“Breasts. Boobs. Jugs. Knockers.”
Ethan wipes a hand down his face. “Jesus, Oliver.”
I stare at him, daring him to look at me. Finally, he does, and he looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin.
“So she wanted implants,” I prompt.
He nods. “I bet she regrets not getting them back when she was enjoying my paychecks.”
“Well, there you go. Your fake new wife has great boobs. Be proud.”
Hesitating, he says, “But it has to be more than that.”
“What do you mean, ‘more than that’? I’m not going to wear a thong.”
“No, just—” He runs an exasperated hand through his hair. “It’s not only about me being with someone hot now.”
Wait, what? Hot?
He rolls on like he hasn’t said anything completely shocking. “You have to pretend to like me, too.”
A curl falls over his eye just after he’s said this, turning the moment into a Hollywood shot that completely mocks me. A small set of fireworks—only a sparkler, I swear—goes off beneath my breastbone, because he is so goddamn pretty. And seeing him vulnerable, even for a second, is so disorienting it makes me imagine a time when I can look at his face and not hate it.
“I can pretend to like you.” I pause, adding out of the self-preservation instinct, “Probably.”
Something softens in his demeanor. His hand moves closer, curling around mine, warm and encompassing. My reflex is to jerk away, but he holds me steady, gently, and says, “Good. Because we’re going to have to be a lot more convincing on that boat.”
chapter eight
The boat in question is enormous, with a wide lower deck, a plush indoor area with a bar and grill, and an upper rooftop deck in the full, bright sun. While the rest of the group finds places to stow their bags and get snacks, Ethan and I head straight for the bar, grab drinks, and make our way up the ladder to the empty rooftop. I’m sure the emptiness won’t last, but the tiny reprieve from feeling like we’re performers onstage is awesome.
It’s warm; I take off my cover-up, Ethan takes off his shirt, and then we’re both half-naked together, in broad daylight, drowning in silence.
We look at anything but each other. Suddenly I wish we were surrounded by people.
“Nice boat,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“How’s your drink?”
He shrugs. “Cheap liquor. It’s fine.”
Wind whips my hair into my face, and Ethan holds my vodka tonic while I pull a rubber band out of my bag and tie my hair up. His eyes dart from the horizon to my red bikini and back again.
“I saw that,” I say.
He sips his drink. “Saw what?”
“You checked out my chest.”
“Of course I did. It’s like having two other people up here with us. I don’t want to be rude.”
As if on cue, a head pops up at the top of the ladder—fucking Reject Daryl Dixon, of course, followed closely by Sophie. I swear I can hear Ethan’s soul scream.
They climb onto the deck, holding their own margaritas in plastic cups.
“Hey, guys!” Sophie says, approaching. “Ohmygod. Isn’t it gorge?”