by Lush, Tamara
Christ. I’m an idiot. The resort and my plans had me so excited I assumed she’d go right along with my ideas. I lick my lips. “Well, I figured it was the natural next step.”
“Not with Lauren. Not now. She needed to hear that from you. Before your plans for your business. Lauren wanted to be number one for once. Not her brand.”
“Of course she’s number one.” I scrub my hands over my face. “I don’t know how to fix this since I have no idea where she went.”
A wicked smile twists on Kate’s face. “Well. I might be able to help on that front.”
She snatches her cell and her thumbs tap, lightning-fast, across the screen. Then she sets the phone down.
“And now we wait.”
I stare at her, unblinking. My heart rate kicks up while considering the possibility I can apologize to Lauren and try to make her understand how I want to care for her. How much I need her in my life.
How much I love her.
After thirty seconds, the silence is unbearable.
“Have you heard from Damien?” I ask softly.
“We email all the time.” She bites her lip. “I miss him so much.”
I lean against the counter. “The year’s going to fly by. Try not to worry.”
“I hope so.” Kate’s phone chirps, and she grabs it. “Aha.”
“What?”
Kate looks up from the screen. “She’s still in London.”
“London.” I’m already mentally rearranging my schedule.
“How…long…will…you…be…there,” Kate says slowly as she taps.
The phone pings again.
“She’s there for a week. I’m going to tell her I’m planning to meet her for the weekend because I got a new credit card with frequent flier miles. Which gives you about forty-eight hours to get your shit together and get across the pond.”
“What am I going to do? Show up in London and what? Where?” I throw up my hands. “I can’t bust down her hotel door and insist she come home with me, dragging her by the hair to the airport.”
“Hmm.” Kate taps her finger on her chin. “I think there’s actually a part of Lauren that would love that. But, no. That won’t work. We’re going to have to plan this well. She’s got a bunch of public events, parties and such, so we’ll figure out where she’ll be the night you arrive. You’ll probably have to wear something other than cargo pants and a T-shirt, though.”
Kate eyes my sad, slightly grubby attire, and I scratch my belly.
“I’ve been working with contractors on the renovations, okay?” Finally, I break into a smile, thinking of pulling out my city clothes and surprising Lauren in some swanky bar. “Don’t worry. I own real clothes. I won’t look like a beach bum in London.”
“Good deal. Now, I have to get to work, and you have a flight to schedule. Oh, and I need the dog stroller.”
“Fine. You sure this will work with Lauren? Because I miss her like crazy. I can’t sleep without her; I can’t function.” My chest swells with emotion. It’s the first time I’ve said aloud what I’ve been feeling.
At my words, Chunky lifts his pudgy head and meets my gaze with his chocolate-colored eyes. Kate looks at the dog, then to me.
“Knowing her, this will be your one and only chance. Make the grand gesture. Show her how much you care and bring her back where she belongs.”
Twenty-Four
Max
The London club Cirque is overflowing with people jammed shoulder-to-shoulder and butt-to-crotch. Too close for my taste. This particular circus is tinged with sex and twenty-dollar cocktails.
The scent of heady, floral perfume and burning wood hangs heavy as I fight my way through.
“You come here often?” purrs a woman in my ear.
Startled, I turn in her direction. She’s dressed like Alice, of Alice in Wonderland. If Alice wore electric blue latex and white, frilly lingerie.
I shake my head and wander off.
How am I supposed to find Lauren in this mess? I push my way past a guy in tiger face paint. Somehow, Kate left out the detail that this was a circus-themed nightclub.
I weave past what appears to be a scantily clad snake charmer, and she lunges for me. “Whoa,” I growl.
My gaze lands on a woman gyrating on a platform. Two silver hula hoops whizz around her body. Is she naked? No, there’s black electric tape over her nipples.
I grin, thinking of my brother Remy and how much he’d enjoy this. And the Alice girl.
Definitely not my scene. The music’s a little too loud, and the people here seem to take themselves way too seriously.
Or maybe I’m old. I’m accustomed to island time and a quiet beer at a beach bar. Even when I lived in New York, this kind of thing wasn’t my scene. I glance at a group of men dressed in white face paint. Are they supposed to be members of the band KISS? Or mimes? I chuckle out loud.
Hell, I probably could’ve worn my Paradise Beach Hawaiian-style shirt and fit right in, because anything goes in this place.
If I were on vacation, I’d love to kick back at the bar and watch this scene, since it’s so damned fascinating and crazy. But I’m on a mission.
Find Lauren. Convince her of my love. Take her home.
But the first part of that task is proving more difficult than I anticipated. Kate texted a few minutes ago, confirming that Lauren’s definitely here and posting Instagram photos from some VIP area. I pause to check my phone and her Insta account.
Yep, there’s a photo of a perfectly lit cocktail. There’s a backdrop of a roaring fire in a stone fireplace. It’s tagged with this club’s name and address. I’m in the right place.
As the party swirls around me, my thumb taps on a photo I haven’t seen. It’s of her, posted a few hours ago in what looks like a sleek, minimalist hotel lobby.
She’s dressed simply, in a black motorcycle jacket and jeans, her image reflected in a gilt-framed mirror. Her glossy hair’s curled more than usual, and it tumbles over her shoulders. The noise of the club falls away, and for a few seconds, I’m captivated by her beauty all over again.
I lift the phone closer to my face, studying the picture. There’s a sadness in her smile. A look of defeat in her eyes that wasn’t there on Paradise Beach. It’s as if she’s lost her sparkle, the one she had whenever we kissed, always when she teased me, and as I took her hand.
I must find her. Now.
Swiveling my head, I search for signs of a fireplace. This is such a huge club, with maze-like, dark corridors, that she could literally be anywhere.
A swear escapes my mouth, but no one around me notices.
Where the hell’s the fireplace? There’s nothing but fake circus performers everywhere.
My phone buzzes with a text from Kate. We’ve plotted tonight down to the hour—Lauren thinks Kate’s joining her, fresh off a flight from Miami. Kate, of course, is back at her tiki bar in Florida, directing me where to go.
She thinks I’m in a cab, coming to the club within a half hour, so she’s not going to leave. Now’s your chance to find her!
I peck out a text in the semidarkness. Okay. Thanks. I’m here.
But where the hell is Lauren? This place didn’t look so big online. In person, it’s massive, located in an old, restored warehouse in London’s Piccadilly neighborhood.
“Hey, man,” I yell over the old-school RnB song to a guy dressed as a magician. “Do you work here?”
He unfurls a deck of cards and quirks an eyebrow. “Pick a card?”
“No, thanks. I’m looking for the VIP.”
“There are several.”
I grimace. Of course there are.
The man looks me up and down, probably wondering why a tall American guy in a conservative navy blue suit’s in the middle of this insanity.
“Fetish VIP? Is that what you’re looking for?”
Jesus, why does he think I’m looking for that? “No fetishes. Dream Liquor event. Something to do with Instagram? There’s a fireplace?”
“Ah. Certainly. Come with me.”
He folds the cards into a neat stack and turns on the ball of his foot. I follow as we weave and bob through the crowd, down a long, dark corridor, ignoring the shenanigans in the rooms we pass.
We come to a wide doorway crowded with people. I can barely see into the room, much less find Lauren. The magician gestures with a white-gloved hand.
“You’ll have to get past the rope.”
“Hunh? How much does that cost?”
“It’s a private area. VIPs only. No cash. That’s what you wanted, right? The VIP party for Dream Liquor?” He points to a massive, bald bouncer at one end of the velvet rope. “If he has your name, you’ll be able to enter, no problem.”
Christ. How am I going to get through the crowd and past the rope?
The guy begins to walk away, and I scowl.
“Wait,” I shout.
He turns around, and I reach in my pocket for my wallet.
“Pick a card after all?” He grins and flashes the deck again.
I shake my head and eyeball his tuxedo. Guy’s about my size. This could work.
“I was hoping you could help a desperate man. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Twenty-Five
Lauren
A dream Saturday night. Tag someone you’d like to spend the night with. #letsspendthenighttogether #DreamCocktail #DreamDate #DreamLiquor #London #InstaTravel #cocktailsanddreams #cocktailporn
I tap share on my phone, turning back to the woman standing next to me. It’s all I can do not to weep at how my Instagram caption is at odds with my reality.
There’s only one person I’d like to spend the night with, and he’s not in the photo I just posted on Instagram, and he’s not here in this pretentious London club. He’s nowhere in my life at all.
“You get a good photo?” the redhead next to me asks in a throaty voice.
“Yeah,” I mutter, showing her my phone screen with the photo of the pretty pink cocktail. We both look from my perfect shot on my phone to the real-life cocktails sitting on the table.
There’s a small, wooden clothespin on the rims of the dainty glasses. It would be twee and adorable, but I think it’s probably a nod to the fact we’re in a circus-burlesque themed club where women are wearing clothespins attached to various semi-nude body parts.
“It’s so cute, but it tastes disgusting.” The woman, who is about my age, holds up the specially created cranberry cocktail. Her name is Victoria, and like me, she’s a social media influencer from the States. “London Dream my ass. It tastes like window cleaner mixed with cherries. Did you even try it?”
“Nope. And not going to. Not after that review. And anyway, I don’t drink that much.” I bark out a laugh.
Vee feigns shock.
“Not drinking? In London? At a liquor company sponsored event?”
I shake my head, still queasy at the thought of liquor after the limoncello incident. “I’m on a cleanse. Dream Liquor knows. They didn’t care. All they wanted was the photos.”
Her expression turns from surprise to envy in a heartbeat. “Good for you. Doesn’t change the fact we’re getting paid to promote.”
I’m cleansing, all right—purging myself of happiness. All the warm, fuzzy feelings leftover from Paradise Beach are being replaced with heartache and sadness here in gray, rainy London.
I smirk. “Hey, it’s work.”
We both chuckle, and she studies me. “Weren’t you the one who had the viral video with you on a scooter?”
“Yeah.” Hopefully my clipped tone will prevent her from asking more questions.
“People were real dicks about that. I recall seeing the posts. You know some influencers actually create fake accounts to troll other influencers?”
I shrug. “So I’ve heard. Whatever. I survived.”
“Sucks how it happened to you. I’m sorry.” She shoots me a look of sympathy. “You doing okay now?”
“Yeah, I got the cast off. I’m totally fine. Physically, anyway.” I wave my hand dismissively in the air. Truthfully, my ankle still twinges occasionally with pain, but if I move slow enough, I can push through the pain. “Emotionally I’m a bit scarred from all those comments.”
We both scan the crowd in the VIP area. There’re hundreds of people here tonight, all well-dressed and beautifully bored. No one is paying attention to the dancers in cages or the fire-breathers in neon body paint. I’m unclear why the bartenders are dressed like zombies, but don’t care enough to ask anyone the backstory.
“Look at how many people want to come inside,” Victoria yawns, pointing toward the red velvet rope.
“Little do they know this party is stupid boring.”
“Right? People will do anything to get into someplace that looks exclusive.”
“I guess because it seem glamorous.” Our eyes meet, and we grin, while people all around us snap photos with their phones.
She knows the score. This is all fake, artfully constructed for the sake of social media.
Out the corner of my eye, I spot a man in the crowd on the other side of the velvet rope. The curly, brown hair reminds me of Max and my heart surges. In a flash, the man’s gone. I let out a sigh.
That’s been happening a lot this past week. I think I see him in a crowd and then poof! He disappears, taking with him my blind hope.
It’s ridiculous, of course. Max is thousands of miles away on Paradise Beach, working at the resort, putting in fifteen-hour days. The morning I left, I’d gotten dozens of pleading texts from him.
Then, nothing.
Obviously, he’s forgotten about me. Or, more likely, he’s pissed and wounded and is burying himself in work.
When I left Paradise Beach in an indignant huff, I thought I’d forget him, too. Yeah, right. If anything, my yearning for him has grown by the hour. He’s interrupted my dreams every night I’ve been apart from him.
London was supposed to cure me of that.
I glance over at Victoria, absorbed in her phone. So much for conversation. With a tap of my thumb, my phone screen comes to life. It’s ten at night, and Kate’s supposed to be here by now.
Hey, are you in the taxi yet? I text.
Thank God she’s joining me for a long weekend. First off, I need to apologize properly for telling Max about her and Damien and hope she forgives me. I think she will.
Plus, I want to grill her about Max and ask if she’s seen or heard from him—and about my chances of reuniting if I were to return. She’s been oddly cagey on the subject in recent days.
I’d been a little surprised she was willing to travel so soon after the wedding, but Damien and her mother encouraged her, and I wholeheartedly approved.
Yes, almost there! The cab driver knows exactly where the club is, says it’s super famous ;)
Make sure you tell them at the door you’re with me. I left your name with the bouncers at the front door and at the velvet rope inside. Ask for the VIP room with the fireplace.
“Crap, it’s hot in here,” I say to Victoria, wiping my brow and turning my back to the fireplace. “I feel like a rotisserie chicken.”
“Yeah, that fireplace is out of control. That’s the thing about London, I can’t ever get my temperature right. I’m either freezing or boiling,” she complains.
I shrug off my black sweater—tonight I’m in an urban-cool outfit of skinny jeans, low black boots, black tank top, black sweater, all courtesy of a new London boutique—and tie it around my waist.
“I’m going to find a bottle of water,” I say. “You want one?”
Eyes riveted to her phone, she shakes her head. Her dismissive gesture leaves me feeling even lonelier. When I’d met her earlier in the evening, I thought we’d have something in common since she was from Florida.
“Sorry, I’m texting with a friend in Costa Rica.” She waves her hand in the air, still not lifting her head.
It’s another superficial exchange in the fake world of social media influencer
s.
And once again, I’m left with a chest full of intense longing for Max and Kate and Paradise Beach.
I’m such an idiot. Why did I leave so abruptly? Why did I screw everything up?
Heaving a sigh, I slide past a man dressed as a vampire and two women in Harlequin body paint. There’s also a snake charmer in a belly dance costume carrying an actual serpent, and since I’m not a fan of reptiles, I take a hard right into the crowd. A jab of pain slices through my ankle, and I swear under my breath.
And run smack into the broad chest of a tall guy in a tuxedo and top hat. A magician, possibly. Or a circus ringmaster. It’s hard to tell here.
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” I cry.
Looking down in embarrassment—I don’t want to meet the man’s gaze, since people here in London are so damned polite and think Americans are ill-mannered—I notice he’s holding a deck of cards in his large right hand. I’m about to edge away when he slips the cards into a pocket and clasps my bare arms.
I look up, and my breath hitches in my throat.
Familiar, bright blue eyes send a powerful current of electricity into my chest. His intense stare sweeps down my body, and prickles of awareness spread from my neck to my throbbing ankle.
“Cupcake,” he says.
He grins and, with a slow flourish, removes his top hat. I can’t hear anything—not the laughter, not the music, not the conversations nearby—and the sound of my heartbeat is louder than the music.
He presses his lips to mine, and I melt into his body. Everything else in the club ceases to exist.
Twenty-Six
Max
Lauren is at least a foot shorter than me, and tonight, she looks delicate. Fragile. Exhausted. Broken, almost.
The look in her kohl-rimmed eyes tugs at something deep in my chest. And the way her slender hand flies to her breastbone, her palm pressing against her skin? It tells me she’s shocked. Her mouth plumps and parts, opens and closes.
There’s nothing to say, and there’s only one thing to do.