How to Honeymoon Alone

“Mm-hmm.” He takes a long sip of his drink. “‘At least a couple of years.’ Tell me you don’t already have men lining up to date you at home.”

I stare at him. “Um, I really don’t have any men lining up for me at home.”

“Or you’re just not very good at spotting them,” he says.

There’s intensity and something else-a challenge?-in his gaze. “My next question. How did the single men around you react when you told them you called off your wedding?”

“I don’t know.” I dig my teeth into my lower lip. What a question. “It’s not like I regularly hang out with a dozen single men of my age, you know. I don’t have a harem of them on speed dial.”

“Still,” he says. “Humor me. Friends of your friends, maybe.”

“Nope.”

“Guys at work?”

“Oh. Well…”

“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, for your next 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. But normal doesn’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 like that. His intense gaze remains unwavering, piercing, and my mouth suddenly feels dry.

“A problem,” I say. “And why is that?”

“Well, my impression is that she’s here to get away from men,” he says. “She’s also great company.”

The compliment magnifies in my mind, mixing with his previous words. I curl my toes into the groove between two stone plates. “Maybe she is here to get over a man,” I say, my words slow but my breathing quick. “But what if she was open to getting some help with that? What would you do about it?”

Phillip keeps his gaze one mine. And then, he reaches for his brandy and slowly, deliberately, takes a long pull of his drink.

Something tightens in my stomach. It’s the possibility and nerves, and I hear Becky’s voice in my head as clearly as if she’s standing next to me. The rest of your life starts now, she’d said after Caleb and Cindy’s grand revelation.

“Oh,” I breathe.

His eyes burn. “I think it’s pretty clear what I’m willing to do.”

“Yeah.”

“Eden,” he says, and there’s a murmured warmth in the words. My heart is pounding a rapid beat against my ribs; pulse thumping in my fingertips, down to the very soles of my bare feet. I haven’t done this in so long.This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

And then I reach for the hem of my dress with hands that only shake a little.

Phillip watches the movement. “Eden?”