My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“You could’ve, you know, told her how you’re doing the flowers for the biggest wedding of the year. She would’ve seen that you’re not a failure then,” Janey says logically.

Abigail shakes her head. “That’s not Emily’s currency. She truly doesn’t understand the value of that. But she understands . . . you.” Abigail’s eyes, dark and hopeful, turn to me appraisingly. She might think that only Emily understands my appeal, but Abigail does as well. I can see that clearly.

“Okay, so it is settled then. We will do this charade for Emily and go to dinner and blow away the wedding guests with our combined genius. It sounds like an exciting week, an adventure waiting to unfold,” I summarize.

Truthfully, Abigail is an adventure I’d like to fold and unfold in countless positions. But she is Violet’s best friend, and Violet is not someone to upset carelessly. Nor is her entire family branch. And though Abigail might flirt and play at being a fun girl, I think her heart is fragile, easily bruised like a peach, and I do not want to be the man who destroys her for some short-lived enjoyment.

I’m an asshole, but I’m not a monster.

That’s why I left that night at the wedding. Not because she wasn’t enough but because she’s more than I deserve. More than I need right now.

Except she needs me. For now, at least.

I pick up my small bag and stride toward the bedroom Abigail set her carry-on in. That has her moving double-time off the couch, beating me to the bedroom doorway where she stands with her arms outstretched, one hand on either side of the door frame as a scowling, but cute, blockade. “Where do you think you’re going?” she balks.

“To our room, mia rosa,” I tell her calmly, absolutely knowing the effect it will have.

“Oh, no. That’s not part of the deal,” she argues, as if this is a negotiation. But she’s already lost this hand.

“Of course it is. Otherwise, when Emily and Doug come to meet us tonight, they will wonder why we are spending our honeymoons in different parts of the resort. Especially when your room is so luxurious and spacious and mine is a last-minute crew quarter space not much larger than a coffin. I think perhaps I have married up.” I flash a bright smile, knowing she’ll see reason.

Her arms cross and her eyes narrow, but nothing comes out of her mouth.

“Very well. Which side of the bed do you prefer, mia rosa?” I call out over my shoulder as I enter the bedroom, making sure to brush against her as I pass.

It’s large and bright. The king-size bed is crisp with white linens and fluffy pillows and surrounded by floor to ceiling windows. The one centered on the far wall is a slider that opens onto the same balcony as the living room. I drop my bag and take a running leap for the bed, bouncing onto its lush cushion.

“Aah, this is exquisite,” I moan.

“You can take the couch,” Abigail instructs, still standing in the doorway and pointing to a couch in the corner. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

I quirk a knowing brow and let my voice drop low and turn to gravel as I say, “I did not say anything about sleeping, Abigail.” She crosses her arms protectively again, but I see the way her thighs squeeze together. “And if I am doing this favor for you, I will not be sleeping on the couch. You can if you choose to, but I’ll be here in this bed that should not be missed.” I pat the open space beside me in invitation.

She waves a dismissive hand. “Whatever. We can figure that out later. Right now, I need to get to work. I have an email to read, apparently, and I need to get down to see the coolers and check our shipments. I’ll meet you back here at seven so we’re ready for dinner?”

Reluctantly, I hop up from the comfortable bed. “Yes. I should get down and introduce myself to the chef as well and make sure the kitchen is up to snuff.”

Abigail’s brows rise nearly to her hairline. “You told Meredith you’d already done that!”

I shrug carelessly. “I lied. I’ll take care of it, and everything will be fine. I’m a big boy, don’t need her checking up on me. There’s no need to hand her ammunition.”

I can’t decide if Abigail is impressed with me or horrified that she didn’t think of it herself first. Or maybe considering how big a ‘boy’ I am, I think with evil delight.

Testing that theory, I reach down and adjust myself.

Abigail’s mouth closes with a clack of her teeth. Ah-ha, got you, mia rosa.

“Kitchen. Coolers. Seven p.m. Don’t be late,” she orders, pointing a finger to me, then herself, before settling it back toward me.