by Sarina Bowen
“No!” barks a voice. Carl Bayer—security extraordinaire—is jogging toward us. “No photos of Delilah or anyone else.”
The woman’s hand flies to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I knew that. I’m sorry,” she stammers.
“Don’t worry,” Delilah says quickly. “If you have a pen I can sign something for you.”
“Oh!” The young woman’s face lights up. “That would be amazing!” She grabs a napkin off the stand.
“Wait, does anyone have a pen?” Delilah asks. “I don’t have pockets…”
Carl reaches into his pocket and produces one. He stands like a tank beside us, arms crossed, keeping order. That’s just Carl’s way.
Delilah is unbothered. She asks the girl’s name, and writes a message on the napkin, signing it in looping script with a heart over the “i” in Delilah.
The woman is overjoyed, babbling her thanks and then scooping generous portions of German chocolate ice cream into waffle cones for us.
“Thank you,” Delilah says. “It was lovely meeting you.”
Eventually we’re free of the smiling young woman, and Carl follows us toward the lawn furniture where people are gathered with their desserts. “Sorry about that, Miss Spark,” he says.
“Oh, please.” She waves her spoon, dismissing it. “Nobody has asked me for a photo all day. I’m going to forget I’m a diva.”
He smiles, because we’re all smitten with Delilah, who doesn’t come across as a diva at all.
“By the way,” she says to him, “thanks again for helping to settle down my bodyguard.”
“My pleasure,” Carl says. “I don’t think he settled down much, though. He looked like he was ready to dive into the harbor and swim after us. Either he’s extremely dedicated to you, or he works for assholes who will string ’im up for letting you out of his sight. I hope it’s the former.”
“Actually…” She frowns, taking a dainty bite of ice cream. “There’s a third possibility. I think that guy’s job is half protection, half spying.”
The older man’s eyes brighten. I can’t tell if it’s because he has the same theory, or because he just likes a good story. “Spying for whom?”
“My record label, and more specifically, my ex who runs it. I am trying to detangle my life from his, but it’s not like I can fire my bodyguards before I find someone new.” She makes a face. “Actually, it’s tempting. But they come in handy about once a week. And I’ve been getting some creepy mail, so…”
“What kind of creepy mail?” Carl barks.
She shakes her head. “Just some guy who likes to send cocktail napkins from every place I’ve gone. Telling me how good we’d be together. It’s eerie, but they don’t come to my actual home. They go to my PO box.”
I hate this. But I bite my lip, just like I did the last time she told me about this. Delilah’s security choices are none of my business. Even if I wish they were.
“If there’s any chance that you know people at security firms in California,” Delilah says to Carl. “I would love to hear about them.”
He clicks his pen absently. “Let me think about who I could send you to. I assume you have security 24/7? One man or two?”
“One. There are three guys in rotation, unless I’m going to a big event and then they beef it up. It’s…” She sighs. “To be honest, I haven’t paid enough attention to the details, because it was done for me.”
“Don’t worry.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “California is full of companies that can help you. We’ll find you someone who knows what they’re doing and won’t pad the bill.” He pulls a charming little notebook out and offers the pen again. “Put your number right here, missy, and I’ll call you next week.”
“Thank you,” she says, scribbling on the page. “I use exactly the same notebooks. Great paper, right?”
He snorts, takes his book from her, and closes it. “The paper is fine. But I liked the cover.” It reads: I’m surrounded by complete fucking assholes.
“Are you?” she teases.
“Well…” He tucks the book away. “I have two sons who haven’t listened to a thing I say since 1999. That’s when Eric became a mouthy teen. And Max was born mouthy. So it depends on the day.”
“What do your sons do?” she asks.
“That one over there—” He gestures toward my retired teammate. “—is a hockey player. Thirty-four years old and still playing games. My other son does something with technology.”
I burst out laughing at this description, because something with technology is a bit of an understatement. His other son is a tech genius who made a fortune in cyber security. Nobody has any idea how much Max Bayer is worth because his company—and his entire life—are private.
“You kids enjoy your night,” Carl says. “I’m around if you need me. And I’ll help you find someone new after the wedding.”
“Thank you!” Delilah calls after him. “God, could it be that easy? I just want people to tell me what to do.”
“I have a few ideas,” I mutter.
She gives me a smile over the edge of her ice cream cone. “Do you, now?”
“More than a few,” I whisper.
She licks her lips. “Well, I have a few ideas of my own.”
“I can’t wait to hear them.”
Maybe I could have waited to hear her ideas. Because now I’m sitting on a plank suspended over a tank of water, while Georgia warms up her throwing arm.
I watch her wind up and throw. Then I hear—but can’t see—the smack of the ball near the target. And just as I’m wondering whether that “oooooh” from the audience means a hit or a miss, I shoot downwards at a surprising rate, splashing into the water.
I come up snorting, water in my nose. And this isn’t even for charity. Fuck. I’m a good sport, so amid the laughter, I climb back onto the bench.
It’s Delilah’s turn. “I don’t know if I can throw,” she says.
“That’s okay, baby,” I call. “I like you better if you can’t.”
Everyone laughs.
She tries an underhand throw. I hear a swish and a soft plop. The bench beneath me doesn’t move.
“Bummer, honey!” I call. “Can I get out of here now?”
“Everybody gets three tries,” Georgia says cheerfully, passing Delilah another ball.
I grit my teeth as she throws again—harder this time. But the audience’s “OH!” clearly sounds like a miss.
“Last one, honey. More ice cream?”
“What you need is a spotter,” Jason says, stepping forward. “Let me help.”
“Nope! No spotter necessary!” I argue.
Jason stands behind my girl and captures her hand in his. “On a count of three. One, two, thr—”
THUNK!
I hit the water again.
Only for Delilah.
Delilah
Can you live a lifetime in three days? I feel as though I have.
When I first stepped off that boat, Silas and I weren’t strangers, but we weren’t really a couple, either. We were some third category. Let’s call it, hungry for more.
But then came a rapid succession of hours on neutral ground, where the only work to be done was fitting into one another’s lives.
We’re quite good at it already. Each night we sleep like puzzle pieces fitted together—his arm flung over my waist, his knees bent into the crooks of mine.
And when the mornings arrive, we make slow love on the tousled bed, and then fit our morning routines together, too. We swap places beneath the showerhead, we pass the milk, we exchange tooth-brushed kisses and breakfast pastries.
There is no end to our ease and pleasure. We splash in the turquoise ocean. We share beach towels and spread sunscreen on each other’s backs.
It’s been way too easy to find our rhythm. And I don’t ever want the song to end.
But the time flies past at the speed of a movie montage. The ocean. The sparkling pool. Drinks at sunset and a nap in a hammock somewhere. At n
ight, while frogs sing in the trees outside our window, Silas lays breathing beside me. It would be way too easy to get used to this.
No, too late. I’m already used to this.
It’s not just Silas, either. I grow accustomed to Heidi’s sunshine and Jason’s good-natured complaints. I don’t have to wonder why my life is such a mess, because I’m surrounded by happy people.
For three days, I’m not a pop star with a late record and relationship baggage. I’m just a girl on vacation who doesn’t need a bodyguard if I want to run to the snack bar for more bottled water and a plate full of cookies for the guys on the beach.
Now I understand why there’s an entire genre of music devoted to beaches and summer love. I’m a believer.
But then suddenly, it’s late on Saturday afternoon. We’ve all had enough sun, so we’re lounging around the cottage. I’m curled up on my favorite sofa cushion, flipping through a magazine of Heidi’s, while Silas, Leo, and Jason do pushups and sit-ups on the rug.
When Silas starts stretching out his limber body, I give up the pretense of reading and flip the magazine closed so I can watch. “Do you have to work out all summer to prepare for the season?”
“Yeah,” Jason grunts through yet another set of sit-ups. “But this extra set right here is just for vanity. Gotta keep the abs looking fine. Heidi? Come and hold down my feet. This is for you, babe.”
“Okay.” She comes over and plops herself on to his sneakers, while biting into a donut. “Feel the burn, honey,” she says, licking icing off her finger.
“That. Is. Just. Mean,” he says through gritted teeth as he curls his abs.
“What? You asked for my help.” She takes another bite and moans.
Silas claps his hands. “Five more, man. Then you get your own donut.”
“Use your anger,” Heidi coaches through a bite.
“Three…two…one…” Jason rises for the last time, reaches out and grabs the rest of the donut. It disappears into his craw a split second later.
Heidi only shrugs. “Good work. I have to fit into my dress right about now, anyway.”
“Is it already that time?” I glance at the clock. The wedding starts in ninety minutes.
“Yes! Primp time!” she says, rising. “What are you wearing?”
“Maybe you can help me decide before I jump in the shower.” I put the magazine aside and stand up. But all I really want to do is climb into Silas’s lap and pretend my trip isn’t almost over.
Heidi follows me into the bedroom, where I’ve hung three dresses. “Hmm,” she says, eyeing them one by one.
“Which one says, ‘tasteful, appreciative wedding-crasher’?” I ask.
“They all do. They’re very conservative. None of them says, ‘I’m a fabulous pop star on a private island living it up with my buff boyfriend.’”
“Dresses aren’t my thing. Most of the time I wear snarky T-shirts and jeans. I’m terrible at makeup. And I’m not really a pop star.”
Heidi cackles. “Millions of young women say otherwise.”
“I mean, I’m not like Taylor Swift. I don’t dance, or “Shake it Off,” or influence fashion. I’d rather sit on my stool and make a squinty face while I play my guitar and sing.”
Heidi ignores all of these objections. “We’ll go with this one.” She holds up the simplest dress, but it’s also the barest. Dove-grey, sleeveless, with a soft drape of fabric at the bosom. “I’ll handle the makeup. Silver, I think? With rosy highlights for that suntan, maybe. Do you have heels?”
“Two-inch sling-backs.” I wasn’t quite sure what shoes to wear to a beach wedding.
“Phew. So you’re not totally hopeless.”
“‘Not totally hopeless’ is exactly what I aim for.” That would make a good song title, actually…
“Focus, Delilah,” she says just as my mind wanders off in that direction. “Show me your accessories.”
“Hmm. I don’t remember if I brought any.” It’s Becky who usually thinks of these things. And I’ve been wearing only bathing suits, sundresses, and sunscreen for three days.
It’s been heavenly.
I cross to my carryon bag and zip it open. “Oh, here we go.” There’s a small quilted bag, and it contains two necklaces and three pairs of earrings.
Heidi picks up a necklace and makes a happy noise. “You must have a great stylist. This is from a designer I could never get near, let alone afford.”
“People send me things to wear,” I admit. “And when I go on tour, a stylist steps in to put all those clothes together. But that’s more like costume design than clothing. They match the sheen of the fabric to the lights and the video effects. It’s literally the job of three people to make me seem bigger and more like a star than I really am.”
“Huh.” Heidi looks more thoughtful than impressed. “And I thought my job was weird.”
“You’re the team manager’s assistant, right?” It seems like everyone I’ve met works for the team.
“Yeah, I run his office and his life.”
“Is that a lot of travel?”
“Sure is. But it lets me see more of my honey, so I’m not complaining. Their schedule during the season is brutal.”
A fresh, new worry pokes its way out of my subconscious and scurries to the forefront of my brain. Even if my magical vacation with Silas was the start of something big, how would I ever see him? We both have strange jobs.
“Now let me see…” Heidi squints at the dress. “Which eye palette goes best with this?”
“I wouldn’t know a palette if it bit me in the backside. I just radiate incompetence, don’t I?”
“Not at all,” Heidi argues. “You radiate indifference. That’s not the same thing. Hold this up to your face so I can see how it plays with your olive skin tone.”
I do it, and Heidi smiles. “Perfect! I’ll hitch the fairy dust to the genius pony and be right with you after you shower.”
“Don’t spend too much time on me,” I caution her. “It’s not like I’m the bride.”
“Not this time, anyway,” she says cheerfully.
As if me getting married didn’t sound as unlikely as taking a trip to the moon.
“Hold still. Last time, I promise.”
I close my eyes and wait while she strokes something onto my brow line.
“Ladies.” There’s a tap on the door. We’re in Heidi’s room, which is twice the size of mine. “Let’s roll.” Jason prods through the door.
“One sec!” Heidi calls.
“You said that ten minutes ago! Walking in late to the big boss’s wedding is not a good look on you.”
“We’re totally ready!” Heidi calls, sitting back and admiring her work. “Let’s go! This is going to be great.”
I stand up and slip my feet into my shoes. In the living room, Silas is looking out the window. He turns my way, and then those green eyes widen. He gives me a onceover and a slow, sexy smile. Then he presses his lips together, like there’s something he needs to hold in, because it’s not for everyone’s ears.
Nobody has ever looked at me like that before. Like I’m half of an important secret.
It takes me a long moment and a slow blink to notice what he’s wearing. “Is that a seersucker suit?” In pink?
“Of course.” Still smiling, he smooths a hand over a jacket that looks like something you’d see at the Kentucky Derby. “Perfect for warm weather.”
“And for looking like a geezer,” his roommate snarks.
“You look adorable,” I argue, walking toward him. “Like a Southern gentleman.”
“And you two match!” Heidi squeals. “I’m all amazement.”
“Whereas I feel a little nauseated,” Jason mutters.
“Let’s go!” Heidi chirps. “Weren’t you in a big fat hurry?” She slaps his butt and scoots out the door ahead of him.
Silas gives me one more longing gaze, lingering particularly on my cleavage and then down to my bare legs. “How did I get so lucky to have you
on my arm tonight? Love your dress.”
“Do you?” I’m not sure it’s my dress he’s admiring.
“Mm-hmm. It will look great on the floor later.” He leans in, and his lips sweep down my cheekbone.
“This wedding starts in four minutes,” Jason says from outside.
“All right.” With a sigh, Silas takes my hand. “Let’s go sit through the stuffy parts so we can get to the carousing that comes later.”
We walk out the door, hand in hand. And until this moment I don’t think I ever knew what being part of a couple was meant to feel like.
Apparently, a billionaire’s private island home comes equipped with a ballroom seating two hundred people on prim white chairs. The room is also filled with tropical flowers in pinks and oranges. It’s gorgeous. Flower petals line the sides of the aisle, too.
Piano music plays while the mother of the bride proceeds down the aisle on the arm of her son-in-law. After she sits, our gazes swing to the front of the room, where a rotund officiant appears. His white collar sets off his ebony skin as he walks, chin high, to step behind the flower-covered altar. He smiles happily and beckons to Nate and the best man, who enter in light-grey suits.
As the music changes, two hundred heads turn to look up the aisle.
The bridesmaids come into view, escorted by groomsmen. Their dresses are all the same shade of deep pink, but in different styles cut to suit them.
So this is how weddings are done. I admit I never paid much attention before. But this is classy.
And I don’t feel like a wedding crasher, even if I am one. I spoke to everyone in the wedding party at some point this weekend. I feel weirdly invested.
Rebecca’s sister is the maid of honor. Smiling sweetly, she walks slowly down the aisle alone. But when she’s made it about halfway down, she stops and turns around.
And a tiny little boy in a miniature tuxedo toddles into view. He’s carrying a small sign that reads: Here Comes the Bride.
“Awwwww,” says the crowd.
Rebecca’s sister waves to him. He looks up, locking onto the sight of his mom, and then starts to toddle, hustling down the aisle until he is scooped up into her arms. She carries him to the front of the room, then hands him off to his grandma before taking her place at the front of the bridesmaids’ line.
