The door to the primary bedroom slides open, and Jeremy emerges wearing a dark gray T-shirt that could be the same one he had on when we went to the bungalow, or might be one of fifteen identical shirts he rotates through like some kind of Steve Jobs-inspired uniform. His hair is damp from the shower, and he looks slightly less murderous than when he walked in, which I’m counting as progress.
Michael, without missing a beat, stops his food prep to pour two fingers of bourbon over a single giant ice cube in a crystal glass. He slides it over when Jeremy reaches my side.
I stare at my host. “You didn’t order that.”
He picks up the glass, swirls it once, then takes a sip. “No.”
“How does he know what you drink?” I turn to Michael, who’s very deliberately focused on julienning a mango. “Have you cooked for him before?”
“I’ve ordered room service before tonight,” Jeremy says.
“So how does Chef Michael know your preferred poison?”
Jeremy’s mouth twitches. He sets the glass down and leans toward me, one hand clasping the edge of the countertop in a way that makes his forearm flex. Once again, I notice that he has really nice forearms. They’re muscular without being bulky, with a dusting of dark hair. He must work out, right? I’m sure it’s with some personal trainer to the stars. He’s probably hiding a ripped bod under those boring clothes he wears. Not that I want to see it or anything.
Hey, liar,my body chides.Your pants are on fire.
“Everyone everywhere knows my preferred drink.”
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, but his frown tells mehe’s not proud of that fact, which is odd because isn’t it supposed to be awesome to have people fulfilling your needs before you even realize you have them?
“What’s your preference?” I ask.
“Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, twenty-three-year,” Michael answers, earning a curt nod from Jeremy.
I blink. “That’s extremely specific.”
Jeremy arches a brow. “And?”
“That’s all you drink?”
“I drink water.” He ticks off the list on his fingers. “Coffee. Protein shakes.”
“Wow. Do you have somebody taste them first?”
“Why would I—” He stops, and I can’t decide if he looks incredulous or amused by the question. “Are you asking if I screen for poison?”
“I mean, you’re a billionaire. Seems like a valid concern.”
“No one’s trying to poison me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because no one has successfully poisoned me yet.”
I laugh despite myself, and his expression shifts to mild amusement. Either that or he has gas. Hard to tell with Jeremy. His default setting seems to be vaguely irritated with a side of brooding intensity, so any deviation reads like a seismic event.
“I’m not a medieval king, Avah,” he says finally, and hearing him speak my name again, like he’s parsing out the syllables, is way hotter than it should be.
I scrunch up my nose like awareness isn’t zipping along my spine. “Born in the wrong century.”
“Clearly.”
Michael has turned away to focus on plating the appetizer, but I can see his shoulders shaking slightly. He’s laughing at us, and that makes me want to smile even harder.
We migrate to the dining table, which has already been set for two with crisp cloth napkins and silverware that’s as heavy as a gymweight. The teak deck is warm beneath my feet, and glass hurricane lanterns flicker softly along the railing. The lagoon shimmers beyond our private stretch of sand while the shadowy outline of Mount Otemanu rises in the distance. The outdoor kitchen is all ambient lighting and sleek design, the kind of place that makes you forget you’re basically eating in the backyard.
I settle into my chair and take another sip of the mocktail. “My dad drank bourbon even though he hated it.”
