My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  “What the?” Emily shrieks loudly.

  “Oh, shit, bro! Sorry! I was aiming for the ’mingo! They like to pick at the ’weed.” Dylan answers, laughing deep and heartily.

  The green blur was apparently seaweed, because it’s now splattered on Emily’s chest and belly like Shrek came all over her.

  “Ah . . . ew . . .” She continues to make garbled noises, picking at the stringy bits of seaweed to remove them.

  “Here, let me help,” Doug says, laughing as he wipes at her hip. But the seaweed smears, leaving a haze of brown on her skin.

  “Get in the water,” I suggest.

  Emily glares and snaps, “Does this suit look like it’s water appropriate?”

  Honestly, it doesn’t. It’s white and so teeny-tiny that I could guess the diameter of her nipples, though if it got wet, I probably wouldn’t have to guess because they’d be visible. The bottom is a thong G-string style but so skinny it’s almost like she has the thong part in the front. Why would they make swimsuits that you can’t swim in? A tiny part of my brain is glad that when she fell in the water earlier, she was fully covered by her life vest and shorts.

  In contrast, Abigail looks sexy and sleek in her suit. It’s a triangle bikini, nothing fancy, but the teal color is perfect on her and the ties at her hips and back make me want to tease them loose with my teeth.

  Since Emily’s question seems mostly rhetorical, no one answers, but Doug continues helping her clean off as he tries to talk her down like she’s a wounded wildebeest on the verge of going amok. “No worries, babe. We’ll soak in the tub when we get back like we talked about, okay?”

  It’s enough to stop her bitching at Dylan, who does seem genuinely apologetic about the whole thing even if he does occasionally start chuckling again for ‘no reason’. And though we feed the flamingos the rest of the shrimp treats, the mood is soured, so we get back in our kayaks to head to the resort.

  “Thank you for inviting us,” Abigail tells Emily politely. Even the manners frustrate me because I know Abi wasn’t happy about going today. But she’s doing what’s expected, what’s right.

  “Of course!” Emily says, equally as fake. “What about tomorrow? You wanna—”

  “No,” I interrupt, giving zero fucks to rudeness. “We’re busy tomorrow. All day.”

  Abigail looks at me in surprise, maybe because of my tone or maybe because she’s wondering what I have planned this time. The truth is . . . I’m busy. I have to work tomorrow, cooking for a small portion of the bridal party.

  “Oh, sure. I understand. Another day then.” Emily isn’t going to stop going after Abigail, and though I wish Abigail would just tell Emily to go to hell because she doesn’t care what she thinks, Abigail isn’t prepared to do that. Yet.

  Chapter 9

  Abi

  Back in the room, I hop in the shower and clean up from the fun in the water. And to give myself some time and space to think.

  Lorenzo gave me a lot of his heart and even more of his mind today. In holding up a mirror to me, forcing me to see myself through his eyes, he exposed quite a bit about himself.

  He is dangerous.

  But unfortunately, maybe not in the bad boy tattooed and motorcycle way I originally thought. If that was all it was, I could probably have a fling with him and walk away unscathed with nothing more than a good story to tell when I’m old and gray.

  But he’s dangerous in a way that’s much more terrifying. He’s deep and observant, philosophical and expressive, all things that go straight to my heart and my core. And that would all be good—hell, it’d be amazing—except that he’ll leave. That’s why he’s dangerous. He’s a drug, getting me addicted to him and making me want him, knowing all the while that he’s a limited supply, short-term use only.

  And like an addict, I need rehab, time away from him for just a minute to get my head on straight.

  The shower isn’t enough. Especially when I come out of the bedroom to see Lorenzo standing on the balcony wearing nothing but black swim trunks and a heated look. His chest bare, his tattoos beckon me, tempting me to trace them, to torture him into promising things he isn’t capable of.

  But if he’s going to respect my free-spirited wildness, I need to respect his.

  “I’m going down to check on Janey in the cooler. Make yourself at home, of course. Don’t wait up. I’ll be a while,” I tell him.

  His eyes narrow, as though he can see right through me. Hell, he probably can. He’s proving that he sees me more clearly than I do myself.

  He turns around, giving the view his back as he stretches his arms out, hands resting on the handrail behind him. “Can I do anything to help?”

  Fuck. So, so much. And I’d bet my batteries that he could do it better than my favorite vibrator.

  I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I’m going to see what progress Janey made today so I know where we’re at.”

  He’s quiet, not believing me. He knows I’m running. But I’m only doing it now so he doesn’t have to do it later. It’s better this way.

  “Yeah, so . . . bye.” I bolt for the door, pulling it closed behind me.

  As I wait for the elevator, I text Janey . . .

  How’s it going? I’m on my way to help.

  I’m fine. Don’t worry about this. Clean the rust out of your pipes.

  Ugh, Janey! She’s given me shit about my pussy being as bad as a ‘rusty tin can’ for months now. I guess she’s switching to rusty pipes. Not sure which is worse because they’re both gross and sound painful.

  There’s also no way I’m not going down to check on her, the cooler, and the flower situation tonight. It’s my name and reputation on the line, and while I might’ve been able to delegate for a while, I’ll never sleep if I don’t know for certain that I’m ready for tomorrow.

  Downstairs, I find Janey jamming out to music on her phone and dancing around as she sings. I pale, not because her voice is awful because it’s not, but because she’s singing some Cardi B WAP . . . at full volume.

  “Janey!” I bark. “Turn that off! We have to be professional.”

  She gives me a ‘seriously?’ look, which is warranted considering I kind of bailed on her today, which isn’t the epitome of professionalism either. But after a long moment, she reaches over and taps on her phone. Everything goes silent as she glares.

  “Can I help you?” she snaps. “I told you to stay upstairs. Figured you would be full of fun by now. And by fun, I mean Lorenzo’s dick,” she explains, as if her filthy meaning hadn’t been clear.

  “I needed to check our status. Where are we at?”

  I look around the room and am surprised to see a fair number of flowers. Not wilted ones on their last legs, either. Nope, there are lush blooms in several shades of pink and red, from basics like carnations and roses to more exotic tropical species like pink ginger and hibiscus. “It looks amazing in here!” I gasp, honestly surprised.

  Janey beams proudly. “You might’ve put the fear of social media in the manager, but I put the fear of actual death in him. The cooler has been repaired. It’s temporary, more bubble gum and spit than actual parts, but it’ll do for now. We got these supplies delivered late this afternoon, and I’ve been sorting through them to see what we have to work with. Another shipment from Venezuela is coming tomorrow.”

  “Venezuela? What are we getting from there?” I cross my fingers that it’s something unique and beautiful like the sourced materials we lost.

  “Oh, nothing major, you know,” Janey hedges, telling me that’s not true at all.

  “What?” I beg.

  “Some orchids and Andean lupine,” she says flatly.

  “What?” I say again, but this time, it’s a squeal of delight as I grab Janey by the shoulders and give her a good, solid shake. “How are we getting those?” Andean lupine flowers are beautiful and aren’t often used in arrangements, so getting our hands on them is a miracle.

  “I have my ways,” she replies slyly. “Go to
it. I know you’re dying to get your hands dirty.” She waves me toward the buckets of blooms, and I rush over to get started.

  “Hit me with our list for the next few days, and let’s get a plan based on what we have available and how long they’ll be fresh,” I tell Janey.

  So we get to work. An hour passes by quickly, then another. I should be exhausted after an afternoon on the water, but the creativity flowing through me keeps me moving, grouping flowers together into potential arrangements.

  “How was your date?” she asks after a bit.

  I consider how to answer that. “Weird?”

  “Emily that bad? Need me to Karate Kid her ass?” Janey lifts one knee, balancing on the other foot with her arms spread wide like wings. “E-yah!” she shouts, doing some awkward kicking motion that looks more like a pissed off donkey doing a Riverdance than a crane kick.

  I laugh, so she does it again. “And yah . . . take that, Bridal Bitch.” Her moves get progressively less karate and more catfight until I’m crying from laughing so hard.

  “Thanks. I needed that,” I tell her gratefully. “But it was Lorenzo who was weird.”

  “Aw, hell no. I’ll go karate master on him too. She mimes a knee to the groin shot and a titty twister on an invisible Lorenzo, making me laugh some more.

  “Nothing that bad. He just held up a mirror that I wasn’t ready to look into.”

  Janey is about to ask a follow-up question about my mysterious answer when there’s a knock on the door.

  She whispers, “You expecting someone?”

  I shake my head. “You?”

  We each grab a pair of shears and approach the door slowly. I’m sure the resort is safe, but we’re alone in a remote area so we can’t be too careless. I will not end up as one of those Dateline specials with people speculating on whether I ran away with an island lover, got my kidneys stolen, or drowned in a drunken stupor.

  Slowly, shears held out defensively, I open the door.

  “Hey!” Lorenzo smile melts and his hands come up protectively as he frowns. “Hey! What’s wrong?”

  “Oh!” I say, lowering the makeshift weapon so I don’t accidently stab him and become the murder-y tourist instead of the trafficked victim. “Just being careful. What are you doing here?”

  I see his flinch at the accusation. “We didn’t get a chance to eat dinner, and I thought Janey might be hungry as well. I made food.” He holds up two boxes from one of the resort restaurants.

  The smell assails me then, bright and rich and spicy. “You made dinner?”

  His shrug is dismissive, but I know that making food for someone is akin to his love language. I’m the same way with whom I make arrangements for. Especially when it’s someone I care about.

  I’m not hungry, too much on my mind to actually eat much, but I won’t turn down his graciousness. Opening the door further, I invite him in.

  “Wow, this looks stunning,” he says appraisingly.

  “You should’ve seen it a few hours ago. A barren field of no fucks given, but slowly, the blooms of possibility took shape.” Janey sounds like a fortune cookie as she gestures to the flowers, but I’m not saying one word about it after all the work she put in.

  “Actually, Janey . . . you should go upstairs and get some rest. You’ve worked all day on this and done an amazing job. It’s my turn to pick up this relay race baton and take us to the finish line.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice, Boss.” She’s got her bag on her shoulder, nearly running for the door before I can blink, but then she turns back. She grabs one of the to-go boxes from Lorenzo with a sweet smile, “Thanks for dinner! Do I get the same sausage dish that Abi’s about to get?”

  “Janey!” I shout in mortification, but Lorenzo just chuckles.

  “I’m afraid my sausage is a rather exclusive dish and must be rationed out,” he tells her faux-sadly as he cuts his eyes to me.

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” Janey sing-songs as she leaves.

  She must think that the instant we’re alone, we’re going to go at it like rabid horny bunnies because almost as soon as she’s out of sight, she leans back around the doorframe with a grin. She sighs unhappily. “Damn, I thought I was gonna get some live action inspiration. Party poopers!”

  And then she’s gone again. For real this time. I think.

  “She’s crazy. Sorry,” I tell Lorenzo. I’m not really sorry. It’s just a habit to apologize when we get weird. Janey and I do that a lot, a gift of working close together for so long.

  “No, she’s fine. Just silliness. It’s amusing,” he says with a soft smile.

  I glance to the room around me, realizing anew that we’re alone, and a thread of excitement shoots through me. My brain might be all sorts of confused, but my body responds to Lorenzo’s easily.

  But along with the fresh opportunity being alone presents, I see all the work I need to do.

  “Do you want to eat with me?” I ask slowly.

  The fire in his eyes nearly singes me with its intensity. He licks his lips, and I’m ready for him to step closer and kiss me.

  “No.”

  I’m shocked, not expecting that answer at all.

  “You have much work to do, and even now, I can see the creativity flowing through you. Do what you need to. What we have can wait beyond this moment. We have time.” It’s almost like he believes that can be true if he declares it powerfully enough.

  He takes one small step to me, giving me time to protest, time to run. And I should, I know I should with every brain cell I’ve got. But they are not in control right now, so I meet him, toe to toe. He cups my jaw, lifting it as he bends down, and light as a butterfly’s kiss, his lips meet mine. Warm honey flows through my veins at his touch. It’s over too soon, and then he whispers, “I will be waiting for you.”

  I’m still frozen in stunned lust when I blink enough to realize he’s gone.

  Holy Shit! He’s so . . . everything. Everything I want and everything I don’t need.

  Curious as the proverbial cat, I open the to-go box to find a nice pile of seasoned chicken and grilled veggies. The delicious aroma works its way through my nose to my stomach, making it growl loudly. Lorenzo made this for me knowing that I would throw myself into work because that’s what he does too. I can’t fault him for that, and as I dig in, I’m so grateful that he’s passionate about his work.

  “Oh ma gawd,” I moan as I shovel another bite into my mouth. It tastes amazing, the chicken tender and full of spicy-sweet flavor and the veggies cooked to perfection. Before I know it, I’ve inhaled the whole thing and am staring sadly at my now empty box.

  “Definitely have energy to work now,” I tell the flowers in warning. “Let’s do this.”

  I turn my music on, not whatever crap Janey was listening to but some old club tunes I’m technically too young to even know but love, and I jam out while I work. I’m not the best dancer, but what I lack in skills, I make up for with enthusiasm.

  Looking at our to-do list and feeling the inspiration flow through me, I pick up a piece of floral foam and set it on the table in front of me beside a blend of blooms. “Talk to me. Tell me what you wanna become.”

  Yeah, I’m one of those people . . . the ones who talk to plants and flowers. But it works, for them and for me. Especially at this stage when it’s all a blank slate waiting for my touch to make magic happen.

  I’m head down, hard at it, when my phone dings. I’m surprised to see the hour when I pick it up but not surprised at who’s texting me.

  Violet: You up?

  Me: Yeah, everything ok?

  Instead of an answering text, my phone rings with a FaceTime call. “Hey, Vi, what’s wrong?” I’m already in freakout mode because something has to be drastically off for her to call me at two a.m.

  She sighs dramatically, her head thrown back against the chair she’s sitting in. I recognize that chair—it’s in baby Carly’s nursery. But I barely recognize my best friend. She’s usually impe
ccably pulled together, but she’s wearing one of Ross’s oversized white undershirts, her hair is piled haphazardly on top of her head in a don’t-give-a-fuck bun that looks days dirty, and I think there’s applesauce on her shoulder. Or maybe it’s spit up? God, I hope it’s applesauce.

  “Nothing’s wrong, exactly. Your niece just doesn’t know day from night and she’s killing me.” Violet sounds exhausted, and I’m guessing that a middle-of-the-night call while I’m out of town shows just how tight she’s hanging on to the end of her rope.

  “Sorry, honey,” I sympathize. “What’s she doing? Not sleeping?”

  The guess is met with a snort. “Oh, she sleeps just fine as long as she’s got my boob in her mouth. I’m like the world’s biggest pacifier.” The bundle in her arms shifts, and I realize that Carly is nursing beneath the swaddle of blankets.

  Violet sighs again, cooing to her little one. “That’s right, baby. Sleep, sleep, sleep . . .” The over-simple lyrics are soft and sweet and a little desperate.

  “What’s Ross doing? Can’t he help you?” Violet is a fantastic mother, someone who took to it readily and with excitement, but she’s also a full-time career woman who needs to get some rest of her own too.

  “Daddy went on a work trip for a couple of days,” Violet whispers to Carly as she answers me. “He’s working so hard, and we’re fine. Isn’t that right, little miss savage?”

  “Well, if you need anything, call Mom. You know she’d be over to your place in a hot second if she thought there would be baby snuggles when she got there.” My mom might be more than a little obsessed with her first grandchild. “Or if you’re really desperate, your mom.”

  Violet hisses, her eyes cutting to the screen. “Don’t you even invoke her name or she’ll show up like freaking Beetlejuice with an army of Italian grandmothers to show me how I’m doing everything wrong.”

  I chuckle, certain she’s joking. She’s not doing anything wrong, I’m sure of that.

  But Violet doesn’t laugh back. Her face goes a bit pale, and even on the tiny screen, I can see the panic in her eyes. “What if I’m doing it wrong?”