The Unhoneymooners

“And remember,” I say, loving his discomfort, “I didn’t mention you, or being engaged, even at the more casual lunch at the interview, so we need to look a little windswept by it all.”

The elevator dings, and the doors open into the lobby. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble pulling that off.”

“And be charming,” I say. “But not like, likable charming. Passably charming. They shouldn’t leave wanting to spend any actual time with you. Because you’re probably going to die or turn out to be terrible in the end.” I catch his small, irritated scowl as he heads into the lobby and can’t help but throw in a little dig. “Basically, just be yourself.”

“Man, I am going to sleep so well tonight.” He stretches, like he’s prepping to starfish on the enormous bed. “FYI, watch the left side of the sofa. I was reading there earlier today and noticed there’s a spring that digs a little.”

Soft music echoes through the lobby as we make our way to the exit. The restaurant is just off the beach; it’s convenient because when all this blows up in my face, it will only be a short walk to drown myself in the ocean.

Ethan opens the door to the expansive courtyard and motions for me to lead the way down a lighted path. “What is this company again?” he asks.

“Hamilton Biosciences. They’re one of the most well-known contract biologics company in the country, and on the discovery side, they have a new flu vaccine. From all of the papers I’ve read, it sounds groundbreaking. I really wanted this job, so maybe mention how happy we are that I was hired, and that it’s all I’ve talked about since.”

“We’re supposed to be on our honeymoon, and you want me to say you’ve talked nonstop about their flu vaccine?”

“Yes. I do.”

“What’s your job again? Janitor?”

Ah. There it is. “I’m a medical-science liaison, Eragon. Basically I talk to physicians about our products from a more technical standpoint than does the sales force.” I glance over at him as we walk. He looks like he’s trying to cram for a test. “He and his wife are here for their thirtieth anniversary. If we’re lucky, we can just ask them a bunch of stuff about themselves and not have to talk about us at all.”

“For someone who claims to be unlucky, you’re putting an awful lot of faith into your lucky streak.” He does a small double take when he registers that this has hit me like a truth slap. We stop in front of a shimmering fountain, and Ethan pulls a penny—but not that penny—from his pocket and tosses it inside, “Seriously, calm down. We’ll be fine.”

I try. We follow the path to a Polynesian-style thatched-roof building and step up to the hostess stand. “I believe the reservation is under Hamilton,” Ethan says.

Dressed in all white save for a large gardenia pinned in her hair, the hostess scans a screen in front of her and looks up with a bright smile. “Right this way.”

I move to step around the podium, and that’s when it happens. Ethan moves into my side, his palm pressed against the small of my back, and just like that, our carefully preserved bubble of personal space is gone.

He looks down at me with a sweet smile and soft, adoring blue eyes and motions for me to lead the way with the hand not currently straying south. The transformation is . . . amazing. Debilitating. My stomac

h is in knots, my heart is lodged in my windpipe, and there’s something very aware happening along every inch of my skin.

The restaurant is on stilts above a lagoon, and our table is near a railing that overlooks the water. The interior is elegant but cozy, with leaded glass candle holders and wicker lanterns that make the space glow.

Mr. Hamilton stands when he sees us, fluffy white robe mercifully replaced with a floral-print shirt. The giant mustache is as robust as ever.

“There they are!” he crows, nodding to me and reaching out to shake Ethan’s hand. “Honey, this is Olive, the new team member I told you about, and her husband . . .”

“Ethan,” he supplies, and his dazzling smile punches me right in the vagina. “Ethan Thomas.”

“Good to meet you, Ethan. This is my wife, Molly.” Charles Hamilton motions to the brunette at his side, rosy cheeks and a deep dimple making her seem too young for a woman who’s celebrating three decades of marriage.

We all shake hands and Ethan holds out my chair. I smile and sit as carefully as I can. The rational part of my brain knows he won’t do it, but the lizard brain expects Ethan to pull it out from under me.

“Thank you so much for inviting us,” Ethan says, megawatt smile in place. He drapes an easy arm across the back of my chair, leaning in. “Olive is so excited to be working with you. It’s like she can’t shut up about it.”

I laugh a Ha-ha-ha oh, that rascal laugh and carefully step on his foot beneath the table.

“I’m just glad she hadn’t been snatched up yet,” Mr. Hamilton says. “We’re lucky to have her. And what a surprise to find out that you two just got married!”

“It happened sort of fast,” I say and lean into Ethan, trying to look natural.

“Snuck right up on us. Like an ambush!” He grunts when my heel digs farther into the top of his foot. “And what about you two? I hear congratulations are in order? Thirty years is just amazing.”

Molly beams up at her husband. “Thirty wonderful years, but even so there are moments I can’t believe we haven’t killed each other yet.”

Ethan laughs quietly, giving me an adoring look. “Aw, hon, can you imagine thirty years of this?”