She returns to her professional composure and begins her briefing. “Rush job. A straightforward surveillance case. Yourfavoriteclient.” Audible exhale. “You know, the one that’s a royal pain in my ass. The one we’ve been working with for three years and still don’t know more than her pronouns. You know I don’t like getting bossed around by her liaison.”
I sense another eye roll through the phone. Kaydence, reluctant when I took in this client, says a person who goes to such lengths for anonymity must be bad news. After what Grace did to me—and after what I did to myself—I disagree. “Clear boundaries don’t make a client a pain in the ass.”Sleeping with them does,I almost say, but don’t. I’ll never mix work with pleasure again.
“I got bad news. For me, anyway. The client advised instead of the liaison running the show, she’ll be hands-on with this case, which makes me think it’s personal. Your instructions are simple: Keep your distance and report back.”
“She’s one lady I wouldn’t want to cross.”
“The good news is, she’s paying a pretty penny,includinga vacation. An actual vacation that’s not inside your car. Pack your bags, King: you’re going to Sapphire Isle.”
“Sounds familiar.” I think for a moment, then recall the Autostraddle article Grace sent me once. Another promise that fell through. “That sapphic island outside of Thailand with a couple’s resort? Did you scope out the place yet?”
“Yes and yes. I just sent your plane ticket to your inbox. I’m working on room and board as we speak. Once I get a few more details from the client, I’ill send the case file over.”
“Thank you.” I reach the door and dig though my pocket for the room key. “How much time do I have?”
“Less than twenty-four hours.”
“That’s not the worst we’ve had for a rush job. Give me a few hours and I’ll call you back.”
I end the conversation and take a breath before opening the door. At least there’s plenty of time with—
The room is empty. She’s gone. Damn. I hate it when Kaydence is right.
CHAPTER 3
BASIL
Breakingbad news to my fiancée on our wedding day wasn’t the worst decision I’ve ever made. Okay, fine. Harboring the news for weeks andthentelling my future wife, who had her head buried between my legs on the morning of our wedding—thatmight take the cake. A real Basil Jones victory.
So what if I needed to do a little work on our honeymoon? People did that all the time…didn’t they? That doesn’t justify dumping someone at the—
“Another mojito, Ms. Jones?” The flight attendant appears out of thin air.
I flinch. “For fuck’s sake.” I press pause onJohn Wick, after having restarted the movie for the fourth time. Knocking back the drink in my hand, I push the empty cup away and nod for another.
“People take solo vacations all the time, right?” I ask, hand bumping my cup, almost spilling the lingering drops on her skirt, before I watch my next drink being poured.
“Of course! We see it a lot, actually.” Her irritatingly bright smile points in my direction.
I flash a thin one back, then glance at the empty first-class window seat to my right. “But I mean, probably not their honeymoons…” My eyes widen when I realize the words came out louder than intended. I divert my gaze toward the shadows of the clouds as we shift altitude.
The flight attendant sets the drink down and pauses, an awkward silence stretching between us. When I turn to thank her, I catch the tail end of her blank stare before she bolts down the aisle.
“Go ahead, leave. They all do anyway.” I squint a glare, then slam my back against the plush seat and shift from side to side. First class isn’t nearly as comfortable as I remember, or perhaps the fabric changes when you're newly single. I resume the movie only to pause the screen again ten minutes later.
I give up.
As I tip the plastic cup back against my lips, scents of sugar, lime and fresh mint meet my nose. The alcohol warms its way down my throat, spreading to my toes and fingertips, until I am no longer able to taste the bite of rum.
The heaviness in my eyes deepens as my glare burns a hole into the side pocket of my bag resting between my feet. The same bag Olivia’s father gave me as a birthday gift three years ago. I’ll miss his warm, dopey smile—the one thing he and Olivia share. Olivia. What happened to us? I reach for the zipper and pull out my engagement ring. I slide the white gold onto my finger and stare, chest tightening, as if the ring should no longer fit perfectly since the woman who gave it to me doesn't. No note? Did she cheat on me, leave me for someone else? How dare she make a fool out of me and my family’s wine business. And after all she and I have been through? Maybe I was wrong about her—but for seven years?
A wave of lava flows through my body as I recall the amount of planning involved to ensure we’d have the best honeymoon experience. This will not go to waste, even if my wedding did. Eyes on the island brochure nestled in the seat pocket in front of me, I thumb the corner. I’ll be damned if I skip this trip and its incredible amenities over a failed wedding. Who cares if I have to stay at the couples’ resort alone? Plus, Sapphire Isle is the one damn place Olivia isn’t.
With shaky hands and tattered breathing, I yank the ring off and clench it until my knuckles whiten. A piece of jewelry that signified eternity and promise, which now purges from my heart. While rage, while—abandonment—stirs through my veins. I straighten and run my fingers through my hair. One unfinished task stands between me and my luxurious vacation.
After the flight attendants stroll past with the drink cart, I stand, march toward the plane lavatory, and slam my spine against the door, swallowing back my nerves. Each bounce of turbulence drives through my legs as the plane ebbs and flows. I can’t stand flying, but I breathe through the twists in my stomach, knowing it will end soon. When I sit on the closed toilet seat, the agonizing pit in my belly returns, along with fire. No words can change the reality, but at least I’mfinallythe hell away from Seattle. No more of my mother’s overt grip on my life. Going on about her “blueprint”—my identity and, of course, her Jones legacy. At least for the time being, there will be no more unbearable questions from friends or family. Although a haze forms across my mind, the nagging voice still pierces through my heart:What did you do to make her leave you, Basil?
I huff.What did I do?The fact that my mother adores Olivia only makes matters worse. Well, now she can have her.
