When I reach the kitchen, I stop, shocked to see that not only is the entire floor clean, but the dishes have been done, the table’s been cleared, and I can hear the washing machine running. Huh. Well, that’s a surprise. My righteous indignation fades out, replaced by guilt at how mean I was to Leo.
I grab two bottles of ginger beer from the fridge and head outside, finding him on the tiny front porch of the suite with his feet propped up on an overturned bucket, looking at his mobile phone. Swallowing hard, I walk over and hold out one of the beers. “This comes with both my deepest gratitude and regret.”
He glances up at me and gives me a small smile, then looks at the beer and shakes his head. “While I appreciate the gesture, I really can’t take that.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve more than earned it after cleaning up that hideous mess. You did an amazing job, by the way. It’s like it never even happened.”
“Oh, it most certainly happened,” he says, wrinkling his nose up, then chuckling. “But I can’t drink that. I made a promise I will take a break from drinking, and I intend to live up to it.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you had a problem.”
He seems taken aback. “I don’t. Not that kind of problem anyway. Lots of other ones though. Not drugs or anything, just a general lack of responsibility.”
“Well, you seem to be getting over that.” I stare at his attractive face and am reminded of the fact that he is not for me, no matter how amazing it would be to have someone with whom to share puke duty and all the other less disgusting things in life. But that’s not what this is about.
He’s a rich, privileged tourist in my life, and getting attached to him in any way, shape, or form would be beyond stupid. “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve handled it.”
“I didn’t clean up because I believe you incompetent. I cleaned up because you were right. It was my fault that Isabelle got sick, and I wanted to do what I could to make things better.”
“Well, thank you. It’s not your fault, though. I should have told you she’s a lying puker,” I say, staring down at my bare feet to avoid the pain of memorizing his face. Unable to help myself, I glance back up at him, feeling that melty, soft happiness in my belly that shouldn’t be there. “Anyway, I should go back inside in case Isabelle needs me.”
“How’s she doing?” Leo asks, sounding like the most sincere person on the planet.
“She’s fine. All clean and tucked into bed.”
Nodding, he says, “Good. I’m glad to hear that. Can you tell her I’m sorry that I let her indulge?”
I shake my head. “How about instead, I tell her you said you hope she’s feeling better?”
“That works, too,” Leo says, holding my gaze for long enough to make me wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
“Goodnight, Leo. And thank you for everything today.”
“You’re most welcome.”
CHAPTER 18
Tattoos, Booze, and Other Ways to Ruin a Perfectly Good Weekend
Brianna
I am in hell, and I will remain there for the next fifty-four hours and twenty-one minutes, at which point I will climb into my Corolla, which is waiting for me in the airport parking lot, shut the door, and breathe the biggest sigh of relief of all time. Until that moment, however, I shall: A) channel my inner Emmett, the construction worker from the Lego Movie, and pretend everything is awesome, B) act like I don’t despise my sister’s plastic, ridiculous friends, C) refrain from speaking ill of my sister’s stupid fiancé, and, D) smile and laugh and pretend to care about anything that matters to them, including but not limited to: whatever the Kardashians are up to, the latest hair and makeup trends, who Rhianna is dating now, and which of the contestants onThe Bachelorettereally should have been sent packing by now.
So basically, I’m going to play a lot of make-believe while we drink cocktails by the pool. I’ll be in my stretchmark-hiding mumkini— a tank-top-style two-piece with a skirt that goes over my bikini bottoms to hide my thighs and extra ruching on the top to hide my muffin top. Then I’ll pretend I’m super thrilled to get our drink on at supper so we can hit the clubs hard all night. The important thing is for Amber to have a wonderful, memorable experience that she can look back on fondly when she’s knee-deep in laundry after she and Zidane have the three strapping boys and one little ballerina they have planned.
It is Friday at three p.m., and we are midway through our one-hour flight to Isla del Sol for the ‘World’s Most Epic Hen’s Party!’ Yay. The rest of the bridal party is knocking back Alabama Slammers like they’re in a race to see who can throw up first. My money’s on Quinn, who weighs about ninety pounds, even under the weight of those fake eyelashes—which honestly make her look as though she keeps her two pet tarantulas fastened to her eyelids for safekeeping.Oh, that wasn’t nice. Bad Bree.
I was already in a shit mood because last night at work, Rosy caught me studying when I was at the desk. I was so caught up in Torts that I completely forgot to call a cab for a couple who needed to get the airport. By the time I called, it was too late, and they ended up missing their flight, which is as big a screw up as they come as far as concierges go. I got chewed out for twenty minutes and she threatened to dock my pay for the airfare (two tickets all the way back to Avonia, which is not something I’ll be able to afford anytime soon). Lucky for me, Harrison showed up when he heard all the yelling and he smoothed things over for me. I won’t have to pay the resort back, but I am on ‘probation’ which sucks big time. I’ve never been on probation in my life. Never even had a note sent home when I was in school. So being in this kind of trouble has made me even more cross than I would normally have been on a stupid hen’s weekend with my sister’s stupid friends.
I have somehow ended up sitting in the middle seat. To my left is Kandi, whoabsolutely mustbe by the window so she can get as many sweet pics of the scenery as possible for her IG followers. To my right is Amber, who has the aisle seat so she can talk to Quinn and Valerie as well as us. The four of us bridesmaids are wearing customized pink V-neck T-shirts that say, “Amber’s Bitches” except, instead of an ‘I,’ there’s a sparkly gold penis, so that’s rather classy, wouldn’t you say? Not the least bit humiliating for someone who’s both a mumanda future barrister. I sure hope I’ll be tagged in dozens of shots wearing this shirt that’s about as undersized on me as the Grinch’s heart. You know,beforethat little Cindy Loo Who guilted him into returning everyone’s stuff and singing songs while he held everyone’s hands.
Kandi leans across me to talk to Valerie, who is four seats plus one aisle over from her. “Val! Val! Val!”
Nope. Valerie didn’t hear her on account of the insane noise of this humid, cramped Island Hopper propeller plane. It’s not only the engines that are noisy but the people aboard this Friday afternoon’s ‘party flight.’ And that’s not my name for it. That’s what the captain called it when he was giving his welcome-aboard speech over the speaker.
Kandi is clearly not a quitter. “Val! Val Valerie! Val!”
Glancing at me, Kandi laughs. “Oh my God, is she deaf, or what?”
