The Unhoneymooners

by Christina Lauren

  “Sure can’t!” I say, and everyone laughs, thinking of course I’m joking. I reach up to brush my hair away from my forehead before remembering I’m not supposed to fidget. Then I fold my arms across my chest and recall the internet saying not to do that either.

  God damn it.

  “When Charlie told me that he ran into you,” Molly says, “well, I just couldn’t believe it. And on your honeymoon!”

  I clap lamely. “Yay! It’s so—fun.”

  The waitress appears, and Ethan pretends to lean in and kiss my neck. His breath is hot behind my ear. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “Relax.”

  Straightening again, he smiles up to the waitress as she reads off the specials. After a few questions, we order a bottle of pinot noir for the table, and our dinners.

  Any hope I had of navigating the conversation away from us is shot down as soon as the waitress leaves. “So how did you two meet?” Molly asks.

  A pause. Keep it simple, Olive. “A friend introduced us.” I’m met with polite smiles as Molly and Charles wait for the actual story part of the story. I shift in my seat, recross my legs. “And, um, he asked me out . . .”

  “We had mutual friends who had just started dating,” Ethan interjects, and their attention—thankfully—drifts over to him. “They planned a little party hoping everyone would get to know each other. I noticed her right away.”

  Molly’s hands flutter around her collarbones. “Love at first sight.”

  “Something like that.” The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “She was wearing a T-shirt that said Particle Collisions Give Me a Hadron, and I thought any woman who under­stands a physics pun is someone I need to know.”

  Mr. Hamilton barks out a laugh and hits the table. Frankly, I can barely keep my jaw from hitting the floor. The story Ethan is telling isn’t the real first time we met, but maybe the third or fourth—in fact, it was the night I decided I was not going to put in a single bit of effort with him because every time I tried to be friendly, he’d weasel away and go into another room. And here he is, rattling off what I was wearing. I can barely recall what I wore yesterday, never mind what someone else wore two and a half years ago.

  “And I guess the rest is history?” Mr. Hamilton says.

  “Sort of. We didn’t really get along at first.” Ethan’s eyes make an adoring circuit of my face. “But here we are.” He blinks back to the Hamiltons. “What about you two?”

  Charles and Molly tell us about how they met at a singles dance through neighboring churches, and when Charles didn’t ask her to dance, she walked right up to him and did it herself. I do my best to pay attention, I really do, but it’s nearly impossible with Ethan so close. His arm is still draped across my chair and if I lean back just enough, his fingers brush the curve of my shoulder, the back of my neck. It feels like tiny licks of fire each time he makes contact.

  I definitely do not lean back more than twice.

  Once our entrées arrive, we dig in. With the wine flowing and Ethan charming the pants off of everyone, it turns into not just a tolerable meal but a delightful one. I can’t decide if I want to thank him or strangle him.

  “Did you know when Olive was a kid, she got stuck in one of those claw arcade machines?” Ethan says, retelling my least favorite—but, I’ll admit, funniest—story. “You can look it up on YouTube and watch the extraction. It’s comedy gold.”

  Molly and Charlie look horrified for Little Olive, but I can guarantee they are going to watch the shit out of it later.

  “How did you find out about that?” I ask him, genuinely curious. I certainly never told him, but I also can’t imagine him engaging in a conversation about me with anyone else, or—even more unbelievable—Googling me. The idea actually makes me have to push a laugh back down my throat.

  Ethan reaches for my hand, twisting his fingers with mine. They’re warm, strong, and hold me tight. I hate how great it feels. “Your sister told me,” he says. “I believe her exact words were, ‘Worst prize ever.’ ”

  The entire table bursts into hysterics. Mr. Hamilton is laughing so hard his face is a shocking shade of red, made worse by the silvery contrast of his giant mustache.

  “Remind me to thank her when we get home,” I say, pulling my hand away and draining the last of my wine.

  Still laughing, Molly carefully dabs at her eyes with a napkin. “How many brothers and sisters do you have, Olive?”

  I take Ethan’s earlier advice and keep it simple. “Just the one.”

  “She’s a twin, actually,” Ethan volunteers.

  Molly is intrigued. “Are you identical?”

  “We are.”

  “They look exactly alike,” Ethan tells her, “but their personalities are polar opposites. Like night and day. One has it all together, and the other is my wife.”

  Charlie and Molly lose it again, and I reach for Ethan’s hand, giving him a sweet Aw, I love you, ya goof smile while I attempt to break his fingers in my fist. He coughs, eyes watering.

  Molly misinterprets his glassed-over expression and looks at us fondly. “Oh, this has been the most fun. Such a lovely way to end this trip.”

  Quite clearly, she could not be more taken with my fake husband and leans forward, dimple in full force. “Ethan, did Olive mention that we have a spouses group at Hamilton?”

  Spouses group? Continued contact?

  “She sure didn’t,” he says.

  She’s already rubbing her hands together. “We get together once a month. It’s mostly wives who manage to make it, but Ethan, you are just darling. I can already tell everyone is going to love you.”

  “We’re a very close-knit group,” Mr. Hamilton says. “And more than coworkers, we like to think of everyone as family. You two are going to fit right in. Olive, Ethan, I’m just so thrilled to welcome you both to Hamilton.”

  • • •

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU TOLD the claw story,” I say as we walk along the outdoor path, headed back to the room. “You know they’re going to Google it, which means Mr. Hamilton will see me in my underwear.”

  Thankfully, the personal space bubble is back. Being around an Ethan I don’t want to punch is disorienting enough. Being around an affectionate, charming Ethan is like suddenly being able to walk on the ceiling.

  That said, dinner was an undeniable success, and as happy as I am that I didn’t blow it and still have a job, I’m irritated that Ethan is consistently so great at everything. I have no idea how he does it; he’s charm-free 99 percent of the time, but then, boom, he turns into Mr. Congeniality.

  “It’s a funny story, Olive,” he says, walking faster and getting a few paces ahead of me. “Should I have told them about the time you gifted me that Last Will and Testament software at the family Christmas party? I mean, honestly—”

  “I was only looking out for your loved ones.”

  “—I was making conversation—” Ethan stops so suddenly that I collide with the brick wall of his back.

  I catch my balance, horrified that I’ve just smashed my entire face into the splendor of his trapezius. “Are you having a stroke?”

  He presses his hand to his forehead, head turning so he can frantically scope out the path behind us, back the way we came. “This can’t be happening.”

  I move to follow his gaze, but he jerks me behind an enormous potted palm, where we huddle close.

  “Ethan?” a voice calls, followed by the click of high heels on the stone path. She follows up with a breathy “I swear I just saw Ethan!”

  He turns his face to me. “Big favor: I need you to go along with me.” We’re pressed so close I can feel his breath on my lips. I smell the chocolate he had for dessert, and a piney hint of his deodorant.

  I try to hate it.

  “You need my help?” I ask, and if it sounds a little breathy I’m sure it’s because I ate too much a
t dinner and am a little winded from the walk.

  “Yes.”

  My smile literally unfurls. Suddenly, I am the Grinch wearing a Santa hat. “It’s gonna cost you.”

  He looks pissed for about two seconds before panic wipes it away. “The room is yours.”

  The footsteps get closer, and then a blond head is invading my space. “Oh my God. It is you!” she says, bypassing me completely to wrap Ethan in a hug.

  “Sophie?” he says, feigning surprise. “I . . . what are you doing here?”

  Detangling from the embrace, Ethan glances over at me, eyes wide.

  She turns to beckon to the man standing just off to the side, and I take the opportunity to mouth—because oh my God—This is Simba?!

  He nods, clearly miserable.

  Holy awkward! This is way worse than running into your new boss while naked under a robe!

  “Billy,” Sophie says proudly, pulling the guy forward, and I gape because he looks exactly like Norman Reedus, but somehow greasier. “This is Ethan. The guy I told you about. Ethan, this is Billy. My fiancé.”

  Even in the dark I see the way Ethan pales. “Fiancé,’ ” he repeats. The word lands with a heavy thud, and it’s infinitely more awkward with Ethan described only as the guy I told you about. Weren’t Ethan and Sophie together for a couple of years?

  It doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together: Ethan’s reaction at seeing her across the path, the way he shut down when I asked about a girlfriend on the plane. A fresh breakup, and she’s already engaged? Ouch.

  But it’s as if someone has pushed a button somewhere on his back, because robot Ethan is back and suddenly in motion, stepping forward to offer Billy a confident hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Moving to his side, I loop a casual arm through his. “Hi. I’m Olive.”

  “Right, sorry,” he says. “Olive, this is Sophie Sharp. Sophie, this is Olive Torres.” He pauses and everything goes tight between us in anticipation of what comes next. I have the sense of being on the back of a motorcycle, staring over the lip of the canyon, not knowing if he’s going to rev the throttle and send us over the edge. He does: “My wife.”

  Sophie’s nostrils flare and for a fraction of a second, she looks positively homicidal. But then the look is gone, and she gives him an easy smile. “Wow! Wife! Amazing!”

  The problem with lying about relationships is that humans are fickle, fickle creatures. For all I know Sophie could be the one who ended things, but seeing that Ethan is no longer on the market will make him seem forbidden—and therefore more alluring. I have no idea what happened to end their relationship—nor do I know if he even wants her back—but if he does, I wonder if he realizes the irony that being married has just made it more likely she’ll want him back, too.

  She glances at me and then him. “When did this happen?” I’m sure we can all hear how it’s an effort for her to keep her voice from being razor sharp, which just makes it that much more uncomfortable (and awesome).

  “Yesterday!” I wiggle my ring finger, and the plain gold band winks in the torchlight.

  She looks back at him. “I can’t believe I didn’t hear anything!”

  “I mean,” Ethan says, laughing sharply, “we haven’t exactly spoken, Soph.”

  And oh. Tension. This is so, so awkward (and juicy). My curiosity is officially piqued.

  She gives a coy little pout. “Still! You didn’t tell me. Wow. Ethan—married.”

  It’s impossible to miss the way his mouth hardens, his jaw flexes. “Thanks,” he says. “It happened pretty fast.”

  “Feels like only moments ago we decided to really do this!” I agree with a hearty smile up at him.

  He presses a hard, fast kiss to my cheek, and I force myself not to jerk away like I’ve been slapped with a dead lizard.

  “And you’re engaged,” he says, giving the world’s stiffest thumbs-up. “Look at us . . . moving on.”

  Sophie is small, thin, and wearing a pretty silk tank top, skinny jeans, and sky-high heels. Her tan comes from a bottle, and I’m guessing her hair color does, too, but that’s really all I can find wrong with her. I try to imagine her in twenty years—vaguely leathery, long red nails curled around a Diet Coke can—but for now she’s still beautiful in a semi-unattainable way that makes me feel dumpy in comparison. It’s easy to imagine her and Ethan side by side on a Christmas card, wrapped in J.Crew cardigans and leaning against their broad stone fireplace.

  “Maybe we can go to dinner or something,” she says, and it’s so half-hearted that I actually bark out a laugh before Ethan reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to cover. “Dinner. We have it every day.”

  Ethan looks down at me, and I realize he’s not glaring; he’s fighting a laugh.

  Billy pipes up with a subject change, similarly cool on the dinner idea. “How long are you here?”

  I absolutely cannot stomach another fake dinner, so I go for broke. When Ethan answers “Ten days,” I wrap my arms around his waist and gaze up at him with what I hope is a sexy frown.

  “Actually, pumpkin, I’d feel terrible if we planned something and didn’t make it. You know we barely made it out of the room today.” I walk some flirty fingers up his chest, toying with the buttons on the front of his shirt. Wow, it is a veritable wall of muscle under there. “I already shared you tonight. I can’t make any promises for tomorrow.”

  Ethan raises a single brow, and I’m wondering if the tension in his expression is because he cannot fathom having sex with me once, let alone continually for an entire afternoon. Pulling himself out of the mental hellscape, he presses a swift kiss to the tip of my nose. “You have a point.”

  He turns to Sophie. “Maybe we can play it by ear?”

  “Absolutely. You still have my number?”

  “I’d imagine so,” he says with a bemused nod.

  Sophie takes a couple of steps backward, and her gold heels click like kitten claws on the sidewalk. “Okay, well . . . congrats, and I hope we see you again!”

  With a tug she pulls Billy, and they continue their way down the path.

  “It was nice meeting you,” I call out before turning back to Ethan. “I might make a terrible wife one day, but at least we know now that I can fake it.”

  “I guess everyone needs a goal.”

  Pulling my hands off his body, I shake them out at my sides. “God, why did you kiss my nose? We did not discuss that.”

  “I must have thought you were okay with it once you started feeling me up.”

  I scoff at that, setting off again at an acceptable distance behind them toward the hotel. “I got us out of another dinner. If it weren’t for me you’d spend tomorrow night across from Malibu Barbie and Daryl Dixon. You’re welcome.”

  “Your boss leaves and now my ex-girlfriend is here?” Ethan takes out his frustration in a series of long strides I have to jog to keep up with. “Have we earned a spot in the eighth circle of hell? Now we have to keep this stupid act up the entire time.”

  “I have to admit to feeling partly responsible here. If something is going well and I’m around, look out. Win a free trip? Boss shows up. Boss goes home? Accomplice’s ex-­girlfriend appears out of nowhere.”

  He pulls open the door, and I am met with a blast of refrigerated air and the soothing gurgle-bubble of the lobby fountain.

  “I’m a black cat,” I remind him. “A broken mirror.”

  “Don’t be ludicrous.” He pulls out another penny—still not that one—and flicks it off his thumb into the splashing water. “Luck doesn’t work that way.”

  “Please explain to me how luck really works, Ethan,” I drawl, following the trajectory of the coin.

  He ignores this.

  “Anyway,” I say, “this resort is huge. It’s like, forty acres and has nine swimming pools. I b
et we don’t even see Simba and Daryl again.”

  Ethan lets a reluctant half smile slip free. “You’re right.”

  “Of course I am. But I’m also exhausted.” I walk across the lobby and press the button to call the elevator. “I say we turn in and start fresh in the morning.”

  The doors open, and we step inside, side by side but so far apart.

  I press the button for the top floor. “And thanks to Miss Sophie I have a giant bed waiting for me.”

  His expression reflected in the glass doors is a lot less smug than it was a few hours ago.

  chapter seven

  Once we’re back in the room, it feels about half as big as it did when we arrived, and I’m sure that is entirely due to the fact that clothing will be coming off soon as we get ready for bed. I am not ready.

  Ethan tosses his wallet and key card onto the counter. I swear the sound of the items landing on the marble is like a cymbal crash.

  “What?” he says in response to my dramatic startle.

  “Nothing. Just.” I point to his stuff. “Jeez.”

  He stares at me for a lingering beat before seeming to decide whatever I’m going on about isn’t worth it, and turns to toe his shoes off near the door. I walk across the room, and my feet on the carpet sound like boots crunching through knee-high grass. Is this a joke? Is every sound amplified in here?

  What if I have to go to the bathroom? Do I turn on the shower to muffle the sounds? What if he farts in his sleep, and I can hear it?

  What if I do?

  Oh God.

  It’s like a death march, following him down the short hallway to the bedroom. Once there, Ethan wordlessly moves to one dresser and I move to the other. It’s the quiet routine of a comfortable married couple, made super weird by the knowledge that we’re both ready to crawl out of our skins from the tension.

  The massive bed looms like the Grim Reaper between us.

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s only one shower,” he says.

  “I did, yeah.”

  While the second bathroom is simple, with a toilet and small sink, the master bathroom is palatial. The shower is as big as my kitchen back in Minneapolis, and the bathtub should come with a diving board.