My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Janey.”

“Don’t worry, I got this. Just go get an alibi . . . and some dick, and let me take care of the rest.”

“If you’re sure?”

In answer, she rips the tablet from my hands and starts going down the list herself. After a second, she looks up. “You’re still here?”

Fine, I get it. I’m leaving. Just one last thing . . .

I kiss Janey’s cheek. “You’re the best, girl. Remind me to give you a raise when we get home.”

She laughs, knowing that there’s no way I can do that but perfectly willing to stay where she is with me.Chapter 8LorenzoEsmar’s voice rises and falls with the perfection of a trained tenor, and I shake my head in amazement. The man hasn’t stopped for nearly an hour, his powerful voice belting out classic opera like he’s singing pop in the shower. And he hasn’t missed a single note even as he preps for tonight’s dinner.

“Hey, Esmar, think we can change from cruel fate to something happier?” I ask.

“Ooh, challenge throwdown!” Gilberto cheers.

Esmar laughs. “You might be sorry, but you asked for it. You speak French?” I have no idea what he’s talking about, but the entire kitchen staff is looking from Esmar to me with knowing smiles.

“A bit,” I hedge. The multicultural kitchen here probably has speakers of at least fifteen languages, and though Italian is my first language, my travels through Europe have taught me the basics of a few more.

I might be in trouble. But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than in this kitchen right now. After Meredith’s meeting this morning, I contemplated how best to spend my day. I don’t have any meals to cook for the wedding guests today because the resort kitchens are handling that as pre-planned, and though the beach called to me, I don’t want to burn before we kayak this afternoon. I might be olive complected, but the sun here is fierce and unforgiving. So Esmar’s kitchen is where I headed, wanting to watch him, learn from him, taste his food, and learn his soul, as he put it.

Hours later, I’m having a blast and feeling right at home. Until Esmar starts singing a new song, one created from his own imagination . . .

Oh, pretty lady with skin so pale,

Let my work my fingers in your dough,

I won’t fail. I’ll knead you back and forth,

Up and down all night. And when you are perfectly

Al dente, my sauce will set you right!Every verse gets more hilarious, bawdier, and more explicit. Finally, I have to give up, setting down my knife before I cut myself. It’s the signal for the end of the song, and everyone cheers Esmar as I hold my belly, laughing hard and trying not to pass out because I can’t breathe.

“Congratulations, you lasted longer than most!” someone calls over, laughing themselves. “But those lines at the end, about her garlic knot and bathing it in butter . . . priceless!”

“How in the world did you come up with that?” I ask Esmar.

He shrugs, his knife never stopping as he cuts thin slices of jicama. “I’ve traveled some as well. A French chef I worked with would create lyrics to entertain us, and it became a fun way to greet new staff here.”

“You mean to haze them?” I say with a smile, still chuckling inside.

“You say to-mah-to, I say to-may-to,” he replies easily.

And we continue to work together through the lunch service, enjoying each other’s company and showing off a bit. Though for chefs, showing off is how we teach, how we learn.

As service wraps up, Esmar dismisses me. “Mashi danke. Thank you, Chef, but I must kick you out of my kitchen now. You are in paradise. Go enjoy the island.”

I take advantage of the offer, quickly washing up and heading back to Abigail’s room. Our room.

I like the sound of that. Fuck, she was stunning this morning—her thick hair a tangled mess from tossing and turning all night, her eyes bleary with sleep, and her nightgown too thin to disguise her pearled nipples. And her blatant desire and enjoyment of my body.

I enjoyed seeing her that way, a peek behind the bluster she puts on and defenses she wears like sparkly distractions.

I find the room empty and a small worry takes root. Is she going to stand me up?

I get ready, not willing to fully consider it. Once I’m in swimsuit trunks and a tank top, with a healthy layer of sunscreen, I sit on the couch and stare at the clock. One thirty comes and goes, and the root turns to a small sprout of nerves mixed with a tiny leaf of anger. If I have to scour the resort, I’ll find her. If nothing else, I know where she’ll be sleeping tonight . . . right beside me.