He hummed, amused. “Anytime.”
Another bite of fruit. “Let me know when you want to get stranded on an island together next. I’ll clear my calendar.”
She conveniently avoided the part where it took her a five-minute pep talk to convince herself to actually put his clothes on. Mortal enemies didn’t kiss in the rain and share clothes. And slipping his bar’s T-shirt over her head solidified thatmortal enemiesdidn’t quite fit them anymore.
He wasn’t just her boss’s super-entitled, vaguely evil son.
Somewhere along the line, Waylon stopped being someone to hate or even someone to tolerate but someone she actually enjoyedspending her time with. Someone she was glad to have by her side, despite being on a corporate retreat from hell.
She could have blamed it on the week they’d had. The temperature and the frequent ring of adrenaline through her veins. Or the way they were so far from anything that felt familiar or normal or reasonable, so far from the Fletcher she’d been in New York.
But she’d be lying.
It was Waylon, whose protection never veered possessive, who surprised her by prodding her to define herself, rather than filling in the blank with his own definition. It was how much time they’d wasted despising each other and how little time they might have left.
“I decided what I want,” Fletcher said, and Waylon swallowed loudly. She took her time choosing her next bite if only to avoid the searing way his eyes bored into her still-damp skin. “I want to know you.”
There was a fraction of a second—of a millisecond—where he hesitated. He adjusted his cup on the counter, silver rings glinting. Straightened his shoulders, centered himself. “Okay.”
“It’s not an interview, I swear,” she said, laugh brittle. Some of his PR-trained posture whittled away. “I just—I know some things, obviously. Like your birthday and your alma mater. I know you snore like a freight train and own a jazz bar in Brooklyn, but I feel like I don’tknowyou.”
“You can ask me anything you want.” Fletcher opened her mouth to get started, but he stopped her with a finger. “IfI get to ask a question back.”
“Deal.” Fletcher propped her chin on her hands. “Why Bubbles?”
“That’s what you start with?” He blew out a breath. “I’m surprised you don’t know. It started the night Eliza dumped me, after I inexplicably crashed into the champagne tower at the charity gala at the hands of someone who shall remain unnamed. Once my dadfinished excommunicating me, Joplin stole a bottle of Dom from the back kitchen and met me outside. We drank it all the way to Park and Fifty-Eighth, when she made me laugh so hard champagne came out of my nose.”
“It’s cute. Bubbles,” Fletcher said. “Way better than Fizzgerald.”
Waylon laughed, tipping his head back. A sound Fletcher could get drunk on. “You know, you’re funny when you’re not so tightly wound.”
A surprised scoff escaped. “I’m not—” But her arguments dried up, her jaw hanging loose. Visions of checklists and meticulously organized Gantt charts twirled through her mind. Okay, fine, maybe she was alittletightly wound.
But now that she thought about it, she hadn’t itched to check her email or fought off intrusive thoughts about missed meetings for at least eighteen hours. It was a wonder the kind of perspective fighting for your life could give a girl.
All she could do was shake her head, a smile touching her lips, unraveling a little more. “Just ask your question.”
Leaning onto his elbows so their eyes met level, Waylon asked, “If we make it out of here, are you getting back together with Kent?”
“Definitely not. We’ve run our course.” She stared down at her freshly scrubbed cuticles as she asked, “Did you and Joplin ever…?”
“No. She’s been off and on with the same girl for years, but we are—fuck,were—good friends. My best, maybe.” A beat of silence stretched between them, neither antsy to fill it up. When Waylon finally caught her eye again, he asked, “What do you do for fun?”
“Fun?” The word felt foreign on Fletcher’s tongue. “Next question.”
“Come on, Spence. There’s got to be something fun you like to do.”
“Like what? I’m definitely not going to the racquet club orbrushing elbows at soirees or whatever else you’re used to people answering this question with. I haven’t taken PTO in three years, and when I’m not working, I’m taking photos so that I have a portfolio ready to try to convince everyone I’ve got what it takes to joinJet-Setter. Except your dad destroyed my camera, so that’s off the table until I build my savings back up.” Fletcher worried with the ends of her wet hair, somehow both amped up and exhausted. “Right now, my apartment doesn’t even have an oven, and that’s only until next week, when they kick everybody out to turn it into a department store, so sometimes, when I’m feeling really wild, I’ll look at Zillow listings of homes with stoves.”
Reaching across the counter, Waylon folded her palms in his. “You shouldn’t have to make yourself miserable for a job. Or basic kitchen appliances.”
“Easy for you to say,” Fletcher said, reaching for levity but coming up empty. “You’re a trust fund baby who had the luxury of disinheriting himself.”
“You’re right. The wealth-distribution system’s fucked up.”
“So fucked up.” She rolled the tension out of her shoulders, squeezed his fingers. “Anyway. New question.”
Waylon pulled away from the counter in favor of pacing. “What do you think Jackie’s up to?”
