The Honeymoon Arrangement

by Wood, Joss

  Finn didn’t find that hard to believe. At all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Three months later …

  CALLIE, ABOUT TO pull the door open to their favourite watering hole, the Laughing Queen, frowned as Rowan held the door closed and stopped her from walking inside.

  ‘What?’

  Rowan narrowed her eyes at her. ‘Can you try and remember that this is a business meeting? That my client and his fiancée have called their wedding off two weeks before they were supposed to say I do. Do not flirt with him!’

  Callie, purely to wind Rowan up, flashed her naughtiest smile. ‘Why not? Maybe me flirting with him will cheer him up.’

  ‘Don’t you dare! I swear, Cal, just behave—okay?’

  ‘I always behave!’ Callie protested. Okay, that wasn’t true, so she quickly crossed her fingers behind her back. For most of her adult life, whenever she’d found herself back in Cape Town, she had normally ended up in this bar, getting up to some mischief or other. Jim and Ali, the owners, loved her because she always got the party started and they ended up selling much more liquor than normal.

  ‘Just no dancing on the bar or impromptu line-dancing, okay? Or, if you have to, pretend that you don’t know me.’

  ‘Hey! I’m not so bad!’

  Rowan was thinking of Callie’s early twenties self, or maybe her mid-twenties self … maybe her six-months-ago self. The truth was that it had been a while since she’d caused havoc in a pub. Or anywhere else.

  Normally, whenever she was feeling low or lonely, needing to feel outside of herself, she headed for the nearest bar or club. It wasn’t about the alcohol—she’d launched many a party and walked out at dawn stone-cold sober—it was the people and the vibe she fed off … the attention.

  So why, after a decade, was she now boycotting that scene? Had she totally lost every connection to the wild child she had been? That funny, crazy, gap-toothed seven-year-old who’d loved everyone and everything. That awesome girl she’d been before everything had changed and her world had fallen apart.

  Sadness made her throat constrict. She rather liked the fact that at one point in her life she’d been totally without fear. That was how she usually felt in the middle of a party she’d created: strong, in control, fearless.

  Maybe she should just start a party tonight to remind herself that she could still have fun.

  When she repeated the thought to Rowan, her mouth pursed in horror.

  ‘You are hell on wheels,’ Rowan grumbled, letting go of the door handle and gesturing her inside.

  ‘And you were a lot more fun before you got engaged to my brother,’ Callie complained, stepping into the restaurant. She waved at Jim, who was standing behind the long bar at the back of the large harbour-facing restaurant. ‘What happened to my wild, backpacking, crazy BFF?’

  ‘I’m working.’ Rowan said through gritted teeth. ‘This is my business.’

  Seeing that Rowan looked as if she was about to start foaming at the mouth, Callie slung an arm around her shoulder. ‘Okay … chill. I’ll behave.’ She couldn’t resist another dig. ‘Or at the very least I’ll try.’

  ‘I was nuts to bring you along tonight,’ Rowan complained, leading them to an empty table in the corner and yanking out a chair.

  Callie took the seat opposite her and flipped her hair over her shoulder. Seeing Rowan’s irritated face, she realised that she might have gone a little too far, so she placed her hand on hers and squeezed. When Rowan’s eyes met hers Callie met her dark eyes straight on. ‘Relax—I’ll behave, Ro.’

  Rowan scrunched her face up and when she opened her eyes again let out a long sigh. ‘Sorry. It’s just that I feel for this guy. I mean, can you imagine calling it quits so close to the wedding?’ Rowan picked up a silver knife from the table and clutched it in her hand. ‘What could have gone so badly wrong so late in the day?’

  Callie heard the unspoken question at the end of Rowan’s sentence. And what if it happens to us?

  ‘Easy, Ro. Seb adores you and nothing like that is going to happen.’

  ‘Bet Finn didn’t think that either,’ Rowan muttered.

  Finn? Callie stared at her. Finn Banning? The guy on that flight back from JFK? The one she’d never quite managed to forget? The one she’d recommended Rowan to as his wedding planner? Black hair cut short to keep curls under control, utterly mesmerising grape-green eyes and that wide-shouldered, long-legged, slim-hipped body. The man who had starred in quite a few of her night time fantasies lately.

  ‘Finn? You’ve got to be sh—’ Callie caught her swearword just in time. With Rowan’s help she was trying to clean up her potty mouth. And by ‘Rowan’s help’ she meant that she had to pay Rowan ten bucks every time she swore. It was a very expensive exercise. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

  Rowan placed their order for a bottle of white wine with a waitress before answering her. ‘Sadly not. Anyway, he’s the strong, stoic, silent type—not the type of guy who you can commiserate with. So don’t let on that you know.’

  Of course she wouldn’t. She was loud and frequently obnoxious, but she wasn’t a complete moron.

  She had a low-grade buzz in her womb at the thought of meeting Finn again—jilted or not. She still had a very clear picture of his super-fit body dressed in faded jeans, his muscles moving under a long-sleeved black T-shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows lounging in the seat next to her; his broad hand, veins raised, capable and strong, resting on his thigh. His quick smile, those wary, no-BS-tolerated eyes …

  She had amused him, she remembered, and that was okay. He’d looked as if he needed to laugh more. And, more worryingly, those hours she’d spent with him were the last she’d spent in any concentrated, one-on-one time with a man.

  Maybe she was losing her mojo.

  ‘So, how long are you in the country for this time?’

  Rowan changed the subject and Callie sighed with disappointment. She wanted to gossip a bit more about the luscious Finn.

  As a fashion buyer for an upmarket chain of fashion stores Callie was rarely in the country, constantly ducking in and out of the fashion capitals of Europe and in New York and LA. Trips back home were rarely for more than a week or two—three if she was at the end of a three-month rotation. Wasn’t she due for a three-week break soon? Hmm … she’d have to check.

  ‘I’m flying out to Paris in a little while and will be away for a week.’

  ‘Aren’t you sick of it, Cal? The airports, the travelling, the craziness?’ Rowan asked. ‘I could never imagine going back to my old lifestyle, kicking it around the world.’

  ‘But, honey, you stayed in grotty hostels and hotels. I travel the easy way—business class seats, expensive hotels, drivers, upmarket restaurants and clubs.’

  Rowan had been a backpacker—a true traveller. Callie wasn’t half as adventurous as her friend; unlike Rowan she’d never visited anywhere that wasn’t strictly First World.

  Upmarket First World. She was that type of girl.

  Callie frowned. Rowan had a look in her eye that told her that she was about to say something she wouldn’t like. She’d been on the receiving end of that dark-eyed look many times since her childhood and she leaned back in her chair, resigned. ‘I know that look. What’s wrong?’

  Rowan pulled in a long breath. ‘I don’t know … I’m just concerned. Worried about you.’

  Callie fought the urge to roll her eyes. ‘Why?’

  Rowan stared down at her hands. ‘Because … um …’

  ‘Jeez—just spit it out, Rowan,’ Callie said, impatient.

  Rowan’s eyes flashed at her command. ‘Well, okay, then. Seb and I are concerned because we think you might be becoming … what’s the word? … brittle, maybe.’

  What? ‘Why?’

  ‘You gobble up life, Cal, like nobody else. You love people and you talk to anyone. Within two seconds everyone adores you and wants to be your best friend. You are the only person I know who can walk into a party and within ha
lf an hour have everyone doing shots and then the conga. Men want you and girls want to be you.’

  Well, that was an exaggeration—but it was nice that Rowan thought so. ‘So where does the worry and the brittle part come into it?’

  ‘Being bubbly and funny and outrageous has always been a part of you, but we sort of feel like you’ve been acting lately. It’s almost as if you’re trying a bit too hard …’

  ‘I am not!’

  Callie instantly denied the accusation. Except that Rowan’s words stung hard enough for her to know it was the truth. And hadn’t her recent actions shown her how hard she now had to work to dredge up the flirty, party-hearty girl when it had used to be constantly and consistently easy for her?

  Maybe she was getting old. Or bored. Or maybe she just needed sex. Or all three.

  Rowan traced the pattern of a bold flower on the tablecloth with her finger. ‘I read an article the other day about people feeling out of sorts as they approach thirty,’ Rowan explained. ‘Maybe you’re wondering if you’re on the right path, whether your life makes sense.’

  ‘Of course my life makes sense,’ Callie retorted.

  She earned spectacular money doing a job she could do with her eyes closed, she was constantly meeting new people, buzzing from cosmopolitan city to cosmopolitan city. Dinner in Paris … lunch in Rome. Looking at beautiful clothes and making the decisions on what to buy and for whom. She dated cosmopolitan, successful men.

  She loved her job. She’d always loved her job. She still loved her job … okay, mostly loved her job. She’d been doing it for a long time—she was allowed to feel iffy about it occasionally.

  Over the last six months the designers seemed to have become a lot more diva-ish, the cities a bit grimier, the hotel rooms even more soulless than normal. The men more man-scaped than she liked and a great deal more bland.

  Maybe she needed a holiday. Or an affair …

  ‘And how’s your love-life, Cal? Who’s the lucky guy of the moment?’

  There Rowan went again—reading her mind. When you’d been friends with someone for more than a quarter of a century it happened. Often.

  Callie sipped her wine before answering. ‘I’m currently single …’

  ‘You’re always single,’ Rowan corrected her.

  ‘Okay, if you’re going to be pedantic then I’ll say that I’m currently not sleeping with anyone. Is that better?’

  She dated lots of different men and slept with very few of them. Despite her party-girl, flirt-on-two-legs reputation she was very careful who she took into her bed. And she usually found out, during dinner or drinks, that they were married, bi, involved, arrogant or narcissistic. So she normally went to bed alone.

  ‘Marginally. So why aren’t you tearing up the sheets with some hunk?’ Rowan asked.

  Callie twisted her lips. ‘Not sure, actually. Nobody has interested me for a while.’

  Rowan shoved her tongue into her cheek. ‘How long is a while? A week? A month?’

  Callie looked at Rowan and tried to ignore the flash of hurt. She knew that Ro was teasing, but saying it like that made her sound like a slut—and she wasn’t. She really wasn’t. She didn’t bed-hop or treat sex casually, but neither was she a nun.

  ‘I haven’t slept with anyone for about five, maybe six months,’ she admitted quietly.

  Rowan instantly looked apologetic. ‘Sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to sound judgemental. Teasing, maybe—judgy, no.’ Rowan waited a beat before speaking again. ‘Why not, Cal? You like men and men like you.’

  Callie wished she could answer her but she couldn’t—not really. Like her avoiding the party scene and her occasional dissatisfaction with her job there was no reason—nothing she could put her finger on. She just hadn’t met anyone lately whom she wanted in her bed … in her body. Nobody she liked enough to make the effort.

  She just couldn’t put her finger on why, and she was getting a bit tired of her self-imposed celibacy. She liked sex—she needed sex.

  ‘I genuinely don’t know, Ro. It just hasn’t happened lately and I refuse to force it.’ Callie shrugged before sitting up straight and putting a smile of her face. ‘Anyway, it’s not the end of the world. I’ll find someone sooner or later who I’ll want to tumble with. In the meantime I have a great, interesting life.’

  Rowan bit her lip—a sure sign that she was about to say something that Callie might not like.

  ‘Is it possible that your life is too great?’

  ‘Huh? What?’ Callie wrinkled her nose, puzzled.

  ‘Your life is so busy, so crazy, and you are so virulently independent—do you have any room in it for a man? A lover? Someone who might be something more than a temporary arrangement? Can it be, darling Cal, that you’re too self-sufficient and busy for your own good? Or is it a defence mechanism?’

  Okay, had Rowan acquired a psychology degree along with her engagement ring? What was this all about?

  ‘What is wrong with you? I came out for a drink—not to be analysed.’

  Rowan pulled a face. ‘We both had screwed-up childhoods, Cal. My parents and their inability to see me—your mum leaving when you were a little girl. Our push-the-envelope crazy antics got worse and worse the older we got and ended up with you writing off your car when you were eighteen. I landed in jail shortly afterwards.’

  ‘Just for a weekend.’

  ‘That was long enough. That was a hell of year, wasn’t it?’ Rowan shook her head at the memory.

  It had been a hell of a year, indeed, Callie agreed silently.

  ‘After both incidents we … settled down, I suppose. We’re so much better adults than we were kids,’ Rowan continued.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Callie muttered. All she knew for sure was that she’d felt more alive when she was a kid and a wild teenager than she did now. Right now she just felt … blah. Not brittle—just blah. As if she was a cardboard cut-out of herself.

  Rowan sent her a quick, worried look. ‘While we’re on the subject of your mother, I need to tell you that …’

  They were on the subject of her mother? Since when? And, oh, hell no—they were not going to go there. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. Her mother was long, long gone and not worth wasting time and energy discussing. They most certainly were not on this subject and would never be …

  Good try, Ro.

  Callie quickly shook her head. ‘Don’t.’

  Rowan held her stare and Callie knew that she was debating whether to get pushy and pursue the topic. Luckily Rowan’s mobile rang and she scooped it up off the table. Judging by the soft look on her face, she quickly deduced that it was her brother Seb on the other end, cooing into her ear. She genuinely loved the fact that Seb and Rowan were so unabashedly happy, but their sappiness frequently made her feel queasy.

  She couldn’t imagine acting like that—being so intertwined, so in tune with another person. It just wasn’t her.

  Callie looked up when a hand touched her shoulder and saw Jim, the owner of the bar, smiling down at her. He bent to kiss one cheek and then the other, and when he was done she allowed his big fingers to hold her chin.

  ‘Where have you been, hun?’

  ‘Here and there.’

  ‘We’ve missed you,’ Jim stated.

  Callie grinned. ‘You’ve missed me starting tequila shooter competitions which invariably turn into massive parties which lead to your till feeling very full at the end of the evening.’

  ‘That too.’ Jim dropped his hand and tipped his head, his expression enquiring. ‘Listen, I’ve got guys at the bar wanting to buy you a drink. You up for company or must I tell them you’re not interested?’

  Callie didn’t bother looking at the bar. She just wanted to talk to Rowan and, if she was lucky, say hi to Finn Banning again. She shook her head. ‘I’m not in the mood, Jim—and, besides, I told Rowan that I’d keep a low profile tonight and behave myself.’

  ‘Why do I suspect that that is very difficult for you to do?’
<
br />   Callie heard the deep, dark voice and whipped her head around to look up and into Finn’s face. Tired, she thought, but still oh, so sexy. Purple shadows were painted beneath his eyes and his face looked drawn and thinner. His back and shoulders were taut with tension and his mouth was a slash in his face. She wanted to kiss him and cuddle him at the same time. And she thought that he needed the cuddling a lot more than he needed the kissing.

  The last couple of days had clearly put him through the wringer. Experiencing that kind of pain, Callie thought, being that miserable, was why she never got emotionally involved. She’d experienced emotional devastation once before and it wasn’t something she ever wanted to deal with again.

  However, despite looking like a love refugee, he still looked good. Sage and white striped shirt over faded blue jeans and flat-soled boots. Curls that looked wild from, she guessed, fingers constantly being shoved into them, and a four-day beard. Tough, hard, stoic—and more than a smidgeon miserable.

  Yeah, there was that tingle, that bounce in her heart’s step, the womb-clench and the slowly bubbling blood. This was what pure attraction—lust—felt like, she remembered. This crazy, want-to-lick-you-silly feeling she’d been missing.

  Jim melted away and Finn looked at her with those sexy light eyes. She felt her face flush, her breath hitch.

  Sexy, hot, sad man. What she wouldn’t do to make him smile—she needed to make him smile.

  ‘Now, why would you think that?’ Callie asked him, projecting as much innocence as she could.

  He slapped his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes at her and she hoped he couldn’t tell that her heart was thumping in excitement. He pulled his lips up into a smile which tried but didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

  ‘The passage to the bathroom facilities is covered in framed photographs of the parties that have happened here. Not so strangely, you are in most of them—front and centre. Oh, yeah, you’re just trouble looking for a place to happen.’

  Callie batted her eyelashes at him, her eyes inviting him to laugh with her … at her. ‘My daddy told me that talent shouldn’t ever be wasted.’