by Brooke Moss
I close my eyes, expecting the idyllic vista in front of me to disappear as if in a dream. When I open them again, the spectacular sunrise is still there.
It’s breathtaking.
Someone close to me clears their throat. A man has joined me at the side of the boat. He, too, is caught up in the magic of the sunrise. Turning his body into the enchanted golden light, he suddenly strips off his T-shirt.
A puff of air, but no sound, comes out of my mouth.
This guy is almost as awe-inspiring as the sunrise over Haleakala Crater. He’s broad and muscular. Ripped. His forearms are corded with muscles. His biceps are epic. No joke, they’re bigger and brighter than my future. Which isn’t a good comparison. His toned stomach is embroidered with the lines of an eight-pack. He shakes his head, letting his long dark curls capture the breeze.
Dude’s got flow. Serious flow.
Holy Guacamole.
The awe-inspiring sunrise is completely forgotten. I can’t look away from this guy’s exposed flesh. His swim trunks fit low over his hips. Oh-so low. Any lower and I fear his monkey business will be completely exposed.
He obviously doesn’t share my fears.
I’m staring. I can’t stop. Even after I’m aware I’ve been looking at his swimsuit area for much longer than is socially acceptable. No matter how hard I try, I don’t have the will power to bring my open-mouthed appreciation for his physical attributes to an end.
In my own defense, the last guy I saw naked was an attorney I dated a year and a half ago. He had a long skinny frame and an over-pronounced Adam’s apple. I know it’s not a true defense for why I can’t look away while this guy strips off his clothes. And yet, it’s the only excuse I can think of while my mind is occupied with the overwhelming beauty this man’s body.
Look away.
I can’t.
Look back at the sunrise. The glorious sunrise that enthralled me a few moments ago is now completely forgotten. It’s still right there and just as magical, but I’m not intrigued enough to look back. Not even a little.
Nope.
No amount of cajoling will make me look away from this man. A vague awareness slowly dawns on me that my mouth is hanging open in undisguised admiration.
Hells, yeah. He’s perfect.
I can’t hear a sound above the noise of my own hormones shrieking. I am under their complete control. Their sudden appearance sets off alarms all over my body.
My heart beats in my ears. I’ve never been so close to so much raw male beauty. He doesn’t seem real to me.
Suddenly he turns and I get the first glimpse of his face.
His dark hair is in sharp contrast to his soft-gray eyes. Highlighted by sooty black lashes, his eyes remind me of the color of a cloudy sky. Dark stubble covers his chin. He smiles. Against his tan face, his teeth are so white they’re practically blue.. His carefree, bright smile highlights how healthy and vibrant he is.
Whoa.
I know this guy. Not personally. I wish. But I’ve memorized every photo in his Instagram feed.
Kai Cooper. Poet. Bon Vivant. Entrepreneur. Olympic Gold Medalist.
He won the hearts and minds of the entire world as a teenage snowboarding daredevil with a mischievous grin.. Four years later, he returned to the Olympic competition backed by sponsors, looking like a rock star. In his mid-twenties, he headed back to the Olympics as a tycoon with several multimillion-dollar endorsement deals. Now approaching thirty, he is an established brand and international superstar worth a small fortune.
We’ve never met. Not in person. But Kai Cooper is the douchebag who destroyed my life. He’s the reason I lost my job. The reason I’m on this boat. He’s the cause of all my woes.
My eyes lock with his, and he unleashes a smoldering smile.
Not until we make eye contact, am I aware how I must appear to him with my hair a tangle of dirty-blonde curls. Dark smudges under my eyes, from jet leg and time zone confusion, the featured attraction in my deep blue--almost purple--eyes.
“Aloha,” he says. A dimple deepens in his cheek, followed by the flash of his Olympic gold medal-winning smile. “Are you enjoying the view?”
A delighted grin splits his face. I’m three different kinds of red: scarlet for my shame, magenta for my anger, and crimson for my lust.
He knows. Oh hell yes, he knows.
He knows I’m not enraptured by the sunrise. He knows I’ve been checking him out from tip to top. He doesn’t seem upset about it, but instead he’s all kinds of amused.
I take a step back. Flustered. Embarrassed. My hair falls around my face. My ‘fight or flight’ mechanism triggers, and ‘flight’ is my default setting. All my emergency bells and whistles are at full alert.
Run away.
I take another step back.
Away from him. Away from failure and defeat. Away from shame and humiliation.
Two more steps.
Suddenly, I’m falling. Someone is screaming. My throat is raw and my ears are ringing.
’Plunging into the ocean, shocked and surprised how quickly I am deep under water. I’m motionless for less than a second, before I begin to claw my way back to the top.
When my head breaks over the waves, I gasp for air. My lungs are on fire.
Spitting. Spluttering. Coughing. Did I mention I’m gagging?
Turns out the Pacific Ocean is a large body of salt water. I’ve swallowed big mouthfuls of Lake Michigan without ever having any side effects. But the ocean is different. I can’t stop reflexively gagging. And I can’t tread water and gag at the same time, so my head keeps dipping below the surface. I fight my way above the water and gasp for air, but swallow more salt water.
It’s a cycle I can’t stop. Gagging and gasping in water way over my head.
Oh my God, I’m going to die.
In a black tankini, I bought at Target.
I close my eyes and offer up my dying wish.
Please don’t retrieve my dead body from the ocean. I’d rather be eaten by marine life than to be identified by my next of kin in this bathing suit.
So this is how it ends for me.
Fuck.
I did not see this coming.
CHAPTER 2
“Hey, Vivienne. Did you hear the news? Jess is getting married. Guess that makes you ‘The Old Maid.’”
“Who is this?” I ask with playful derision, though I know exactly who’s teasing me unmercifully. Petra Barrett’s voice is a magical ray of sunshine. I can’t help smiling, knowing she’s on the other end of this call.
“Oops. That didn’t come out right,” she backtracks.
Petey, as she introduced herself to me on the day we met, is one of the four members of my ‘squad.’ I don’t toss Taylor Swift-esque words around easily, but there is no other way to describe us. We’re a forever team. We made it through four years of college together, supporting each other through bad grades, bad dates, and bad job interviews. Making a pact at graduation we’d always be friends. There’s no doubt we’ve got each other’s back. #squad4life
“When’s the wedding?” I ask.
“This weekend. Can you believe it? They’re eloping to Maui. That’s why I’m calling? Are you free?”
“To go to Hawaii?” I snort with laughter. “This weekend?” There are so many reasons why I’m not available to go to Maui at a moment’s notice. Beginning with my puny bank account, and moving quickly along to being in the middle of rehabbing the social media platforms for a local Chicago television station that also happens to be one of Brown & Fox Media’s biggest clients.
“I can’t go to Maui on the spur of the moment,” I explain. “I don’t do things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for starters, I’ve never been on a plane. I have a passport, but I’ve never used it.”
“You don’t need a passport to go to Hawaii, silly. It’s one of the United States. I can’t believe you’ve never been on a plane. What have you being doing with your life?�
�
My email inbox pings, prompting me to check my messages. Ezra Brown, the titular head of the Brown & Fox Media wants a quick word with me in his office. To no one’s surprise, he wants to have it RIGHT NOW. I know because his note is in ALL CAPS.
“Working.” I work all the time. I thought she knew. “That’s what I’m doing now, Petey. I’m at the office. And not to be rude or anything, but I’ve got to jump.”
“This is a terrible connection,” she shouts over the imaginary static. “It sounds like you’re giving me the big brush off.” My heart sinks. The last thing in the world I want is to hurt her feelings.
“Call Suzanne,” I say, attempting to sound helpful. “I’m sure she’ll be able to go. I promise I’ll call you back later.”
“But, wait...” I don’t let Petey finish. Operating under the emergency rules of personal engagement with Ezra Brown, I end the call. I’m not being rude, I swear. I’ve learned from experience, when he texts in ALL CAPS, you drop everything else and run. Toward danger.
I stand up and brush doughnut crumbs off my front, yank my too-small blazer off the back of my chair and wrestle myself into it. Crossing my fingers, I hope it makes the vintage Hanson concert T-shirt and purple skirt I’m wearing look close to work-appropriate. All the overtime hours I’ve been putting in have prevented me from doing laundry. I never would’ve worn a mismatched outfit if I thought there was any chance I’d be called into Ezra’s office for a face-to-face meeting today.
Taking a deep breath to chill my nerves, I locate Maui on the world map taped to the wall over my desk. Sometimes when I’m working late, I mark fantasy destinations I’d like to visit with pink pushpins. When I close my eyes, I can see myself in places like Namibia, Seychelles and Bhutan. Places I could be other than at Ezra Brown’s beck and call. But there’s no time for fantasies today, I turn on my heel and break into a trot heading to the elevator.
Getting called into the boss’ office is never good, but I tell myself not to worry as I hit the button to call the elevator. Standing in front of a window, I look out at the wintery scene thirty-three floors below. February in Chicago isn’t all that picturesque. It’s mostly muddy-colored snow. I’m fairly certain the air conditioning in the building is on full blast. Watching the wind blow icy sheets of freezing rain against the side of the high-rise, I might as well be standing out in the elements. An involuntary shiver shakes my body.
By the time I reach the penthouse floor, my anxiety is revving like a racecar engine at the starting pole of the Indy speedway. I make another attempt to calm down. This is what I do. I eat other people’s mistakes for a living. Most days I do it well. If there’s a problem, I can handle it. I always do.
Even so, this isn’t how I saw my life unfolding. I wanted to be a travel journalist. I wanted to write about the new road in Peru threatening isolated tribes and the Amazon jungle for National Geographic. I wanted to write the feature story for Travel + Leisure about the secluded New Zealand resort where a former POTUS vacationed after he left office. But I didn’t have the money or the time to build a freelance career. Instead I took the first job I was offered, writing copy for Brown & Fox Media. Two years later, I transitioned into social media, and now I’m creating strategy for multi-million dollar clients
At night, I still lie awake and dream about being paid to write content longer than two hundred eighty characters at a time, even though I might as well fantasize about marrying Chris Pine. My chances of becoming Mrs. Pine are as good as my chances of being a travel writer. I still don’t have the time or money to build a portfolio that would attract an established website or magazine. Instead, my obit will include a line about how I was great at ‘engaging with consumers and defending against corporate trolls.’
My reputation as a social media strategist has been earned despite not being well paid. No matter how many times I’ve gotten one of Brown & Fox’s clients out of a sticky situation, Ezra Brown refuses to show me or my paycheck any kind of respect.
I’m fully aware of how little Ezra thinks of me as he leaves me waiting outside his office for the next fifteen minutes. I recognize Petey’s number when my phone rings again. I go and stand near the windows to speak to her without drawing the attention of Ezra’s personal assistant.
“What’s up?” I whisper.
“Suzanne can’t go,” Petey explains. “She’s pregnant, and up to her eyeballs in affidavits.”
“What about you? Why aren’t you going?” I ask.
“The twins have the measles. I can’t leave them alone with Frank. If you don’t go to stand up for Jess, her sister will be her maid of honor by default.”
“Her sister’s a nightmare.” I sigh with an ache in my voice.
“Complete freak show.” Petey agrees.
I’d walk to the ends of the earth for every member of my squad. Jess, Suzi and Petey are all like family. My only family really, but I can’t do this. I can’t go to Maui this weekend. “Honestly, Pete. I can’t go. Even if I had the time, I can’t afford it.”
“But you must have tons of vacation days. Have you ever taken a day off?” she asks.
“No. Not really,” I stammer. I’ve been meaning to request an audit of my accrued vacation days from Human Resources, but it isn’t a real priority.
“I’ve got miles,” Petey begs. “Tons of miles. So does Suzi. If money is your only problem, we can get you a plane ticket. Please say you’ll go and represent, for all of us.”
“I don’t want to go.” The words come out of my mouth sounding seriously spoiled child-ish even to my own ears.
“As a mother, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. That tone doesn’t cut it with me,” Petey admonishes.
“Please, Petey. You must understand–” I don’t get the chance to finish my sentence, before being cut off by Ezra’s assistant.
“Vivienne.” She waves to capture my attention. “You can go in now.”
I nod my head in acknowledgement. “I can’t argue with you anymore, Petey. I have to go.”
“Call me later. Or else.” Petey clicks off, and I turn off the ringer on my phone.
Taking a deep breath, I button my jacket and smooth my skirt. Then I throw my shoulders back and muster all the courage I can find to push through the tall double doors of Ezra Brown’s office knowing they may lead to my doom.
Ezra Brown has expensive taste. He can afford tailored suits, but he prefers to wear his six-hundred dollar sneakers and silver Patek Phillipe watch with free promotional T-shirts and Gap jeans. His hair is styled in the same bowl cut his mother must’ve given him when he was in middle school. He speaks slowly and deliberately with stilted condescension. Yet, he has done nothing to earn the gravitas he demands.
His penthouse office suite is large and furnished in minimalist Danish Modern. I settle myself in the blond-leather mid-century chair across from his wide, glass-top desk and wait for him to start the conversation.
“Vivienne. Do you remember the meeting last month with the local television affiliate broadcasting the Olympics?” Ezra asks with a weak smile.
“Yes.” I breathe, so grateful he’s asking a question I can answer. He has a reputation for asking trick questions, setting his subordinates up for a great big fall. I can’t count the number of times a co-worker has come crawling out of his office, moaning about being ‘Humpty Dumpty-ed.’ “I’ve been working with their advertising agency to coordinate an outdoor media campaign with our outreach on their social media platforms.”
He nods, inclining his head in a way that makes him look like an evil emu. “They wanted some suggestions about how to create a local brand for the Winter Olympics,” I continue. “An athlete with star power whose face they could put on a billboard alongside their logo to promote their coverage. At my suggestion, they chose Olympic snowboarder, Kai Cooper. This will be his fourth Olympics. He has three gold medals, an established brand, and, best of all, he looks like a winner.”
Choosing Kai Cooper is a no-brainer
. His Q-score is higher than Tom Hanks, and his gregarious personality is the stuff of Olympic legend. Advertisers and sponsors have been throwing money at him to endorse their products since he was a teenager. A local kid, his dad worked on The Exchange, and could easily afford to send Kai to a high school in Aspen where he practiced his McTwists, Air-to-Fakies, and Backside Twelve-sixties all day long, and pretended to go to high school at night.
“Kai’s a hometown hero,” I say in conclusion, still pleased as ever with my choice.
“Yes.” Ezra hesitates. “So you’ve told me.”
There’s a six-story building wrap of Kai’s face in his helmet and goggles near my El station stop. Every night while waiting for my train I stare deeply into his twelve-foot tall blue eyes. He’s so dreamy. But that’s a fact I’m not sharing with Ezra.
“It was a very expensive media buy,” Ezra’s nasal voice continues. “They went all in on the Kai Cooper brand at your qualified recommendation.”
“I’ve seen the posters on cabs and busses too,” I nod in agreement.
“If only Kai Cooper had made the Olympic team.” His voice is monotone and flat.
“He’ll make it,” I insist with complete confidence.
“How can you be so sure?” Ezra asks. I ignore the malevolent glint in his eyes.
“The guy’s so lucky, he probably eats Lucky Charms for breakfast, and four-leaf clover salads for lunch.” My cocky attitude is not backed up by any facts, so maybe I’m being a little presumptuous.
“Yes. Well, Mr. Lucky failed to qualify,” Ezra announces spitefully. “He failed at all the qualifiers in December. He had one shot left to make the team yesterday. He came in fourth place at the competition in Mammoth Lakes and missed the cut.”
“I don’t understand. How could this happen?” I’m stunned.
“Maybe he didn’t eat his Lucky Charms,” Ezra’s nasty little smile fades quickly. “If you had done your research, Vivienne, you would know he wasn’t a sure thing. Far from it. Insiders called him ‘The Long Shot.’ No one who actually knows anything about snowboarding expected him to make the Olympic team this year.”