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“Wait until August,” I snap. “You have no idea what hot is yet.”
“Ugh,” he sneers. “Do we have to?”
“What? Look, okay, fine. Let’s go back to the car, and I’ll give you a driving tour. How does that sound?”
“Whatever.”
He turns on his heel and heads back towards the car. It takes my mind a moment to catch up with his feet and I have to chase after him like some kind of idiot. He barely looks twice at me as I fall into step, his face a picture of utter misery.
I have no idea how to cheer him up in a way my manager would approve of, and I don’t think he wants to be cheered up. This is hell. If only literally anyone else had been assigned to this. If only I didn’t have to think about what to do next.
CHAPTER 4
MILES
By the time we get to the South Beach, I could not be more done with the idea of this tour. It’s bad enough that I'm being dragged around against my will, but I’m also jet-lagged and boiling in the Miami sun. At least if we had gone to a museum, we would have been inside.
I don't know what it is Olivia’s got against me, but I don’t like it.
“You know,” I say, glancing down at her as we walk along a relatively quiet street, “you can always come back to mine anytime you like.”
She gives me a thin-lipped smile, but all it does is draw my attention to her soft skin and make me look at her button nose and think about how cute she is. But clearly, she's not even into having a little bit of a casual flirt. So, like, what is the point of any of this at all? No drinking. No flirting. No fun.
She leads me along a path towards what I can only presume is going to be something incredibly dull. She starts droning on about some historical artifact or something, and I completely tune out, looking distantly at the ocean.
It’s gorgeously blue out there, as vivid as the sky, the waves crashing against the shore with the sound one of pure relaxation. The beach is silky white and looks perfect, dotted with parasols and towels. People are running around in their bare feet and bikinis, and all I want to do is go and sit with them. Not even to flirt — just to sunbathe. Lying in the sun right now, even if it is too hot, feels like a great idea.
We wander the past another mural. I guess it is kind of cool, not that I’m going to tell Olivia that.
“All this architecture is Art Deco from the twenties — it’s pretty iconic,” she says, gesturing at buildings that are covered in pops of color, bright blues and pinks. It makes my eyes hurt. “They do a lot of work preserving it; much of it is original from the time it was built.”
“How much of the tour guide manual did you memorize before this?” I ask, cutting the monologue short.
She bites her lip, and I can't tell if she's being demure to wind me up or if she’s just genuinely embarrassed by being called out. “I thought it would be nice for you to get an idea of the place you’re living in, that’s all.”
“I guess,” I say, shrugging. “Anyway, where next?”
She gives me a long, hard look that I don't react to. I'm sure if she were asked, she would say I’m winding her up on purpose too. But the reality is, I really don't really care about any of this at all. “To the beach?” I try, pouting at her.
“No. Come on,” she says, turning back towards the path.
We continue our promenade walk, though this beachfront is missing everything that would be on a British beach: no fish and chips, no woolly hats, no sad ice creams dropped by sad children being glared at by sad donkeys. There’s barely even any seagulls. All I can see for miles and miles is sand and sea and sandals. Everyone is smiling like they’re having the best time of their life, and I wish more than anything that that was me.
Olivia is still droning on, but a shining beacon of a sports bar comes looming up on the street before us. I stop, all but digging in my heels to prevent her from dragging me any further. “It must be dinnertime, right? I’m hungry. Let’s stop here for a bit.”
“Here? Really?” she says, raising both eyebrows as she takes in the bar. I’m sure she can sense my ulterior motives, but I’m not really lying.
“Unless you can think of somewhere better, yeah. I want to eat. I want to drink. I want to watch some sports. What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, I mean…” she stammers, her mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. Clearly, she’s trying desperately to think of a good reason why we shouldn’t go in — and failing. I grin. I’ve won this battle, at least.
She glances between me and the bar again then sighs. “Okay, fine. We can eat. But don’t you dare start getting any ideas about anything else.”
I gasp in mock offense, pressing my hand into my chest in a picture of perfect innocence. “Would I do such a thing?”
The look she gives me says it all.
We head inside, and I hold the door for her, which she treats with suspicion too. Honestly, I know my reputation precedes me, but I’m not that bad. I like to think of myself as a cheeky guy, not a bad one.
