The Honeymooner Read online

  I shoot him a warning look. “I'll be down there in a minute. I just want to see if she has any questions first.”

  “I bet,” he says with a laugh.

  A moment later, we're alone on the boat. She must know I'm staring at her because she looks up from her work.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I say, “So? Did we fail?”

  “You really don’t expect me to answer that, do you?” she says with a smile, snapping her notebook shut.

  “Well, I kind of hoped…” I give her a boyish grin.

  “It will be much better for you if you stop hoping, because I have no intention of telling you anything until I've made my final decision.”

  “In that case, are you ready to go parasailing?”

  “I already told you, I'm not going parasailing.” She shakes her head and tucks her notebook and calculator into her beach bag.

  “Why not? Been there, done that?”

  “Never been there, never going to do that.” She pulls on her enormous straw hat and walks toward me. “I have a pretty good life and see no need to end it at the tender age of twenty-eight.”

  I step aside and gesture for her to disembark ahead of me. She gingerly makes her way down the wooden plank to the shore while I watch her skirt sway. Being a gentleman has its advantages. Except I guess the fact that I’m staring at her bottom doesn’t exactly make me a gentleman, does it?

  I follow her down the dock, trying not to ogle her backside anymore. “Are you afraid of heights?”

  She turns and looks at me over her shoulder, then says, “I'm not afraid of heights. I'm afraid of falling, which, if you ask me, is just good common sense. If humans were meant to fly—”

  “—we would’ve been born with wings?” I say with a wry smile.

  “Yes. Exactly.” She stops just as she reaches the end of the dock. Sliding off her sandals, she picks them up and steps down onto the white beach.

  “Then how did you manage to get to the Benavente Islands all the way from Avonia?” I ask.

  “That's different.”

  “How so?”

  “Because that was necessary for my job. Plus, I wasn't dangling from the back of a boat in some dodgy harness. I was tucked safely into a very large jumbo jet, wearing a seatbelt and sitting on a very sturdy chair.”

  “I’ll have you know, none of my harnesses are dodgy. They’re very well-made and safety-tested regularly.”

  “And yet, I’m not about to strap myself into one.”

  “Come on. That girl I met on Sunday night certainly would've gone parasailing.”

  “That girl doesn't exist,” she says, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

  “Sure she does. I saw her in person — a lot of her.”

  Laughing, Libby covers her mouth with one hand, then shakes her head. “I'm not going parasailing. I'm just going to find a nice spot in the shade where I can observe everything.”

  “How about I make you a deal: you go parasailing with me, and I'll ask Rosy to add up all our utility and fuel costs since the start of the year, which ought to save you quite a few hours of calculations.”

  “Seriously? You're trying to negotiate this? Why do you even care if I go parasailing?”

  Good question. I have no idea why I care, I just know I do — very much. “Because in the unlikely event that you decide the resort is better off with your people than mine, I want to make sure to drive the price up on you,” I say.

  “And you think getting me to dangle from a harness is actually going to drive the price up?” she asks, looking completely unimpressed.

  “I happen to know for a fact that when you see the view of these islands and this water from that vantage point, it's going to add at least one zero to the price. Maybe two.” I bump her shoulder with my arm, hoping she'll say yes. “I’ll even go with you, tandem, so you won’t have to do anything, and I’ll be right there to make sure you land safely. I promise, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

  When she looks up at me, the expression on her face tells me I've won.

  ***

  “When you said tandem, I thought you meant we'd be side-by-side,” she says, leaning to the right and turning so she can look back at me.

  “This is the safest way for a beginner. It means you don’t have to balance yourself back here while the boat hits full speed.” We’re standing on the stern of the speedboat, strapped together, with me behind her, and I have to say, I did not think this through. If I thought I was having trouble keeping my mind on business before, it was nothing compared to now.

  She’s clearly very nervous, which makes me want to wrap my arms around her and pull her in until she relaxes. She’s also wearing nothing but a bikini, which made it hard for me to help get her strapped in — hard on account of trying not to get hard while I was tightening the straps so close to her ample chest and her cute behind.

  Fidel starts the motor and gently increases the speed, and her hair blows toward my face, bringing with it the scent of her shampoo and sunscreen. She smells like apples and coconut, and the combination makes me feel a little drunk.

  “You all right?” I ask her.

  She nods, but doesn’t say anything, which makes me think I may be pushing her too far with this one.

  “You sure? We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I think it’ll be good for me. I should try new things,” she says, her voice sounding anything but sure.

  One of the other guests has Libby’s phone and says, “Say cheese!” to us.

  I lean to the left and smile, hoping I don’t look like a total arse grinning away while the woman in front of me is so scared, she’s trying not to pee herself.

  The boat speeds up and Libby loses her balance. I catch her, holding her by the waist, trying not to notice how soft her skin is against my rough palms. She giggles nervously, then squeals as we’re lifted into the air.

  “I think I changed my mind!” she shouts as we go up in the air.

  I force my hands to release her and enjoy the sound of her laughter as we ascend up one thousand feet into the sky. She grips the cords that attach us to the sail and says, “This is really friggin’ high! I didn’t think we’d be so far from the water!”

  “Too high?”

  “Yes! And no! I’m not sure, but I think I kind of love it,” she yells, laughing some more. “It’s scary and wonderful at the same time!”

  I chuckle, thoroughly enjoying being here to experience this with her.

  “What happens if we fall?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll catch you on the way down.”

  “Is that even possible?”

  “Absolutely. The impact will likely break most of the bones in my body, but you’ll be just fine.”

  “Okay, good. That’s all I really care about anyway,” she teases.

  The boat curves to the right, making its way around the first turn of the tiny island. Libby points down to where a pair of dolphins can be seen jumping and swimming along next to each other. “Do you see that?”

  “We call them Fred and Wilma. Watch, they’ll try to race the boat!”

  We watch for a minute, but the pair seem completely disinterested in the boat. They continue to swim side-by-side.

  “They’re not doing it.” Libby says.

  Then suddenly, one of them flips onto its back and they connect at their bellies.

  Libby cocks her head to the side. “Are they…?”

  “Yep, they’re doing it, all right.”

  We both burst out laughing while we pass over the pair.

  “Let’s give them some privacy,” I say, tapping Libby on the shoulder and pointing in the other direction. There’s an excellent view of the snorkelling bay, and you can make out the brightly coloured fish swimming around the coral.

  “This is amazing,” Libby says, letting go of the cords and holding her arms out to the sides.

 
; “Are you glad you agreed to try it?”

  “I’ll tell you when I’m safely on the ground,” she says.

  The next few minutes go by far too quickly for my liking, and I’m already filled with regret before we even land in the water. Okay, idiot, snap out of it already. Nothing is going to happen. She’s going to do her report and go back home, and you’re never going to see her again.

  The boat slows and we start to drift down toward the sea near the beach. Libby grips the chute cords again and I know she’s nervous.

  Leaning forward a bit, I say, “It’s okay, just remember what I told you. All you have to do is relax and I’ll take care of everything.”

  “You sound like my first boyfriend,” she answers, looking over her shoulder with a grin.

  “And?”

  “He did a most thorough job of taking care of himself.”

  I don’t know why I say the next thing — well, actually, I do — but I know I shouldn’t. “Don’t worry, you won’t have that same problem with me. Your happy ending is my top priority.”

  Fidel cuts the engine and everything grows quiet as we finish our descent.

  “You ready?”

  “No,” she says, curling up her knees.

  We float down into the water, the sail landing behind us and tugging on the cords a bit as I start to tread water and unhook myself. Once I’m free, I push myself under the water and out of the harness. I swim around and come face to face with Libby while I unhook her, trying not to think about how close my hands are to her chest right now as it rises and falls with exhilaration.

  “So? Are you glad you tried it?” I ask, looking her right in the eyes.

  Her gaze meets mine and there is enough heat to bring the entire sea to a low boil. Swallowing hard, she says, “Yes. Thank you for taking me.”

  “You’re welcome. That was fun.” Do not kiss her. Do not kiss her, Harrison. That would be a very bad idea. No matter how full those lips are or how she’s looking at you.

  Licking her lips, she says, “I’m almost sorry it’s over.”

  Me too. I brush some wet hair from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear, letting the back of my hand graze her skin. She closes her eyes and I start to lean in, lowering my face to hers.

  Something shifts in an instant, and her eyes spring open with fear. In a very formal voice, she says, “Thank you again, Mr. Banks. I’ll have to make Richard try it sometime. He’ll love it.”

  Oh, shit. I’m going to get crushed, aren’t I?

  ***

  Text from Will: Hey, bro. Heads up - Emma called a few days ago. She’s super pissed that you sold Matilda, so maybe don’t pick up when she calls for a while. On a side note, you should totally come to Antarctica – the cold weather makes the women here desperate for someone to keep them warm. ;)

  THIRTEEN

  A Week in Un-Paradise

  Libby

  Have you ever been so confused and befuddled emotionally that up seems like down, and right is left, and wrong is right (even though you know it’s really wrong but it feels so right that you start to believe it actually is right)?

  Yeah, that’s me right now.

  I’m supposed to be here on my unhoneymoon/business trip, proving I can do this job just as well as Alan-the-Arsechitect and figuring out a way to get back the love of my life, who is definitely still Richard even though he left me at the altar. Right? Yes. Definitely. We have a perfect future together back home, and I must not forget all the good things, even though he did abandon me on the most important day of my life.

  Oh, God. This is just so terribly confusing, isn’t it? What I should be doing and what I am doing are wildly different. I’ve been letting myself get totally carried away by a certain sculpted resort owner, which is a huge no-no. That’s why I made the comment about wanting to take Richard parasailing — to firmly apply the brakes on whatever is not happening between Harrison and me. And it may be wishful thinking, because my self-esteem is so badly in need of a boost right now, but I could have sworn he looked disappointed when I said that. Hurt, even.

  But he couldn’t be hurt.

  The truth is, we’re both just using each other. He needs me to like him, so he’s being all, “I’ll take care of you. You’re beautiful, Libby.” Okay, he hasn’t said that bit about me being beautiful, but the way he looks at me could turn a rock into lava. I mean, seriously, it’s like he wants to devour me with those gorgeous hazel eyes of his. And part of me, the very naughty part, wants to let him. (Naughty me really wants to let him. Badly.)

  But, no. That would be an enormous disaster, both personally and professionally. I’d be throwing away my career and my future marriage in one long, lusty afternoon. Or night. Or an afternoon that would stretch into an all-nighter, because, let’s be honest, Harrison does seem like the type to have stamina to spare. Plus, he’s an insomniac, so the chances of him falling straight to sleep after he orgasms are pretty much nil. In fact, I’d probably have trouble keeping up with him, what with all his running and swimming and doing all that sweaty active work every day.

  So, now I’m walking back to my room, getting my land legs back after a day at sea. I have to say, things were so much more fun before I brought up Richard’s name. After that, Harrison got very busy with hosting duties the rest of the afternoon. He didn’t even sit with me at lunch, but opted to eat with Justin and Fidel, which left me awkwardly alone with my mind racing. Which it’s obviously still doing.

  As soon as I push the door open to my room, I drop my bag and get straight in the shower, turning the water as cool as I can stand it. I can’t go with hot or even slightly tepid water on account of needing to cool down my raging hormones. I shampoo quickly and get out as fast as possible, deciding to get right to work on my assessment. I have a lot of data to put into my spreadsheets, which is terrific. It’ll keep me busy all evening and keep my mind off you-know-who.

  My phone buzzes and I see I have a new like on my Instagram account. It’s Richard. Huh. What’s he doing up at this hour looking at my IG pics?

  Now I’m very glad I posted all those shots this afternoon at the beach and of me parasailing with Harrison. My plan could be starting to work. Maybe Richard will see I’m turning into Unpredictable, Super-Fun Libby, and he’ll change his mind about us. Plus, he’s bound to be wondering who that very attractive man is in two of my pics. If this doesn’t lead him to get on the next plane here and sweep me up in his arms, nothing will.

  But between you and me, I like my chances…

  ***

  Five Days Later

  Did I actually say I liked my chances? Because if I was really that cocky, I have to tell you, I was wrong with a capital WRONG.

  In the past several days, I’ve posted an obnoxious number of photos on Instagram, trying to make it look like I’m having the time of my life. Photos of me at each restaurant (where I was actually doing inventory and making process observations), at the beach, on my balcony, at the pool (where I walked in up to my waist, took a few selfies, then went back to my room to get changed and get back to my laptop, which is where I am right now).

  I know it’s pathetic, but I even went so far as to pose for a few activities I didn’t do — like paddleboarding. That was a production, let me tell you. First, I had to get into my bikini and do my hair and makeup, then I had to walk all the way over to the beach from my room, and by the time I did that, I was all sweaty, so I had to find a bathroom and freshen up. Then I had to ask the paddleboard rental guy if he could help me out by coming down to the shoreline to take a picture. I had to set up the shot to make it look like I was out on the water (which involved some serious camera trickery), then stand on the board (which was still firmly attached to the beach), and make an open-mouthed, ‘wow this is awesome fun and kind of hard at the same time’ face.

  After making sure he got a good shot, I told the rental guy I changed my mind and didn’t want to paddleboard after all. He was not impressed
, by the way. And, now that I think about it, I could have totally just Photoshopped something, which would have been much less time-consuming, not to mention less humiliating.

  The worst part is, all that effort hasn’t yielded any results on the Richard front.

  Not one little like.

  Not a phone call.

  Not him showing up here, desperate to find me and rushing down the beach (because of course I’ll be at the beach in a lovely sundress staring pensively at the setting sun over the sea). He’ll lift me into his arms and pledge his undying devotion, then out of thin air, a minister will appear and two witnesses (probably Alice and Jack, who he begged to come with him) …and we’ll be married immediately and live happily ever, our relationship becoming a legendary love story like Romeo and Juliet (except without the double suicide ending).

  Instead, nothing has happened. Well, except for Richard liking a video Alice posted of Maisie in her Jolly Jumper, as well as one of his brother Tom’s posts, giving a thumbs-up while holding an empty pint glass. I mean, Maisie is adorable and she’s laughing her head off while she jumps, so that deserves a like. But Tom celebrating the fact that he’s just had a beer? Really, Richard? That gets a like, but me suspending myself thousands of feet in the air with nothing but a harness to prevent my death gets nada?

  I’m starting to think it’s over, and I’m sure to you that sounds insane, because like Greta from Germany, and Lolita the barmaid, and Alice, you probably thought Richard and I were through the moment he sent that text. But, honestly, how can I throw away the six years I’ve invested in a man who is normally a very stable and terrific partner?

  Just because he ditched me on our wedding day like a total coward?

  Just because he basically said being with me was as exciting as being with an eighty-year-old retired librarian?

  Well, the joke’s on you, Richard, because I can be a total thrill-seeker! At least I can make it look like I am, anyway, which is basically the same thing in the end, isn’t it? I mean, really, don’t most people do crazy, adrenaline-rush-inducing things just so they can say they did it? Nobody really likes to ‘live on the edge.’ Not even Richard, whose middle name isn’t exactly Danger. The most thrilling thing he’s done in the last few years is to order a curried chicken with a three-hot-pepper rating on the menu at Tandoori Tavern. And he couldn’t even finish it, he was sweating so much. I mean, honestly, it wasn’t even that hot. I had a bite, and at best, it was White People Spicy. Hypocrite.