My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Yes?” I ask, not letting her get a dig in first.

Meredith smiles at me. It’s creepy as fuck, with zero sense of friendliness. “The flowers look lovely, Miss Andrews.”

A compliment? It sounds like an actual compliment, which makes me suspicious.

“Thank you,” I say carefully.

“I might have been hard on you, but you’ve really come through in the end.” She nods her head, looking around the room from arrangement to arrangement appreciatively. “You must understand, I was simply concerned that your work would falter with all the distractions of the island.”

Oh, shit! Does she know about me and Lorenzo? I mean, there’s no real reason we can’t have spent time together, but it’s not exactly professional and I don’t want it to affect how either of us is perceived.

“It is a beautiful island,” I concede, though I feel like we’re having two separate conversations. One topical, with niceties like rose petals, and the other deeper, with thorns.

“I think we would make a good team in the future,” she says with another one of those smiles. “Especially since at home, you won’t have the same distractions . . . the island, celebrity clients, your chef friend.”

She tacks on the last bit almost like it’s an afterthought, but something tells me it’s the entire point of this weird conversation because I don’t believe for one second that Meredith wants to work with me when we get home.

Confused, I reply, “Lorenzo? He’s flying back on Sunday too.”

Meredith’s lips quirk and evil delight gleams in her eyes. “Hmm. Perhaps I misunderstood? I could’ve sworn I overheard him and Esmar discussing his new position . . . here at the resort restaurant.”

What? No fucking way.

Lorenzo wouldn’t do that. Or would he?

It is who he is . . . a wanderer who goes to the next exciting thing at the drop of a hat. And cooking in Aruba would definitely qualify as exciting. But surely, he’d talk to me about it first, right?

Abi, it’s been a week. You really think you have any hold on him that would keep him from working in paradise? Your pussy’s not that special.

You’re not that special.

But while my world is crumbling into shatters of questions and doubts, Meredith looks concerned as she places a hand on my arm. “Miss Andrews, are you okay, dear? You look pale.”

I fix my plastic smile on my lips. Thanks for the lessons, Mom. “I’m fine. Sorry. Guess I need a little snack after this long day. Low blood sugar, you know?”

“Sure. Take a moment and get a quick bite. Again, everything looks lovely.” Her concern morphs to a soft smile. Her kindness is the last straw.

I nearly run for the bathroom, not needing food but needing . . . something. Staring at myself in the mirror, I can’t believe what Meredith said.

But I do.

I flash back to those moments on the boat with Lorenzo buried inside me, our flesh bare, but I’d felt like there was more. So much more. Like he was baring his soul to me and I was letting down my walls. But if he’s staying here, maybe I should’ve just continued protecting myself. Then this wouldn’t hurt so much.

I clench my jaw, swallowing down the maelstrom swirling in my gut. I can’t do this now, not in the middle of an event. Not in the middle of this big moment in my career.

Focus, Abi. Pull yourself together. Deal with the here and now. The rest can wait.

I can wait.

I’ve got myself under a false sense of control when I hear Cole’s voice. Loud, as though he’s on a microphone out on the ballroom floor.

“Excuse me, everyone . . . if I could have your attention, please. Claire, I have something I need to tell you.”

What the hell is happening? Is Cole confessing to Claire at their wedding? I freeze, my hand on the bathroom door.

“You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep this secret from you. Actually, I wouldn’t have been able to if it hadn’t been for Madison’s help.”

Oh, shit! Madison who was saving the bouquet from Cujo? That’s who he was talking to on the phone? That’s who he told ‘I love you’?

The door flies open in my hand and I’m back in the ballroom an instant later. Cole is on the stage at the far end of the space, smiling as he holds the room in the palm of his hand.

My eyes find Claire, who’s in the middle of the dance floor, happily teary eyes on her new husband.

No, no, no, no.

He chuckles and then says, “Some guys get their brides a piece of jewelry as a wedding gift, like a pearl necklace or diamond earrings. But you’re not a jewelry kind of girl . . . except for that ring. You’d better never take that thing off your finger.” The audience laughs.