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“Never been compared to a flower before,” he says. “That’s a first.”
“Would you rather be compared to a can of beans?” I learned a long time ago that the majority of people enjoy talking about themselves, even if they don’t think they do. That, and almost everyone has something they need to get off their chest.
Curiosity is a good thing.
It sparks questions that ignite the kinds of conversations that make connections.
More people should be curious.
“Nope,” he says.
“That’s what I thought. See, I’m already getting a read on you, and I barely know you. All I had to do was ask the right questions.”
He half smiles, soaking me in with his Caribbean-hued gaze. I can’t tell if he’s entertained by me or annoyed or something in between, but he hasn’t budged from his seat, so that has to count for something.
“You say you’re not not having a good time.” Dorian breaks his studious observation of me. “But you’re drinking ice water and sitting here with some random guy who clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“I’m absorbing the fun just being in the room, like osmosis.” I keep a straight face, hoping to get him to laugh, but he only seems confused by my lame attempt at a joke. “No, seriously, this is great. There’s no place I’d rather be right now than here with my cousin and her fiancé, thirty of their closest friends, and the grumpiest guy in the entire Republic . . . of . . . the Dominican.”
I’ll spare him the saga of losing my job, my boyfriend, and my best friend all in the same week. It’s neither here nor there, it’s ruined the last month of my life, and I refuse to let it ruin this expensive trip.
Besides, it’s hard to be angry when there are so many palm trees and an abundance of sunshine and contented, suntanned vacationers wearing brightly colored clothing everywhere you turn.
If Lexapro were a country, it’d be the Dominican Republic.
Truthfully, I’d be on the dance floor with everyone else if it weren’t for the blister forming on the back of my heel—a little detail I’ve no intention of sharing with this striking curmudgeon. It’s my fault for wearing brand-new sneakers to the airport today instead of my trusty broken-in baby-blue New Balances. The heels I’m wearing tonight aren’t helping anything, but they’re the only things I packed that go with this dress.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Dorian slides his water closer. “Why’d you order me this?”
“Because it’s going to be a long night, and if you hate being here now, you’re really going to hate being hungover on the beach tomorrow. And you are going to the beach. Drink up.”
I lift my glass to his, urging him to toast me, but he refuses.
“It’s bad luck to toast with water,” he says.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” I clink mine against his.
He watches while I take a sip of bad luck, and I silently pray he’s wrong—because more misfortune is the last thing I need.
CHAPTER TWO
BRIAR
Present Day
“We’re almost there. Do you have any more questions before we . . . ?” My boss, Burke, checks the time on his phone, his words trailing into silence when he finds himself distracted by yet another work email.
“No.” I twist the flawless five-carat solitaire on my finger, watching how it dazzles in the midday sun and throws flecks of light against the black interior of our chauffeured Escalade.
The ring was originally purchased for Burke’s ex-girlfriend Audrina earlier this year—before they were exes. I’m told he planned an elaborate marriage proposal involving some wait-listed rooftop restaurant, her closest friends and family, and a private acoustic performance from one of her favorite singers . . . only the drop-dead gorgeous society girl dumped him for some up-and-coming Broadway actor a week before any of it could happen.
They say one woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure, but calling Burke a treasure would be giving him too much credit.
Treasures are rare and priceless.
Burke’s just another workaholic New Yorker in an overpriced designer suit.
He’s also successful, wealthy, and classically attractive—but that’s beside the point since his personality cancels all that out.
“Did you study the pdf?” he asks, referring to the password-protected autobiography he sent me, one that included everything from his birth story (he almost died) to his favorite color (jet black) to his preferred cuisine (French), as well as his education history (bachelor’s degree in finance from Columbia, master’s in business administration from Yale), his favorite places to travel (Morocco and Thailand, in that order), his political and religious affiliations, and an assortment of stances on several modern-day table topics.
“Of course,” I say. For the next eight weeks, my only job is to convince his father that we are undeniably in love and moving full speed ahead with planning our nuptials. All he’s told me is that his father is getting “up there” in age. Since this could be their last summer together, he wants his father to see him happy and not heartbroken. He’s assured me we won’t actually have to marry. “Did you study mine?”
