Acting on Impulse

by Mia Sosa

  He nods and holds out his hand. “I’m Carter, by the way.”

  Our hands meet in an awkward handshake, his confident grip clashing with my delicate finger dance. “Tori.”

  “Short for Victoria?”

  I get that question often. “No. Just Tori.”

  “I have a feeling there’s nothing just about you.”

  Oh no. That was awful. But the guy’s had a bad day, and he’s exhausted, so I don’t give him my infamous side-eye. “So what’s taking you to Aruba?”

  He nibbles on his bottom lip as he ponders my question. If it’s a calculated move, boo. But if it’s an unstudied mannerism, I dig it. I dig it a lot. I’m watching. He’s nibbling. What am I even doing?

  The pause approaches an uncomfortable territory seconds before he answers. “I’ve been banished. I got into it with someone, work-related crap, and I’ve been told to take some time off. So here I am. You?”

  “I haven’t taken a vacation in two years. And a situation in my personal life’s gone wonky all of a sudden, so I thought this would be the perfect time for some relaxation and reinvention.”

  “Nice,” he says. A sliver of his hair falls forward, the tip of it landing just above his eyebrow. He swats at it with the enthusiasm of someone trying to avoid a mosquito bite.

  “So what did the someone do?” I ask.

  He frowns. “What?”

  “The person you got into it with. The one who caused your banishment. What happened?”

  His face relaxes in understanding. “Ah.” But he doesn’t answer my question.

  “Sorry, if that’s too personal . . .”

  He shakes his head. “No, no. It’s just . . . the person . . . he took advantage of me, and I didn’t expect it.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been blindsided recently, too. But here’s how I see it. Now that whatever happened is out in the open, you can learn from it and move on, right?”

  He draws back and squints at me. “Right. It’s as simple as that.”

  I know that tone well. It rings with male condescension and ends with a “well, actually.” “Am I detecting a sheen of sarcasm on your skin?”

  “Christ,” he says. Then he bursts out laughing. “You’re not defensive at all.” With his head cocked to the side, he holds out his hands. “See there? That’s sarcasm.”

  My cheeks blaze under his inspection. And although I don’t want to give him the satisfaction, I laugh anyway. Because he’s not wrong. The debacle with Mason has left me raw. “Did you know the phrase ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog’ uses every letter in the English language?”

  He narrows his eyes. “What are you doing?”

  Without an ounce of embarrassment, I say, “Changing the subject.”

  “In that case, did you know only female mosquitoes sting humans?”

  A man who’s willing to engage my love for trivia? Oh my. If I were on the market, I’d be sold. Instead, I mentally swat at the butterfly zipping around in my stomach. We’ll have none of that, thank you. “Well played, Carter. There’s hope for you yet.”

  “I was thinking the exact same thing about you,” he says with a grin. “First time in Aruba?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Same. Where are you staying?”

  Okay. Does he think I’m stupid? I’m a single woman traveling alone. My intended whereabouts shall be guarded like state secrets. Well, given how often government employees divulge confidential info, maybe that’s a bad analogy. But you know what I mean. So what do I do? I fib. “Oh, I’m not even sure yet. A friend is meeting me at the airport. He’s taken care of the arrangements.” I lift my brows and rub my hands together. “A surprise.”

  The brightness in his eyes dulls, like a headlight dimming in the black of night. He stares at me, eyes unblinking, for several seconds. “Hope you have a great time,” he finally says. Then he loosens his grip on the armrest. “I’m going to catch some much-needed z’s, so . . .”

  Damn, that was abrupt. “Sure, sure. You won’t hear a peep out of me.”

  He reclines his seat and places the cap back on his face. “Peep all you want. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  My body is still angled in his direction, poised for more conversation. And now I feel kind of silly because he’s tuned me out in less than ten seconds. I gather the existence of my fake boyfriend has relegated me to the unbangable-and-therefore-uninteresting zone. Well, screw him. But then my conscience batters me with guilt, because maybe he is sick and maybe he’s been screwed already.

  Well, no matter. His dismissive attitude lights a fire under my freshly ditched ass, bringing the last few days of my life into focus. After one last glance at his sleeping form, I put on my earbuds and close my eyes. I’m going to have fun on this vacation, sure. Dance on a few tables, in fact. But men? They’re off-limits to me. No rebound hookups. No one-night stands. Not even a kiss on the cheek.

  I decree it.

  Chapter Three

  Carter

  MY WIFE IS dead to me.

  Okay, before you accuse me of being dramatic, bear in mind that I’m an actor. This is minor drama compared with the stuff I’ve experienced in my real and fictional lives. Still, her defection hurts. I’m not experiencing gut-wrenching pain, of course. No, it’s more like a pang that settles just below my heart, in that fucking annoying space my younger sister always tickles when she’s trying to get a rise out of me.

  I’ll live. If Tori’s with someone, she plainly wasn’t fated to be with me. But damn. Just damn. I’d enjoyed talking to her. Lyrical and comforting, her voice reminds me of the wind chimes that hung over our front porch and lulled me to sleep when I was young. And her smile has the power to distract me from completing my sentences. She’s entertaining, too. The kind of person who requires your undivided attention in a conversation.

  The thing is, I’d already imagined her meeting my parents, but now I know that’ll never happen. And nothing’s worse than experiencing a sliver of magic and learning later that there’s no more magic to be had. She probably thinks I’m a jerk who just blew her off, but in reality, I couldn’t think quickly enough to hide my disappointment.

  I shift my hat and look at her with one eye. There’s no point in disturbing her, and pondering what might have been won’t be useful, so I settle into my seat and prepare to sleep the remaining duration of the flight. With luck, I won’t dream about the woman one seat away from me.

  A TAP ON my shoulder wakes me.

  “Hey, sleepyhead. We’re here.”

  Tori shoots up from her seat as I get my bearings.

  I stretch my arms wide. “Haven’t slept that hard in a long time. Thanks for waking me.”

  “No problem,” she says as she gathers her stuff. “Didn’t want you to get trampled by the folks behind us. Getting into the aisle after you’ve missed your turn is about as hard as merging into traffic on the 405 in LA.”

  I’m still disoriented from my four-hour nap, but that gets my attention. “You know that area?”

  She nods as she speaks, and a few of her curls bounce around her shoulders. “Very, very well. I have a cousin who lives in Costa Mesa. Are you from LA?”

  I shouldn’t say too much here, right? No, that wouldn’t be wise. “It’s where I live now. Transplant.”

  If she thinks it’s odd that I haven’t volunteered the location of my hometown, or that my flight originated at Philadelphia International, she doesn’t show it. Instead she nods and turns away. She then bends to peek out the window of the row across from ours, and I’m proud of myself for resisting the urge to gawk at her ass.

  We slip into the aisle, and I grab my bag from the overhead bin.

  She shifts from side to side as she waits for the people ahead of us to make their way off the plane. Leaning backward, she looks at me over her shoulder. “This is the worst. The waiting. I’m the most impatient person on the planet, so this is high-level torture.”

  I lean against the top of the aisle seat. �
��A small price to pay for the rest and relaxation that awaits you.”

  I glimpse part of her smile.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” she says. “Thanks for the perspective.”

  “My pleasure.”

  We say nothing else to each other as we shuffle off the plane. Once we’re through the jet bridge, she waves at me. “Have a great time.”

  “You do the same.”

  She hoists her bag on her shoulder and strides away.

  I watch her veer in the direction of the women’s restroom, and my steps slow as I catch a last look at her curls bouncing through the entrance. That’s it. She’s gone. And it’s tragic, but I’ll survive.

  I follow the signs to ground transportation on the airport’s lower level. When I get there, a blast of warm air hits me full on. The airport isn’t packed, and everyone proceeds through the building like they’re being captured on slow-motion video.

  A driver who looks like he was plucked right out of a casting call for a Tommy Bahama ad holds a cardboard sign with my name neatly written on it in big block letters. He shakes out his shoulder-length blond hair and flashes a megawatt smile, complete with the kind of gap that would make the latest “quirky” model super famous. “Mr. Williamson?”

  It takes me a few seconds to answer to my given name. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Good to meet you, sir,” he says as he grabs my bag from me. “I’m Derek. I’ll be driving you to the Caribé Resort. Shouldn’t take us more than ten minutes.”

  “Great. Lead the way.”

  As we walk out to the bay for short-term parking, I power on my cell phone and check my messages. Three missed calls from Julian, my best friend and agent. I hit the call button as I climb into the car.

  Julian addresses me without preamble. “Did you get into any fights on the way there?”

  “Nice to hear from you, too. And no, I didn’t get into any fights. What’s the latest?”

  “Okay, so here’s what Legal has been able to learn. The doctor claims he had nothing to do with selling the photos. Says his medical assistant was the one who snapped them for her own stash and then got the stupid idea to sell them to the magazine.”

  That’s not what the jackass said when I confronted him in his office and took a swing at his jaw. Now he’s throwing his assistant under the bus to save his license? What a prick. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “No, I don’t believe it. But the question is, what do you want to do about it? The studio’s not pressed. To the execs, this only adds to the mystery surrounding the movie, but they assure me that if you want to pursue an invasion of privacy action, they’ll support it.”

  “You mean they’ll stand behind me, but they won’t bankroll it, right?”

  “You catch on fast, my friend.”

  “What about a complaint with the licensing board?”

  “That’s easy, but we’ll have to drag in his medical assistant. Legal says she’s a forty-two-year-old single mother of three.”

  Shit. My older sister, Kimberly, is a single mother of two. I picture what losing her job would do to her and my niece and nephew. More than anything, the hit to her pride would devastate her. Not worth it. Particularly since I know the doc’s assistant wasn’t the one who sold those photos to the tabloids. Plus, when I decided to become an actor, I signed up for the inevitable intrusion into my personal life. It’s not right, but it happens. And since I was under the doctor’s care specifically for a movie role, I’m not too sure it’s entirely personal anyway.

  Still, I’m not thrilled about having my physical metamorphosis plastered on the inside of a rag mag. And the doctor’s face knows it. I’m not proud of myself for hitting the guy, but I’d be lying if I said the blow wasn’t satisfying. “I’ll let it go as long as he doesn’t try to pursue charges. Let’s keep the complaint in our back pockets just in case. But for now, I just want to spend a few uncomplicated days in the sun.”

  Julian clears his throat. “Speaking of which, you know to keep a low profile, right?”

  I chew on my bottom lip to stem whatever smartass remark is bound to fly out of my mouth otherwise. I’ve never gotten used to the idea that my best friend has a right to tell me how to behave.

  “Carter?” Julian’s voice is impatient. As usual.

  “Yeah, yeah. Low profile. Got it.”

  “You don’t have to take any extraordinary measures. Just don’t go looking for publicity, okay? The studio thinks it’ll spark interest in the film. Mystery begets curiosity. And curiosity begets ticket sales.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. We’ll talk when you get back.”

  “Fine.” A quick glance out the window confirms we’re still on airport grounds. Which reminds me of Ashley, who’s working as a flight attendant this month. Next month, it’ll be something else. “Wait. Ashley’s flying into LA tomorrow. Can you check in with her?”

  The pause on the other end of the line isn’t a surprise. Julian hates when our conversations switch from professional to personal during a single call. But after several more seconds of silence, I realize the length of this delay is atypical. “Julian?”

  “Yeah. I’ll give her a call.”

  “And see her, too, Julian? Because I’d like to be sure she’s okay.”

  His voice is gruff when he asks, “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “She broke up with the douchebag.”

  His name is Johnny Doche, and there was no way he wasn’t getting that nickname, whether or not it fit. Unfortunately for Ashley, it does.

  “Good riddance,” Julian says.

  “Agreed. So you’ll see her?”

  “If she’s willing to see me, then yes, I’ll see her. Anything else?”

  “Nope. That’s all. Love you lots. Smooches.”

  “Damn, man. If you weren’t my best friend, I’d drop you as a client.”

  I chuckle at the thought. “If you weren’t my agent, I’d drop you as my best friend.”

  A car at the intersection honks at my driver for jumping out in front of him before the light changes. “Gotta go, Julian. See you on the other side of sanity.”

  “Later. And don’t forget: Keep a low profile.”

  “Right.”

  The livid driver and mine gesture at each other like they’re dabbing at the Super Bowl. Now that I’m off the phone, Derek turns his head and gives me a what-are-you-going-to-do shrug. “Sorry about that,” he says. “Every once in a while, someone on the island forgets the rule.”

  I lean forward as I peer out the windshield. “What’s the rule?”

  “No stress. Just rest. There’s no such thing as ‘having to be somewhere’ in Aruba.” Derek glances at me through the rearview mirror and gives me a toothy smile. “If you’re here for fun, you picked the right time.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The Caribé’s hosting the Miss Aruba Pageant this weekend. Wall-to-wall women at the resort.”

  Christ. Not what I need right now. Particularly since I’ve been asked to keep a low profile. I’m on the phone with my assistant within seconds. “Jewel, it’s Carter—”

  “I see your international cell service is working. I wonder who arranged that—”

  “Thanks, Jewel—”

  “Was your driver at the airport at the appointed time?”

  “Yes, thanks—”

  “And are you on your way to the five-star resort where I booked a last-minute reservation in an opulent suite?”

  My groan fills the taxi’s interior. “I am. From the bottom of my heart, Jewel, thank you. For everything you do. For brightening my day with your sunny disposition. For just being. For all of it, you have my unending gratitude, okay?”

  “Which you’ll demonstrate by giving me two days off next week, right?”

  Holy shit, she’s something. “Right.”

  “Well done, Carter. By the way, sarcasm does not look good on you.”

  “So noted.”

  “Now what else c
an I do for you?”

  The clickity-clack of her long fingernails tells me I don’t have her full attention. Nothing new. “I need to book another hotel room.”

  “Why? Is the one I arranged for you too small for your ego?”

  “You’re about to lose the two days off.”

  She laughs. “Okay, okay. What’s wrong?”

  Mindful of my audience, I explain the situation without revealing too much. “The Caribé’s hosting the Miss Aruba Pageant this weekend. Not a good idea.”

  “You’re still in character, though, right?”

  “Yes, but this beard’s itchier than a crotch full of crabs. I—”

  “Crotch full of crabs, huh? You’d know that why?”

  I’d never replace her. She seriously brightens my day. But damn she controls every one of our conversations. Every. Single. One. “Not all metaphors are based on personal experience. Anyway, I need to get rid of the carpet on my face, and when I do . . .”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll text you the new info when everything’s set.”

  “Great. But don’t try to be cute about my accommodations. Simple is fine.”

  “You doubt my abilities? I’m hurt.”

  She’s not. This is merely future ammunition for her. “I don’t doubt your abilities. I think you’re fully capable of pranking me one hundred percent of the time. The coach-class ticket was a nice touch, by the way.”

  She snorts. “Glad you think so. Just making sure you stay grounded, Carter. Wouldn’t want you to lose touch with the masses.”

  “And your days off are disappearing in five, four, three—”

  “No, don’t. I’m on it. Simple accommodations forthcoming. No pranks included, I promise.”

  “You’re a goddess, Jewel.”

  “Who will not be in the office Monday or Tuesday of next week. Bye.”

  She hangs up on me. Again, nothing new. Jewel calls herself my phenomenal personal assistant, or PPA. The acronym is perfect because she’s also my personal pain in the ass.

  Derek looks at me through the rearview. “Change in plans?”