Is that a guilty look?
I point the lobster tail at him. “You. Tell me what you know about my phone. Did you swipe it from me?”
“Why are you accusing me? I’m sorry you lost your phone,” he murmurs. “Guess we don’t have to go to the girly activities.”
“Oh, yes, we do,” I declare hotly, tapping him with the lobster tail. “I’m not letting you off the hook, Mr. Jade Reed Substitute.”
“Would you have kissed Jade the way you kissed me?” He grins and slurps a strip of lobster meat into his mouth.
“Of course not, but if you’re sitting in her place, sleeping on her bunk, eating her lobster, then yes, you are going with me to yoga, meditation, and the spa. All of it, even the eyebrow threading.”
Jordan’s eyes pop with horror. “I sure hope you don’t have Brazilian waxing on your schedule.”
“As a matter of fact, we do.” I gleam with delight. “Full body waxing on the way home. We aim to be hairless for the New Year. I’m getting my bikini area done, so it means you have to get your balls waxed. Bet you didn’t know that when you signed up for the gig of cheering me up.”
“I’ll cheer you up more if I skip the waxing,” Jordan says. “What else am I signed up for on this ship of horrors?”
Before I can answer, there’s a knock on the door and a crew member shoves a fly through the mail slot. It’s a reminder for my itinerary, and I wave it gleefully in front of Jordan’s nose.
“I hope you’re up for downward facing dog position, because it’s yoga after breakfast.”
* * *
I must admit. Jordan Reed is a good sport, and his gift of gab makes him a hit with the women in the yoga class. He fell asleep during meditation but emerged from the hot stone massage with a healthy glow.
By the time we get to the evening shuffleboard tournament, he is fully manicured, pedicured, and exfoliated to an inch of his life.
All without a single complaint.
He’s so good being a girlfriend, it almost takes the lust out of my sails.
Unfortunately, the testosterone displays start at the dinner table where the members of the fortieth-reunion club question Jordan and me about our supposed wedding night.
“You two are positively shining,” says Joy, the woman with the streak in her hair. “See? It wasn’t so bad at all.”
“Tell me,” her friend, Sheri, whispers conspiratorially. “Was it as quick and short as we predicted or are we sitting with Long John Silver?”
The men from the reunion, all wearing red and black, their presumed class colors, joke around with Jordan. The creep, he actually smirks and winks as if he popped my cherry last night when all he and his gaggle of geese did was pop my eardrums.
I have to hold it in, though.
People are taking pictures of us, and possibly even videos. It’s not that I think Stephen would stalk me on social media, but his assistant, Maggie, is likely to send spies on his behalf.
I don’t have proof, but the little hairs on the back of my neck are on high alert, and I keep getting the strange sensation that someone’s watching me.
Can’t let them think I care.
I let out a chortle and pretend to fawn over Jordan. I even blush a bit while exclaiming how I switched to Apple from Microsoft. Micro meaning miniscule, and soft, is well, soft like that squeezable toilet paper roll.
Stephen can read into all that as much as he wants. LOL.
I’m basking in my newlywed glory while telling the nosy Banning Pilots—I finally figured out that their school name is Banning and their mascot is Pilots, not that they want to ban pilots. I’m busy regaling them about my planned trip to a jeweler in Honolulu to get my wedding ring and embellishing Jordan and my supposed romance by recounting one of the love stories I just finished narrating.
Jordan plays along with sweet kisses every time the Pilots, Red and Black, tinkle their champagne glasses.
I’m in the middle of a death-defying kiss when a huge, firm hand grips my shoulder and tears me from Jordan’s lips.
A big, blocky 3-D printed plastic hammer thumps on the table. Our plates and silverware bounce, and the boat pitches and rolls, causing the dishes to slide.
