“Who else would I mean? That jerk left you high and dry. Who does that?”
“The jerk who had different motives.” I sighed.
Jeff’s only stipulation was for me to own the property—so I’d have some skin in the game, he said. That was fair enough since he would be the one investing hundreds of thousands of dollars into renovating the building and buying all the initial inventory. It wasn’t easy to get a loan, but I managed, scrapping the bottom of my savings and retirement funds to make a down payment. I just wished I hadn’t overlooked the line stating both parties could break the contract at any time.
A bartender placed two tequila shots in front of us. We raised our glasses in a toast, licked the salt off the rim, tossed down the spicy liquor, and bit into fresh limes. As the hot liquid went down my throat, I cringed at the taste. William gently patted his lips with a napkin while I wiped mine with the back of my hand.
“Now,” William said, “you promised not to ruin our trip by talking about your minor issue.”
I vaguely remembered making that promise in exchange for a paid-by-him vacation at a luxurious resort. After a day of hysterical panic, followed by three days of not being able to get out of my bed, followed by rage at every human with a dick—my brother excluded—I needed this break.
I raised my right eyebrow and scoffed. “How is being a million dollars in the hole a minor issue?”
William stubbed his finger above my raised eyebrow. “You need another round of Botox. When we’re back in Atlanta, come by my clinic.”
Annoyed that William wasn’t taking me seriously, I swatted away his hand. “I have much bigger issues to worry about right now than my wrinkles.” I should be grateful and not annoyed. He was only trying to take my mind off my dumpster-fire life. “Plus, I don’t have money to waste on something like that.”
“First, taking care of your beauty isn’t a waste. Second, since you refuse my help with your money problem, Botox will be my treat.”
He was thriving as the owner of Atlanta’s highest-rated non-surgical beauty treatment clinic, but I couldn’t take a penny of his hard-earned money. It wasn’t my pride, but rather my fear of dragging him down into my financial hole.
William unlocked his iPhone and pulled up our itinerary for the next two weeks. “So, tomorrow, we have a sunrise yoga class on the beach, followed by a detox breakfast.”
I didn’t need a green smoothie. I needed to sell an empty shell of a building or quickly find money to pay the bills that were already piling up.
I planted my elbow on the bar to prop up my heavy head, the tequila shot warming my bloodstream. “Are they serving Bloody Marys? It’s basically a salad in a glass. Withprotein, if they add bacon.”
“I don’t know if they do, but we can certainly find some after.” He scrolled down to the next item. “Then we have nothing to do, so we can be lazy bums until dinner time, which is… a barbecue at six and dance lesson by the pool.”
I felt bad my glum mood was ruining our vacation. William wanted to have fun, and all I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and die from wallowing in self-pity. I’d bring a book with me, just in case it took a long time.
William looked up from his phone and leaned back in his seat. His lips shaped into an O as he stared over my shoulder for a few seconds. “OMG. Superman isinthe bar.”
“Oh yeah?” Without turning to check out the guy, I wiggled my eyebrows—well, the right one at least. “Is he wearing a tight blue spandex costume and a red Speedo?”
His gaze slowly traveled up and down. “Nope, just a white button-up shirt and beige trousers, but he’d look great in a Speedo.”
“No one looks great in a Speedo.”
“I do.”
“Not even you.”
“Rude.” William’s eyes went wide, and he bumped my knee with his. “He’s coming over here.”
“Hello,” the man said in an English accent. “I’m Dr. Andrew Jones. I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.”
My eyes rolled so far back in my head it hurt. Why did so many men use cheesy conversation openers? Usually, I’d kindly brush off whoever hit on me, but in the current contingency, I was exhausted from dealing with men.
“Save your pickup lines for someone else.” I dismissively wave my left hand to flaunt my false princess-cut diamond engagement ring.
“The bracelet on your wrist is not yours. It’s mine,” the man said, voice edged with vexation. “Please take it off.”
What the actual fuck? Was he politely robbing me?
My mouth dropped open, and I spun in my seat. “What?”
This man with the face of a god walking amongst mere mortals looked to be in his early thirties and sported brown, wet-out-of-the-shower hair and a lopsided smirk. His green eyes… no, wait, blue eyes—how drunk was I—glared at me. I squinted. I was sure the iris of his left eye was a different color than the right one. Wild, but beautiful.
