, though.
Katie replies with a single emoji heart and I think I’ve put her off successfully, but I’m halfway through Bringing Up Baby on Netflix when I hear a key in the lock. “Sorry,” she calls, clanking noisily through my front door—she’s laden down with mixing bowls and frying pans, a canvas bag of groceries slung over one arm. “I used the key you gave me for emergencies. It sounded like maybe you needed an intervention.”
