Calling her to apologize?
Promising to keep my dirty mouth to myself?
Begging her to come back?
Before I completely spiral, I hear the faint scrape of silverware on glass. Zeroing in on the sound, I find her outside on the deck—eating a late dinner by herself, at a table by the pool.
Not gone.
Just hungry and tired of my bullshit.
Tossing my phone on the bed, it lands on a pile of clothes. Clean clothes that are definitely not mine. Reminding myselfthat beggars can’t be choosers, I pull a pair of boxers from the pile and shake them out. Untying my robe, I shrug out of it, tossing it on the foot of the bed before bending over to pull them on. I put on the rest of it—a pair of dark, cashmere sleep pants and a white T-shirt. The pants are a little too short and like the boxers, the shirt is a little too tight for my liking but like the boxers, they’ll do.
Dressed, I tell myself to leave Millie alone. Let her finish her dinner in peace and go to bed hungry.
Instead, I make my way to the full spread buffet and make myself a plate, piling it high with crispy fried conch fritters and shrimp carbonara, carry it outside, and set it down on the table Millie is sitting at. “Thanks,” I say, pulling the empty chair across from her away from the table. “For the clothes.”
“You’re welcome.” Looking up from her plate, Millie gives me a flat smile. “Full disclosure—they were meant for Allister. I bought him an entire honeymoon wardrobe and had it shipped here as a surprise wedding gift.” Setting her fork down, she reaches for the bottle of expensive Chardonnay on the table between us and tips it over the rim of the wine glass in front of me. “Aside from a pair of shorts and another T-shirt I kept out for tomorrow, I sent the rest of it with Mateo to be altered.” My glass filled, she sets the now empty bottle down before giving me another faint smile. “I know the pants are going to be a little too short and you’re much broader in the chest than he is.”
Okay, so we’re just going to pretend that after years of pretending it never happened, we’ve both acknowledged the fact that we very nearly hooked up that weekend in the Hamptons and the reason wedidn’tis because I left her hanging.
“You did all that?” I say, shaking my head while I unroll my silverware and place my napkin in my lap. “How long was I in the bathroom?”
“Long enough to convince me you were never comingout…” She gives me a quick, uncomfortable smile before dropping her gaze back to her plate. “I know the clothes probably aren’t to your liking but?—”
“They’re fine,” Reaching for my wine glass, I take a drink. “Seriously, what sort of prick would complain about three hundred dollar pajama pants?”
“Well... there’s also a gift-wrapped Rolex with today’s date engraved on the back of it, in the nightstand drawer next to the bed. You can have that too, if you want it—” Offering me a small shrug, she avoids looking at me. “I’m sure you can have the back plate replaced when we get back to New York.”
“A Rolex…Jesus fucking Christ,” I bark out on a laugh. “Only you would casually give away an eighty-thousand dollar watch like it was a Timex from Walmart.” Leaning into her, I give her a wicked grin because I can’t seem to get enough of getting a rise out of her. “What do I have to do for it?”
Cheeks pinking up with embarrassment, Millie, gives me an annoyed eye roll. “Nothing—consider it an olive branch.”
Okay, so maybe wearen’tpretending.
“Olive branch?” I say it carefully because I’m suddenly finding myself in uncharted territory when it comes to her and I’m not sure I like it.
“Yes.” When I don’t say anything, her slim, sandy brows knit themselves together. “A peace offering. I?—”
“I know what anolive branchis, Mildew,” I tell her, more irritated than I have a right to be. “What Idon’tknow is why you feel the need to extend one.”
“Because youwerein the bathroom for a long time. Long enough for me to stop being angry at you and start thinking logically…” Giving me a helpless shrug, Millie shakes her head. “I’m committed to seeing this thing through, so unless you want to go home, you and I are stuck together—on this island and in this room—for the next two weeks, and...” Pulling the corner of her lower lip between her teeth for a few moments, she gives me a sigh. “I don’t want to spend them at each other’s throats. The way I see it, the only way to make it through without killing each other is to call a truce.”
“A truce?” Jesus, I keep repeating everything she says—no wonder she thinks I’m stupid.
“A truce. A ceasefire. Rules of engagement—whatever you want to call it,” she says, forehead crumpling a bit at my tone. “I’ll quit telling you how rude and arrogant I think you are, and you quit calling me Prissy Princess Millie. We do our best to stay out of each other’s way and when we can’t avoid it, we behave like civilized adults. We’re more than capable—we’ve both demonstrated civility where the other is concerned, in the past. I think with a little effort, we can make this situation as pleasant as possible.”
Civility?
Effort?
Pleasant?
Yeah. I don’t like it.
Not one fucking bit.
“Come on, Maalox…” Looking at her, I give her one of my shitty smirks to cover up the fact that I’m suddenly just as uncomfortable as she is. “Do youreallythink you’re gonna be able to share a space with me for the next two weeks without telling me what an insufferable asshole I am?”
