My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Ah,” Esmar exclaims, the sentiment translating even if the words do not. “She came into my kitchen—my kitchen!—with no invitation, just waltzing in like she has the right. ‘Rank has its privileges,’ she tells me. She did not like it when I told her that the only rank in my kitchen is Chef and that’s me.” He slaps his chest proudly. “We will watch out for her, alert you if she tries to come in again. I will gladly show her what privileges she is entitled to.”

Esmar’s support, with the agreement of Gilberto’s nod and the rest of the crew’s murmurs of unity, means a lot to me. Being the new chef to come into a kitchen can be hard, and I’ve had experiences where I had to prove myself again and again with my food and my willingness to learn just to be marginally accepted. But here, they welcome me with open arms and warmth. It’s a gift I will return in exchange while I am here.

“Mashi danki. Thank you,” I tell the group in Papiamento, one of the few phrases I learned on the plane ride here.

“Di nada,” they answer.I make my way down the hall, my key card in hand. It’s early, only six o’clock, but I want to shower before dinner tonight and I’m doing so in the lap of luxury via Abigail’s ensuite.

At the door, I stop. Perhaps I should knock? It is my suite now too, but that’s not entirely true.

The slight pause gives me a chance to hear voices on the other side of the door.

Janey’s voice is high-pitched, as if she’s repeating herself and getting more frantic with each repetition as she’s not heard. “Husband? You said he’s your husband? Do you remember what happened with your brother? Your sister?”

I wait for Abigail’s response but only hear a grunted moan as if she’s tired of the conversation.

“You should’ve said he was your boy toy,” Janey suggests. “I bet Bitch Barbie would’ve shit herself at that. Or said he’s your love slave or something.” A small giggle sounds out and then Janey says, “I would love to have that man feed me grapes, fan me with a big palm tree, and give me an oil rubdown . . . everywhere. Did you see those abs?”

There’s a gasp of shock that has to be Abi and then she laughs too. “Of course I did! Did you see his belly button? I already have fantasies of swimming in it on my way to slide down Cock Mountain. First, with my mouth and then with my pussy.”

I blink at the picture her words paint, my cock instantly growing hard in my pants. I trace my hand over my abs and grip myself hard, willing the stiffness to subside. Instead, I involuntarily groan.

“What was that?” I hear Janey say through the wood.

Fuck. They heard me.

I hold the key card up to the door and am greeted by the green light. I open the door and walk into the suite, the outline of my hard dick obvious in my lightweight linen pants.

“Oh! Uh, hi,” Abigail stutters cutely, her cheeks going pink. She’s wearing a gauzy, waffle weave, white hotel robe and it’s gaping at the neckline. She follows my eyes, flushing further when she realizes how much cleavage she is showing. She makes a squeak of horror, and sadly, draws it tighter to cover herself from my prying eyes.

“Buona sera,” I reply. “I hope I am not too early? I thought we should go over some details before getting ready for dinner, to help sell the honeymoon?”

Janey points at me. “I like the way you think, mister. I’m going to leave you two to it. Abi, I’ll head back down to the storage room and start organizing the boxes into categories.”

Abigail tears her eyes from me, focusing on Janey. “Make sure to keep the silk ribbon separate from the glitter tulle or it’ll snag.”

Janey rolls her eyes and murmurs, “Duh. She acts like I’ve never done this before.” And she’s gone, leaving us alone.

I wonder what Abigail has on beneath that robe. I wonder if she can tell I’m commando beneath my pants. I consider the thread counts of the combined fabrics that separate us.

Abigail is quiet for too long, and though I’d like to do wicked things to her, I spoke the truth. We do need to talk before tonight.

“Abigail, tell me what I need to know about you.” It’s an order, but open-ended, allowing her to share what she feels is relevant. To tonight, to forever, whichever she prefers.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m an Andrews. My dad started Andrews Consolidated when he was younger and made bank. My parents have been married for decades, and somehow, are still in love. My brother, Ross, is married to Violet. They just had a baby, but you already know that. My sister, Courtney, is married . . .” She pauses, and I wonder if she’s remembering the wedding where we met the way I am. She licks her lips nervously before continuing, “She works for my dad.”