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“Bingo,” he says and leans back. There’s satisfaction written all over his face. “You’re going to be married within five years.”
“What kind of prediction is that?”
“So there is a guy at work? Tell me about him,” Phillip says. There’s a silky undertone to his steady voice, a persuasive note, and I wonder if this is what he sounds like when he negotiates.
“Andrew,” I say, frowning. “He teaches math to fourth graders. We’re coworkers and friends.”
“And as a friend,” Phillip says, “how did he react when you told him you dumped the dipshit?”
I shift on the patio chair. “Like a concerned friend. He asked what happened and told me that he’d be there if… damn it, Phillip, now I’m questioning what he meant by those words!”
There’s a smirk on his lips. “All I’m saying is, if I refer you to the travel agent, you’ll get a solid discount. You and Andrew could use them for your next honeymoon.”
“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “Please email me the details. Also, when you need a best man—um, woman, foryournext wedding, let me know. Because I don’t believe for a minute that you don’t have a list of phone numbers to attractive twentysomethings at the ready.”
Both of Phillip’s eyebrows rise. He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, and settles his gaze on me like he’s trying to decipher the Rosetta Stone. “You said something the other day. I want you to explain what you meant.”
“Wow. Okay.”
“You said I wouldn’t have looked at you twice if we were Stateside,” he says. “What did that mean exactly?”
My mouth goes dry. I chuckle, trying to find my equilibrium. “Well. That was a joke.”
Kinda.
“Okay. And what was the punchline?”
I look at my glass of rum sour. I’ve answered two questions before. I’m allowed a sip.
“Don’t,” he mutters, “or I’m going to ask the most absurdly invasive question as my next one, and you’ll wish you’d answered this one instead.”
That makes me smile. “Maybe I’ll prefer the absurdly invasive one to this one.”
He grows still. “That bad?”
“No. It was just a bit of self-deprecating humor.” Rip off the Band-Aid, Eden. “I don’t know what your ex-fiancée looked like, but I’m sure it wasn’t anything like me. I’m normal, and I like being normal. Butnormaldoesn’t usually end up getting invited to the most expensive bungalows or onto private sailboats, you know?”
“Hmm.” He runs a hand along his jaw. “In this scenario, I’m not considered normal, am I?”
“Well, yes and no. There’s nothing weird about you. You’re just above the average?” I say, but when I hear the words out loud, I cringe. “Did I just say that?”
“Yes, I think you did,” he says. “But don’t worry. I’m comfortable hearing it.”
“I bet you are.”
“Eden,” he says. “Ask me your next question. And don’t make it about either of our exes, will you?”
I swallow. The air feels headier at night. “What’s your vacation self?”
“My vacation self,” he repeats slowly. “Well, it’s seemingly someone who does things he had no intention of ever doing.”
“Like protecting innocent baby sea turtles from vicious mongeese.”
“Yes, exactly,” he says. “Or getting increasingly attracted to a fellow tourist at the resort. The last one’s a bit of a problem.”
The rum sour is like liquid fire as it slides down my throat, heating my already burning insides. My skin feels too hot, my cheeks are flushed.
For seven years I haven’t flirted with a man. And here I am, sitting beneath the star-speckled sky on a tiny Caribbean island, and a man is looking at me likethat. His intense gaze remains unwavering, piercing, and my mouth suddenly feels dry.
