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CHAPTERFIVE
Kate
Awash of young couples and tourists floods the tiki hut bar where I’ve taken temporary refuge. Through the open double doors boasts a beachfront view featuring even more people wandering the shore for crabs and enjoying a kind of peace unparalleled by the best yoga classes.
I hiccup as the man behind the bar brings me a piña colada with LED lights sparkling along the bottom of the cup. My toes are starting to numb up a bit, and somewhere between my second Mai Tai and a White Russian, I’ve discovered what it must have been like for Tom Hanks in that movie where he befriends a basketball.
Wait, that’s not right. It was a volleyball.
I eye my piña colada. “What do you think of the name Wilson?”
“You good?” the bartender asks as I fiddle with the neon orange bendy straw.
“Am I good?” I snort. “Sir,Ihave never been better.”
The words are heavy in my mouth before they tumble out. For dramatic effect, I punch the counter with the tip of my finger. “Never. Better.”
Rolling his eyes, he grabs a rag and an empty glass and heads to the opposite side of the bar.
I take a long sip of the sugary alcohol-laden slush and swish it around in my mouth. Over by the doors, people make way for the DJ who’s setting up, and I debate whether or not to close my tab.
A loud whooping sound drags my lazy gaze across the bar. Beneath the lights of an obnoxiously bright faux palm tree is a group of men slapping one another’s backs and smiling ear to ear. Their clanking beers echo over the roar of people talking, and I purse my lips.
“Nothing like a bunch of frat daddies to ruin the bar scene.”
Can’t a girl just wallow in peace?
I’m not exactly in a Coachella type of mood.
“This is what I get for depending on men,” I complain to my cocktail.
Henry didn’t just cut off my credit card. He also called the Grand Topican to tip them off about a fraudulent purchase made at their resort and that he would be canceling the card associated with said purchaseimmediately.
Those hoity-toity bastards practically threw me out without a second glance.
Petting the side of the glass, I whisper, “You’d never do that to me. Would you, Wilson?”
“Um, I’m sorry. Do you two need a minute?”
I jump before turning to a woman who’s suddenly appeared on the bamboo stool beside me.
She isgorgeous. No, that doesn’t quite fit how stunning she is, but regardless—I’m fumbling for words.
“You’re, like, really pretty,” my mouth decides for me.
An artfully penciled brow arches while I shamelessly stare at her soft red hair. It curls effortlessly at her collarbones, and there’s something playful highlighting her face as she studies me.
“Pardon me,” she says to my drink before extending a hand. “I’m Brandi.”
I’m grinning like an idiot, happy to be talking to a real-life person.
I grasp her palm. “Tell me,Brand-ee, how pathetic do I look?”
The neurons in my brain can’t seem to connect without slurring the words. My skin’s all prickly, and my tongue tingles like a freshly poured glass of champagne.
Pointing at the guys across from us, she says, “No more pathetic than those idiots.”
We share a laugh, and I decide I quite like Brandi’s company.
