Two for Dinner

by Rachel A. Smith

  Michael peeks at me with one eye. “Shut the fuck up. All I’m saying is to be careful.” Shifting his arm back, he adds, “I know you—you’re a freaking romantic at heart. And you’re a believer in fated mates.” He yawns. “Get some sleep. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

  “Work? There’s no internet service out here.”

  “No, there isn’t, but you can help me install the kitchen cabinets. With the two of us, we should be done by lunch.” Minutes later, Michael is snoring.

  Following his example, I block out the moonlight by draping my arm over my eyes. Still, sleep doesn’t overtake me like Michael. I run my tongue over my teeth, a habit from years of orthodontic work. With no running or bottled water, I’m out of luck. The only liquids nearby are salt water and beer, and those are not an option. I’d have to go to sleep without brushing my teeth and live with the nasty, gritty feel. I prefer to run my tongue over smooth surfaces. Images of Irene in her bikini fill my vision. What would she taste like? She’s not a stick-thin supermodel, but that isn’t what most men really dream of. Certainly not me. No, her lush curves are perfect. Breasts and an ass that would fill my palms. Curves that would be fun to explore. Irene’s body made mine thrum.

  But the sexy vixen I met today wrote kids’ books. Why fairy-tale remixes? If I had Wi-Fi, I could dig a little deeper and find out more about the woman whose image is currently causing me to experience an adolescent hard-on as I softly rock in this damn hammock.

  Rolling to my feet, I sneak out to walk along the beach. Jamming my hands in my pockets, I make my way down to the shoreline to let the water lap over my feet. Its coolness does nothing to alleviate my heated reaction to images of Irene. Inhaling deeply, I stare at the moon. The logo of a boy fishing at the tip of a crescent moon comes to mind. Children’s movies. Kids’ books. My little sister Lydia is a teacher, which means she’s queen of children’s lit. She could help. I glance at my watch. 10:30 p.m., which means it’s 9:30 back home. I make my way to the end of the pier, the only place it’s likely I’ll have cell service.

  I pull up Lydia’s number and hit call. It rings, but she doesn’t pick up, so I scroll to find my soon-to-be brother-in-law Matt’s number.

  He picks up and says, “Where the fuck are you?”

  “I’m on the island.” My sister’s fiancé is normally level-headed. His rude greeting means my sister is upset, most likely with me.

  In the background, I hear Lydia hiss, “Who is it?”

  He doesn’t answer, instead snapping at me, “So you can’t reply to texts or emails?”

  I growl back, “I’m out at the bungalow.”

  Matt gets out an oh before my sister is on the phone yelling, “If you’re not dying, you better have a good reason why you missed our engagement party.”

  I bring my phone back to my ear and ask, “Didn’t I just go to your engagement dinner?”

  “That was for the old folks. The party was for us. Where were you?” Her disappointed reply partially breaks up. I feel like an ass.

  I repeat, “I’m out at the bungalow on the island.” Stepping forward, I let my toes dangle over the edge. The extra few inches aren’t really going to improve the cell signal. I’m more likely to fall into the water. I step back at the shadow of a stingray skimming through the water.

  “What? Why . . . ?” Lydia cuts out again. Fucking reception. I scoot back to the edge, sitting and leaning as far forward as I can until I hear my sister’s voice again. “The bungalow is under reno.”

  “I know, but there was mix-up and someone rented the house.” There is a long pause as I picture her staring down at the phone. I scroll through my calendar.

  “Why are you even on the island? You were supposed to be here in town.”

  “I just checked. I don’t have an event marked engagement party on my schedule.”

  “Duh. It was a surprise party. You never leave when you’re about to close a deal, and the Farrington merger is on Tuesday. What is going on?”

  She is right. Normally I’d be holed up at the office, but I’m done giving up my weekends. Plus, there really isn’t any need. Everything is in place and ready for the Farrington team to arrive. I roll back to stand. My stomach muscles ache from sitting contorted like a pretzel. “I just needed to get away, Lyd. Sorry I missed your party.”

  “Why?” Single word replies mean she’s calming down.

  “Because I’m sure it was fun.”

  “No, I meant why did you need to leave?”

  I’m not sharing the truth with my baby sister. That I’m on the island because I feel utterly ashamed and exhausted. Work is always the priority. A responsibility I would never consider avoiding. Rebecca’s deceit highlighted my weaknesses. I’d been too busy working, and I ignored the warning signs. I wanted to pretend there was no way someone would dare take advantage of me. Rebecca proved me wrong.

  I shake my head and sigh. “I didn’t call to talk about me. I actually called to ask you . . .” Fuck, now that it’s time to ask, I want to chicken out. This is one of my dumbest ideas ever. I shouldn’t be asking my little sister for help.

  “OMG. You’re dying!” Lydia screams. “Don’t worry. Whatever it is, we will find a cure. Matt will make sure you live, or I’ll make his life miserable.”

  Matt groans in the background. He’s a doctor, not God, although maybe he’s a god to Lydia.

  “I’m not dying.” I send up a prayer for patience.

  “Then why did you call Matt?”

  I roll my head from side to side. It’s so much easier to talk to Lydia in person. On the phone, her over-enthusiastic personality is hard to take. “I tried calling your cell first.”

  “Oh, really? Sorry, why did you call me?”

  Come to think of it, I rarely call my siblings out of the blue. I’m normally the one to return their calls. “This is going to sound weird, but I need some information on children’s books. Actually, specifically about a woman who writes fairy-tale remixes.” There is a long pause. “Lydia?”

  “Are you asking me for help?”

  She makes it sound like it is the craziest concept ever. “Ah, yeah.”

  Silence.

  I glance down at the phone and see the signal bars have dropped to nothing. Fuck. I take a step to my left and a solitary bar appears. “I’ll call you when I get back into town.”

  “Oh, don’t you dare hang up on me . . . explain . . . coming up with my own version—”

  “Hold on, you’re cutting in and out.” I sit back down on the edge of the pier and twist until I get a three-bar signal. This is fucking ridiculous. I’m risking a midnight swim in the dark, all for a stranger. A woman I can’t seem to stop thinking about. If I wasn’t so burnt out, I’d hop back on a plane and go back to work. Yeah, that’s a lie. Even work wouldn’t be enough of a distraction to banish the image of Irene in her bikini.

  Lydia is still rambling as I try to piece together what she’s saying. “ . . . Why the hell . . . you . . . leave?” Pretty sure there were some expletives in her sentence. My sister may be a middle-school teacher, but she also swears like a sailor. “Who are you and where is my brother?”

  Apparently she hadn’t heard me about the spotty service. Having missed half the conversation, I answer her second-to-last question since it’s obvious she isn’t going to let the topic go. “The prep work for the Farrington deal is done. And the shit with Rebecca kept popping up, so I decided a three-day weekend on the island would be good.”

  “Hey, sorry about Rebecca. But what does she have to do with children’s books?”

  “Nothing.” Dammit, I should have just waited until the morning. I hate the pity I detect in Lydia’s voice. “Look, when I came in from my swim this morning—yesterday morning—there was a chick lounging on the terrace. There was some mix-up with the reservations.”

  Lydia squeals, “What’s your guest’s name?”

  “Irene Gilliard.”

  “OMG!”

  “Are you jumping
around?”

  “Yes. You have to make her fall in love with you.”

  As I’m counting stars to rein in my temper so I don’t yell at Lydia, her comment stuns me, and I shout, “What?”

  “OMG . . . Irene Gilliard! If she were my sister-in-law, I could have her come talk to my students.”

  I try not to grin as I reply, “She’s not a show-and-tell item, Lyd.”

  “Have you slept with her yet?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? I just met her.” Lydia’s questions aren’t helping. Now all I can think about is Irene naked and in my bed.

  “And?”

  “No, I haven’t slept with her.”

  “I guess that’s good. She did just jilt her fiancé.”

  “How do you . . . ?” I stop. Being a seventh-grade teacher, Lydia tends to be in the know. “Lyd, calm down.”

  She takes a deep breath and then starts in using her teacher voice. “Irene Gilliard is the queen of tween graphic novels. She’s the best.” Lydia lets out a dreamy sigh. “Her books deal with really, really important topics for tweens like ugly-duckling syndrome.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, girls who morph from plain Jane to hot babe but don’t see it themselves.”

  The image of my sister’s chubby cheeks, adored by adults and a source of torment for her as a child, comes to mind as Lydia rambles on.

  “But Irene Gilliard’s books are so much more. She also subtly addresses weight issues for boys and girls, how to deal with raging hormones, and those first awkward dating questions. I can’t believe you get to spend the weekend with her.”

  “Did you suffer from ugly-duckling syndrome?” The outlandish notion that my sister didn’t know how beautiful she was hit me square in the chest.

  “Duh. Of course I did. Don’t you remember what a rolly-polly I was? You got all the good genes. You were always above average in looks. Me, I’m the third kid. I got the leftovers. Average in looks at best. It’s human nature. Kids liked you and wanted to be your friend. And as a teen, all the girls wanted you. Wait, that hasn’t changed—”

  “Maybe it has.”

  “Don’t tell me you think Irene’s not interested. That’s ridiculous. I’d bet she’s super into you but just doesn’t believe she’s in your league. It’s how I felt about Matt.”

  “What? You are way too good for him.”

  “Huh. There is something the two of you agree upon.”

  It’s not like I hate Matt. Doctors work long hours, which means he leaves Lydia at home alone a lot. That’s what I hate.

  “Irene needs a friend right now, and I . . .”

  Lydia cuts me off. “I’ve seen pictures of her . . . the few that are actually out there . . . and she’s gorgeous.” The phone is cutting in and out again. I’m not sure if it’s my connection or if Lydia is waving her hands around or something. “When have I ever . . . sleep with someone . . . you . . .”

  Sighing at the stars, I can fill in Lydia’s missing words. I hear them in my head as if she’s actually saying them. Counting the stars again, the gaps grow longer. Giving in, I finally interrupt and say, “Sorry. Can’t hear you. I’ll call you back later.”

  I’m about to hang up when Lydia’s voice comes through loud and clear. “I’ve got to meet her, Damien! Don’t screw this up.”

  And then she’s gone.

  Chapter 9

  Irene

  I’m a sucker for the smell of bacon. Walking into the kitchen, I find Chef Eric squinting at a large slab of watermelon. Holding his knife in mid-air, he smiles and says, “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” I frown at the red blob of melon that looks like a melting popsicle. “Sorry to disturb, but the bacon was calling to me.”

  He grabs a plate and loads it up before handing it to me. “Here, start with this. What else can I cook up for you?”

  He’s obviously busy, so I lift the plate and say, “This is good. No need to make anything else.”

  Instead of picking up the knife, Chef Eric pulls out the rice container and wipes my phone on his apron before handing it to me. “I doubt it will work.” His wide shoulders lift up to his ears and then back down. “Are you going to see if it will turn on?” The question seems harmless enough on the surface, but the slight twist of his lips gives me the impression what he’s really asking is if I’m ready to deal with the real world.

  I make a show of holding down the power button, and when the screen remains blank, I lift it up to show him he is right. The phone is dead. I think both sets of our muscles relax a little. I point it in the direction of the watermelon. “What’s it going to be?”

  “Ah, it’s a surprise.” He definitely has a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I heard there was a mix-up with dinner last night and that Crestwater will join you again this evening. I was thinking of salmon, roasted vegetable quinoa, and either lemon green beans or garlic Broccolini. Which would you prefer?”

  Hmm. Another man who actually asks for my opinion and preferences. Where did these men come from? Have I been dropped into an entirely different universe? An island full of handsome, charming men who are nice to me and not because of my parents’ connections. A magical island? So many story possibilities.

  I blink, and Chef Eric grins at me. Oh yeah, he’s waiting for an answer. I can’t even remember the choices, so I say, “Umm, I like both. Surprise me.”

  “Alright. Michael is our tech guy. Should I have him find you when he gets here?”

  I’d rather not bother him, and I don’t really need a phone right now. “Is there a laptop I could use?”

  “Sure.” He leads me to an office and flips open a laptop. After he punches in the password, he looks over his shoulder and says, “No watching porn. I’ll get fired.” Then he leaves.

  I scoot into the chair and log into my email—108 unread messages. Typing out a quick email to my mom explaining my phone is dead, I decide to cc my dad instead of copying the email and sending it to him separately. Screw it. I’m tired of playing their games, and they should have each other’s email addresses, anyway.

  I start a new email and type in A. Allison’s email address auto-fills, and in the subject line I type I’m gonna kill you! Then in fear of it being flagged or something actually happening to her after putting it out into the universe, I quickly hit the delete button. Instead, I type phone dead. In the body of the email I add Not checking email. I’ll call once I have a new phone. Can’t believe you set me up. Not sure when I’m heading home. Before I can edit any of it, I hit send, closing the laptop and heading back to the kitchen to retrieve my abandoned bacon.

  Mr. Merman stands in front of the obscure watermelon structure, tilting his head from side to side. I freeze in the hallway and watch as he looks down at a phone and then back up at the sculpture. Chef Eric listens intently, but as I lean against the wall, he swivels and steps in front to block my view of both the watermelon and Mr. Merman. What is going on?

  Outed, I emerge from the hall and ask, “How is my surprise coming along?”

  Mr. Merman turns around, holding two plates loaded with cut fruit, fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon, and seasoned country potatoes. “Would you like to join me on the terrace for breakfast?”

  It isn’t a question. He has already decided for me. I don’t want men, or anyone else, deciding for me anymore. But it would be rude to say no, and the idea of sharing another meal with him is awfully appealing. In a small act of defiance to placate my ego, I ask, “Did I agree to dinner and breakfast last night?”

  “No, but I hate eating alone.”

  Me too. I automatically shrug and say, “You get used to it. Who do you normally have breakfast with since your breakup with Miss Hypergamy?”

  “I hardly ever had breakfast with her. She was a one-cup-of-coffee-only type of person.” He pauses and stares at me as I hold up my hand to stop him, not interested in hearing about his ex. From the few photos I managed to find, the sexy redhead has the body of a runway model. I like to eat, j
ust not alone.

  But before I say anything, he chuckles and says, “No names, I remember. Anyway, both my little brother and sister live with me, although she will be moving out soon since she’s getting married.”

  I open the terrace doors, and Mr. Merman waits for me to exit first. Walking out onto the terrace, I pause to hold the door open for him. Out in the direct sunlight, the first thing that hits me is the muggy, warm air. The second is the sound of the ocean waves. I inhale the salty, moist air into my lungs. I like the simplicity of the island and have a week to enjoy it. I’ll deal with reality later.

  A flash of white streaks through the bright blue sky. Seagulls. Two of them gliding on the wind. One dives into the sea while the other skims just above the surface. Lost in picturing the scene in frames and the different blue hues needed to recreate it, I startle as movement in my periphery reminds me I’m not alone. Mr. Merman’s already standing by the table. By this point Clayton or my parents would already be yelling at me to get a move on and stop daydreaming, but he’s simply waiting, plates still in hand. When I’m only a few feet away, he sets the plates down and he turns to give me a reassuring smile. There is a curiosity in the slight slant of his head, but he doesn’t ask me what I’m thinking. Sometimes silence can be glorious, but right now his stillness and understanding only highlights the cruel reality of what I have to face when I return home.

  Needing to break the silence, I pick the conversation back up. “Must be nice to have your siblings live with you.”

  He pulls out my chair for me. “Eh. Sometimes. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  Sinking into the chair, he smells a little salty, and his hair is slightly damp. Had he already gone for a swim? “Nope, only child. Couldn’t you tell?”

  “Nope. What should have given it away?”

  I rattle off the traits Clayton claimed I exhibited all the time. “Independent to a fault, ultra-sensitive . . .” I pause to take a breath and wag my eyebrows at him before continuing. “Resistant to asking for help. Overachieving, prefers to be alone, challenged at compromise and sharing . . .”