“Seven. We’ll have drinks on the patio first.”
“We’ll be there.”
Mariel nods, the wariness in her eyes shifting into curiosity. I can work with curiosity.
I turn and walk back toward the villa, my legs steadier now. The tropical sun heats my back, and I realize my hands have stopped shaking.
I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. Don’t know how to keep my father out of it, or where to start with rebuilding everything that’s crumbled in the past week. I don’t even know what I’m doing with Jeremy. Are these feelings real, or just the predictable response of a broken woman clinging to the first person who’s shown her kindness?
But I do know how to bust out the charm to advocate for a man who deserves a chance. At least this is one loose end I can tie up.
9
JEREMY
Avah insistson driving to the Johnsons, and I can’t decide if I’m insulted or relieved.
“You’ve been pacing like a caged squirrel for the past two hours,” she says, sliding behind the wheel of the golf cart Damon left for us. “Chances are you’d steer us straight into the bushes.”
“I prefer caged tiger,” I mutter.
“Do you?” She gives me a pointed look. “I call it like I see it, so sit back on that bushy tail while you obsess over your opening pitch.”
I want to argue, but I’ve rehearsed my imaginary conversation with Joel Johnson at least forty-seven times since she told me about the dinner invitation. Not one run-through ended with me landing the deal, which frustrates me more than I care to admit. I haven’t had to pitch a partnership since that first round of funding for my e-commerce site. People come to me, typically groveling. I like it better that way.
The tiki torches lining the path flicker as she pulls away from the villa, causing shadows to dance across her face. She’s wearing a sundress the color of the sunset, coral fading to gold at the hem,and her hair is loose, the blonde ends just grazing her shoulders. The cut on her temple has faded to a thin pink line. I prefer Avah like this, loose and somewhat undone—nearly opposite of the aloof black cat persona she displays in Colorado.
“Tell me again what Mariel said.”
Avah sighs. “Jeremy.”
“The part about wanting to meet me.”
That earns a derisive laugh. “She didn’t say she wanted to meet you. She invited us to dinner. Mostly me, I think.” The golf cart hums along the stamped concrete path, the evening air cool on my overheated skin. “After I defended your honor like a noble knight.”
“Telling her I’m not as much of an asshat as people think isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.”
“Try harder with the gratitude.”
I stare at the torchlit path ahead, my knee bouncing. “Were you rude about it?”
Avah takes her hand off the steering wheel long enough to flip me the bird. “Yeah, bud. She invited us to dinner because I was such a raging bitch. Give me a little credit.” She guides the cart around a gentle curve. “I’m in marketing. I know how to schmooze.” Another long look. “Unlike some people.”
No point in denying it. I’ve built a career on lines of code and numbers that do exactly what you tell them. People are messy. They form opinions based on vibes rather than data.
I have shit vibes.
“Stop the car.”
She keeps driving.
“Avah.”
“It’s a golf cart.”
“Stop the golf cart.” My voice is tight—one part irritation, one giant part anxiety—but I force myself to add, “Please.”
The cart rolls to a stop in a pool of light. Birds chirp from the lush vegetation beyond the path, the only sound in this quiet stretch of the resort.
