His laugh is harsher this time. “It’s a universally acknowledged truth that I’m the problem.” He looks out the door toward the pool and beyond to the turquoise water of the lagoon, and I notice for the first time what he’s wearing. Tan linen pants and a navy polo shirt that’s probably supposed to read as resort cool, but comes across like business casual’s uptight cousin. The shirt is tucked in, naturally, making him look like a man trying to relax and failing spectacularly at it.
“I’m going to shower before dinner.”
He’s moving toward his bedroom, making me feel like I’ve been dismissed. I hate being dismissed as much as I love cupcakes. Reminds me of the way my dad did it when I was a girl. When his attention was on me, it felt like basking in sunlight. But the shadows came too often. A shiver runs through me at the memory.
“Let the chef know your food preferences,” he calls over his shoulder.
The click of his door closing is a reminder I definitely need. Jeremy and I aren’t friends, or anything more. He’s doing this because of Sloane, and because leaving me on that beach would have been a little too asshole-y, even for a soulless tech bro. And maybe because some deeply buried part of him that isn’t a total robot can’t help giving a shit about people in crisis.
None of that makes us buddies. It doesn’t change the factthat, before last night, the longest conversation we’d ever had involved me telling him his micromanagement of Sloane’s doctors’ appointments was giving off control-freak vibes, and him staring at me like I was an annoying mosquito he couldn’t swat.
A different version of me would be pissed enough about his hot-and-cold routine to pack up all her recovered belongings—passport, phone, and scraps of dignity included—and walk right out that door. But current Avah, the one who’s not broken but definitely bent, isn’t willing to give up his care so easily. Even if one day I’ll hate myself, and him, for seeing me like this.
I’m still sitting here, mentally cataloguing all the ways this situation is fucked up, when there’s a polite knock at the open slider that leads to the pool and outdoor kitchen. I glance up to see a man wearing chef whites on top, paired with olive-colored cargo shorts. He’s in his late twenties, dark hair pulled back in a man bun and an easy smile.
“Hey there.” He gestures toward two staff members unloading a cart of ingredients onto the outdoor kitchen’s granite countertop. “I’m Michael.”
“Avah.” I unfold myself from the couch and follow him past the pool toward the kitchen. “Thanks for making dinner tonight.”
“Are you kidding? A private villa gig beats the resort kitchen any day.” As I take a seat on one of the high stools, he pulls out a pineapple and starts prepping with the practiced movements that come from years of professional cooking. “You from the States?”
“Colorado. You?”
“Chicago, originally.”
“No way. I went to Northwestern.”
His face lights up. “Small world.” The rhythm of his chopping is hypnotic. “You miss it?” His gaze lingers on my bruised cheek, but I refuse to look away.
“Sometimes.” I place my elbows on the counter and lean forward, content to watch him work. “I miss deep dish and thelakefront. Not the winters. At least we have year-round sun in Colorado.”
“Same. That’s how I ended up here.” His grin is unabashedly boyish. “Well, that and a series of questionable life choices that seemed brilliant at twenty-five.”
“The best kind.”
He laughs, and I grin in response. Michael has the kind of energy that makes you want to laugh at your own drama. The vibe between us isn’t flirty, but it reminds me that I’m more than the wounded bird who doesn’t have the strength to leave the nest—or in this case, the five-figure-a-night villa. I’m going to fly again eventually.
“So what brings you to paradise?” he asks, then immediately winces. “Sorry. Strict staff rules. We aren’t allowed to ask guests about their personal lives.”
“It’s okay.” I take a deep breath. This is the opportunity I didn’t know I needed. The chance to lessen the stigma I feel over what happened by owning it. “I was supposed to be on my honeymoon, except I called things off before we got to the marriage part. So it’s more of a tropical vacation with a side of life implosion.”
“Damn.” He pauses mid-chop. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Best decision I’ve made in years.”
“Then congratulations on your freedom.” He pulls a cocktail shaker from one of the cabinets below the countertop. “Can I fix you a celebratory drink?”
“Only if you make it a mocktail.” I shrug and try to look casual. “I’m focused on avoiding questionable life choices at the moment.”
“Done,” he says with a wink and slides a tall glass across the counter a minute later. It’s bright pink, garnished with a sprig of mint and a slice of fresh pineapple. I take a sip, and a perfect mix of sweet and tart hits my tongue.
“This is amazing. What’s in it?”
“Fresh pineapple, strawberry, lime, a little coconut water, and a secret ingredient I’m not at liberty to reveal.” He waggles his brows. “How do you feel about an ahi tuna appetizer with mango, avocado, and a citrus vinaigrette?”
“I feel like you’re my new favorite human.”
“I have my moments.”
