by Lush, Tamara
“Damn straight,” Dad growls.
Leilani claps her hands. “I love it!”
Plans are made to fit Ma with a mermaid tail. That morphs into the idea of a private swim with all of them, and an underwater video. Right before my eyes, the minx I’ve been sleeping with forms a mermaid girl gang with all the women in my family.
My chest tightens. I adore her and all, but what happens when our pact is over? What if she wants to move on and be alone? Or, God forbid, date some other guy? My family will blame me. They’ll think I drove her away.
And the idea of Leilani eventually wanting something more and turning to another man makes me crack open another beer in despair. I sit morosely, listening to all of them talk about mermaids and swimming and the best days of the week to launch a new business.
Everyone has an opinion. Except me.
Max, being the Type A businessman that he is, has some tips and ideas for her. Of course, he does. Know it all.
“I thought you were her mentor.” Max jabs my ribs with his elbow.
“I’m supposed to be, you dick,” I grumble.
Over dessert, Leilani gets into a deep conversation with Tate and Isabella about wild monkeys in Florida. I had no idea that Leilani knew so much about monkeys. Or primates. She seems to be up on pending research of wild monkeys at the University of Florida (which impresses Tate, I can tell), as well as trends in conservation (which pleases Isabella), and has photos on her phone of a monkey in a tree near a north Florida spring.
“There’s a place called Monkey Island, where they all live,” she says to Isabella, who is bowled over by her knowledge. "It was near the mermaid park where I worked."
“No way,” Isabella cries, delighted.
Plans are made for a road trip to see the monkeys. “Remy, you need to come with us,” Natalia says.
I shrug and sip my beer. Doesn't Leilani's abusive ex live up north? The thought sours my mood further. And how did I not know that my friend-with-benefits is a primate expert in addition to being a mermaid?
Max glances at me and smirks. “You’re pretty quiet today, little brother.”
I shrug. I don’t know why, but something about this afternoon isn’t sitting well with me. Or, maybe it’s sitting too well with me. It‘s adorable how she’s getting on with my family. But I also worry because she’s so cozy with my family. Now I’ll have to manage their expectations because they’re bound to think we’re serious.
Or they’ll be upset when Leilani and I finally end it. Which will be a long time from now, I hope. Because what we have is special. Unique. As rare as those goddamned, wild Florida monkeys, as far as I’m concerned.
Talk turns to the upcoming weddings, and my shoulders tense. Max and Lauren, Tate and Isabella, they’re all insufferable with their wedding plans. At least Damien and Kate had the decency to do something casual and quick.
I roll my eyes. “I guess I’m going to be busy as the token bachelor party host over the coming months. I'll ready the strippers,” I say.
Tate, wearing a shit-eating grin, looks at Leilani and then at me. “Well, perhaps not. From the looks of things, you might be joining our ranks, Remy.”
I let out a snort. “Yeah, right? Me? I’m the bachelor of the family. I’m happy just the way I am. Me and the sailboat. Doing laundry every week here at Ma and Dad’s. Nah, I'm not a good catch at all.”
Everyone at the table laughs with me.
I glance over at Leilani who has a smile pasted on her face. I think it’s one of agreement. But I’m not entirely sure. I reach over and mess with her sexy-as-fuck hair. “Right, beautiful?”
She stares at me for a beat, then nods slowly. “That’s right. We wouldn’t want to disturb the confirmed bachelor in his comfortable habitat.”
“Exactly,” I say, getting to my feet. “Anyone want another drink?”
Truthfully, I’m already a little tipsy. But since I don’t have to be anywhere, I can just crash here. Maybe Leilani can crash with me. I imagine us getting naked upstairs in my room. My bed here is super comfortable. Oh yeah.
Since dinner and dessert are over, everyone gets up from the table and filters out. Tate, Isabella, and Dad go into the living room to watch some European soccer game. Max and Lauren, ever the responsible ones, clean up in the kitchen. Ma is heating up Chunky’s dinner in the microwave. Nat’s on her phone texting someone about a jewelry show, swearing under her breath. That girl has always had a mouth like a trucker. Leilani offers to help Max and Lauren. They wave her off.
“We don’t let guests do the cleaning,” Max says.
I take this opportunity to grab my beer and Leilani’s hand. Leading her upstairs, I take her to the upstairs deck, because I want some alone time with her before sliding between the sheets.
Outside, it’s hotter than hell, a stifling, Florida, summer evening. Still, the humidity feels soothing on my skin after all that tight, dry air conditioning.
“Ahhh,” I sigh. “That’s better. Sometimes air conditioning gets to me. I think I’m just so used to the elements from being on boats so much. I’m a wild, seafaring dude, not fit for indoor living, you know?”
Leilani looks at me with a skeptical expression. She leans on the rail and looks out at the Gulf, and I admire her legs as I come up to her from behind. She turns to face me.
“I love this little romper thing you’re wearing." I tilt her face up to mine and kiss her. “I’ve wanted to do that all day. I think this is the longest we’ve been together without making out.”
She kisses me with soft and pliant lips, and I taste the beer on my tongue and a hint of vanilla ice cream on hers. I swear to God I will never tire of kissing this woman. Then she looks at me with those huge eyes.
“Well, I’m going to get going.” She puts her hands on my chest and pushes gently. I step back, shocked. “I’ve got an awful lot to do for the bar. And I still have to make a few lists for the coming week.”
I lick my lips. What? Dammit. I wanted to hang out more with her tonight. I haven't gotten my Leilani fix yet. Still, I want to respect her time. Her bar is opening within a few weeks and she’s probably freaking out.
“Do you want me to come home with you?” I ask. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be your mentor, no matter what Max told you at dinner. We can talk about business… stuff.”
Yeah, right. We’ll end up in bed.
She laughs softly and runs her hand through my hair, which makes my scalp tingle pleasurably. “I know you’re my mentor. You’ve been a huge help. I’m sure Max was just trying to be helpful too. No, I should go myself. I need to get some sleep, and I really want to spend some time with my to-do list. You know how I am.”
Leilani has this thing with her lists. I don’t quite understand it, but I admire her organizational skills. She’s quite adorable when she makes those lists, fully focused, with a slight frown. I suspect that making the lists is a way to calm herself and quell her anxiety about everything she needs to do.
“Okay,” I say, kissing her on the forehead and swaying a little from all the beer. “I guess I’ll have to live without you for a night. It’ll be hard.”
She gives me a little shrug and a sad smile. “Will it though?”
We stare at each other without blinking. I think she’s trying to tell me something, and I’m not entirely sure what. Maybe because I’m a little drunk, or perhaps this is one of those female cues I’ve never been good at reading. I blink stupidly.
In the interest of harmony, I’m just going to let it slide.
“See you later,” she whispers. She brushes another kiss across my lips and murmurs something about saying goodbye to everyone else inside. Then she walks off the porch, leaving me alone in the humidity.
I sip my beer.
See, this is why I adore her, why I think our relationship is so special. She’s casual and understands me. And I understand her. We’re not attached at the hip, like Lauren and Max or Tate and Isabella. Leilani has her own things going on,
and I respect her free time. Just as she respects mine.
We have a pact. Long live the pact.
And yet, as I stand on the porch, sipping my beer, I wonder why I feel so lonely and shitty now that she’s gone.
Chapter Seventeen
LEILANI
I stab at the keys on my laptop, hitting save on the final touches of the Chamber of Commerce project.
Let’s hope we win. That ten grand would be a nice chunk of change. As it turns out, a million dollars doesn’t go that far when opening a bar. I’m trying like hell not to spend a ton of cash on the bar, but that’s a lost cause. Even though I don’t exactly need the money, winning the contest would be a personal triumph of sorts — something that would prove that I’m professional, that I’m an organized business owner, that I’m not just a cute girl that swims underwater.
Remy keeps reassuring me that we’ve got this, that my bar is that unique, and that our project is so well-done that we’re a shoo-in to win the contest.
I’m skeptical, because our competition is stiff. There’s a new brewery, an acupuncturist, and a place that sells tiny succulents in cute, little planters in town. They all seem to have their shit together, marketing-wise. The brewer has an MBA. The succulent woman has a background in marketing. Any one of them could win the prize.
I even bought a growler of the beer — it was delicious — and a tiny succulent in a unicorn planter at the Beach Farmer’s Market recently.
I look at the plant, which is sitting in my kitchen window, soaking up the final rays of the day. Actually, Remy had been the one to buy it for me two weeks ago; we’d gone to the market together because he loves the key lime donuts made by this one bakery.
While he’d inhaled three donuts, I’d cooed over the unicorn. And after giving me that sexy grin of his, he’d whipped out a fifty and bought the pretty plant nestled in a plastic, blue, sparkly planter shaped like a unicorn.
“I want my unicorn to have a unicorn,” he’d said.
The memory makes my stomach tighten, and not in a good way. I’m his unicorn because I’d agreed to our stupid sex pact. Seemed like a good idea at the time, two months ago.
I navigate over to my email and type Remy’s address into the box.
Subject: Chamber Contest
Hey. Here’s the final report we need. Talk soon.
Too cold. I erase the message and try again.
Remy-
I’m attaching the final report for the Chamber of Commerce Contest. Please give me your feedback.
-L.
Too formal. Erase. Erase. Erase. I jab the delete key several times.
Remy-
I miss you. Please come over right NOW so we can get naked.
Ugh. No. I can’t send that. Anything but that. I’m specifically trying to distance myself from that.
Sighing, I close my laptop and rest my head on my forearms for ten long breaths. Why am I in such a crappy mood?
I sit up and take a sip of my coffee, looking around my kitchen table. It’s strewn with notebooks, blueprints of the bar, pens of all colors, and printed spreadsheets. I’ve been working all day on our project, and have made several lists for the bar, too.
Remy was supposed to help me with this part of our project, but ever since that dinner at his parents’ house on Sunday — three days ago — I’d told him that I could handle things on my own. That I’d prefer to write the final report myself.
It was my bar, after all. And I was too busy to hang out, I’d said firmly when he called on Monday.
With a heavy heart, I’ve buried myself in my work and haven’t seen him once.
And dammit, I miss him. Maybe this little separation of my own making was a rotten idea. I keep thinking of things that I want to talk to him about. Jokes. Stories. Questions about the island.
I also miss his body in my bed. Last night, I’d used my vibrator for the first time in two months and…meh. It was just meh, compared to what I’d had with Remy. Damn him and his magical penis.
Grabbing my phone, I swipe to open a text message. Should I ask him and his magical penis over? He’d texted earlier, asking if I wanted to get together, but I’d demurred, saying that I had too much to do.
Okay, girl. You’re killing me with all your hard work. Talk later, he’d written.
I chew on my cheek and set the phone down. Let’s not act out of desperation. Or horniness. Let’s not act like Mom, who gets lonely and needy, and that’s why she turns to male companionship.
But I am horny and lonely. That’s the problem.
I’d been sailing along in a sex bubble, confident that I could separate lust from my feelings toward him. Then Sunday happened, and it was like a hurricane swept in and changed the landscape. Something about being with Remy at his parents’ house, around his entire family, made me yearn for something… more.
But every time one of his brothers talked about their upcoming weddings, Remy got this look on his face like he’d eaten some bad shellfish. And his repeated, barbed remarks about being a confirmed bachelor got under my skin. His words weren’t just annoying — they were outright hurtful. Ever since then, I’ve been questioning my sanity for wanting to continue our friends-with-benefits relationship.
And yet, he’d warned me all along. Told me explicitly that he didn’t want a relationship. Said he was only in this for sex. I’d happily agreed, because, hell.
I’d thought I wanted the same thing.
Thought being the operative word. Turns out that I actually like the big oaf. A lot. It’s not that I want to marry the guy, but I’d like something a little more formal. Which will never happen, as far as I can tell — the bracelet and the plant gifts aside.
I can tell he’s going to break my heart if I continue down this path with him. He’s too fun to be around, and I know that I’m developing feelings for him. Deep, intense feelings. Warm, fuzzy feelings.
Feelings are not part of the pact.
It’s not just about the sex, either, although that’s out of this world. I can’t get enough of his laughter, his observations about the world, his laid-back attitude.
And the way he treats his mother? Priceless. Watching the two of them joke and banter at dinner was so sweet that it almost made my teeth hurt.
He checks all the boxes on my perfect man list.
Except one.
Isn’t commitment shy.
Kind of an important one, now that I think about it. And Remy is about the most commitment shy guy I’ve ever met. Ugh.
“Looks like I’m another victim of the Playboy of Paradise Beach,” I mutter aloud.
I push my chair back and move toward the coffee maker. It’s six at night, and I really could use something stronger than coffee, but I’m not the drinking-alone type, even when I’m down.
What the hell am I doing here, holed up in my house?
As far as I can tell, I have two options. I can just tell Remy how I feel and soldier on with the sex pact, feelings be damned. If he can screw without emotion, so can I, right?
Um. Wrong.
Or I can let him go. Allow the friendship to fade to nothing. Timing favors this option, because the final Chamber of Commerce contest meeting is this Saturday. It’ll be the last time we have to see each other. Maybe we’ll spend one more night together, indulge in a final session of mind-blowing farewell sex.
And then I’ll drown myself in a vat of ice cream for a few days before picking myself up off the sofa, and that will be the end of Remy and Leilani’s Sex Pact Adventure. I will be fully single once again, and not get attached, like my mother, the serial monogamist.
Yep. This is what I need to do.
In the meantime, I ponder, why am I sitting around my apartment, moping? If there’s one thing that Remy, his sister, and the rest of his family showed me, it’s that I need friends. Paradise Beach is a friendly place. Getting over Remy will be easier with new friends.
I didn’t leave home and break up with Brent to come here and sit in my cond
o, alone. And now that the bar is almost a reality — the grand opening is in a few weeks — I really need to expand my social network.
I’m going out, dammit. Alone.
First, I tie my hair in a ponytail, then swipe on some pink lip gloss. I shove my feet into my flip-flops and grab my purse. Since I don’t live far from the beach, I figure I’ll take my bike over to Lime and Salt, Kate’s bar.
I pause at the door. Will she be there? What day was she getting back from her trip to Rome?
You know what? It doesn’t matter if she’s there or not. I’ll have a beer at the bar and make some new friends. Kate said there were lots of regulars, single women, who hung out there. I even recall her saying that she liked the vibe because it wasn’t a pick-up joint.
Perfect.
My ponytail flies in the wind as I pedal my aqua blue beach cruiser out of my condo’s parking lot and down the sidewalk of Gulf Boulevard.
Lime and Salt is a mile away, and I pass several mom-and-pop motels, all with funky, mid-century modern signs from the fifties and sixties. All of the old hotels on this part of the island have cool retro names like Stardust and Avalon and Eden Rock.
I pass a popsicle store, which shares space with a yoga studio. Both are new, and I smile. I adore the quirkiness of my new home. See? I’m already feeling better, now that I’m not holed up in my apartment alone.
Screw Remy. If he can’t see that I’d be an amazing girlfriend, pfft. His loss.
I careen into the parking lot of Lime and Salt, then brake and slow when I spot a palm tree. Guess I could lock my bike there, since I don’t see any racks. It’s on the far end of the parking lot, but it seems like the safest place for my wheels.
As I’m taking the lock out of the basket at the front of the bike, I hear male laughter wafting through the air. I look up to the tiki bar’s small deck. There’s a woman with red hair at a table, sipping a beer.
And across from her is Remy. I let out a little gasp. He’s angled so that his back is to me, so he can’t see me. But he’s tipping his head back and laughing uproariously in that deep, rich tone of his. As if the woman has just told the funniest joke in the world.