Once Upon a Summer

by Brooke Moss

  Dang. This guy better have one hell of a sense of humor.

  Jess makes the introductions, and then discreetly slips away. I’m anxious and self-conscious standing next to a complete stranger who is supposed to be my perfect match. My hands search my dress seams for the pockets I know aren’t there.

  I shift uncomfortably. Kai briefly catches my eye. He motions as if he’s been shot through the heart with an arrow. I bite my lip to hold back a snort of laughter.

  “So, Jessica says you’re single. Are you dating a lot?” Dean asks.

  “Now and then.” I lie like a rug.

  “I date all the time.” His smug satisfaction is palpable. “Are you on Tinder or Bumble?”

  “N-no.” This conversation is not going the way I thought it would.

  “I’m surprised a woman your age isn’t dating more frequently. You’ve got to be feeling the pressure now.”

  “Pressure?” Is he asking me about my biological clock? No. No one could be that rude. Those kind of questions are reserved for not-so close (and usually very drunk) relatives.

  “Yes, pressure. How old are you? Thirty-six? At your age you must be close to desperate.” He grins, exposing uneven yellow teeth.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “The odds of you ever being a bride are not good.”

  Everything about Dean Ellington is unappealing. I can’t believe Jess would introduce me to him. He’s like my worst nightmare come true.

  “I--I prefer to think I’m not married because I haven’t met a quality partner,” I stammer out in my own defense.

  “You’re not doing yourself any favors,” Dean cautions me. “Once you’re over thirty-five, your chances of getting married are slim. I contributed to a research article about it called ‘The Long Shot.’ It’s based on a study by researchers at the University of Southern California. They projected college-educated women have a twenty-percent chance of getting married if they are still single over thirty.”

  It takes every muscle in my body to squelch an exaggerated eye roll at how pleased he is to be the bearer of such bad news. I take a sip of my champagne to cool off before I respond. “Well, that sucks.”

  “Sucks? That’s an understatement.” He shakes his head. “But still your odds of getting married are slightly better than your odds are of having a baby at your age. My sister is thirty-seven and her obstetrician referred to her pregnancy as geriatric.”

  “That’s a medical term.” I’m on the defensive now, batting his softball insults right back at him.

  “It’s the truth,” Dean counters in the shrieking tone of a know-it-all. “Even if you did manage to get married in the next year or so, your chances of getting pregnant would be slim to nothing. Thirty-five is the point where your fertility declines. Not declines, as much as it drops off a cliff.”

  “Speaking of cliffs,” I begin, am desperate to change the subject. “I went on snorkeling this morning. I’m game for another adventure before I leave Maui.. But, I think cliff diving is out of the question. What about you? Do you have any plans for an excursion while you’re here?”

  Dean ignores me, and my awkward attempt to change the subject. “The most common reason women over thirty-five can’t get pregnant is reduced egg quality.”

  That’s when it happens. My desire to preserve my dignity commits suicide and I put my right hand up in the air and wave it around with my thumb and little finger sticking out.

  “Are you okay?” Dean asks. He can’t take his eyes off the digits I’ve raised over my head like a television antenna.

  “I’m fine.” I ignore the fact that I’m holding the Shaka sign over my head. I may look like an idiot, but I can’t spend another minute in the company of one.

  Ten seconds later, Kai appears at my left elbow. He’s out of breath. “Sorry. I didn’t get here sooner. I was out on the lanai. The sunset is amazing.”

  “Please excuse me, Dean. I need to go,” I say.

  “But Jessica said...”

  “Sorry, dude. You had your shot. We have to do some official wedding stuff,” Kai interjects on my behalf. I can’t help looking at him with bold-faced adoration for making up an excuse without being prompted.

  “That’s right. We need to do some wedding stuff. Right now,” I add, before Kai yanks me away. “But it was nice to meet you.”

  “Liar,” Kai whispers under his breath as we walk away arm-in-arm.

  “Thanks for the rescue.” I can’t contain my ear-to-ear grin.

  “No problem,” he adds with a wink. “What do you want to do now? Another glass of champagne?”

  I drain the last of the champagne from my glass. “No. I think I’ve had my year’s ration of champagne over the last twelve hours.”

  “They’re getting ready to go into dinner. Do you know where you’re sitting?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I haven’t looked at the seating chart.”

  We stop in front of a chalkboard sign and search for our assigned seats.

  “How well do you know Mel Martin?” Kai asks.

  “I don’t.”

  Kai reorganizes the place cards on the table. “Sadly, there’s a good chance you never will. He’s going to table five, and you’ll be at table ten. Right next to me.”

  “Kai. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “What’s not a good idea?” he asks with a startling amount of sincerity. ”Messing with the seating chart? Get real. We’re in this together now. Partners in crime.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “First things, first. Let’s get you a real drink.” He ignores my protest and deposits my empty champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “That shit’s gonna give you a headache.”

  He slips up to the bar and orders a glass of expensive vodka on the rocks over my protests, which come to an end when he puts the glass in my hand. I take a sip and my self-confidence falters.

  I’m not wading into the dating pool with a schlubby University of Chicago professor here; I’m out in the deep end with an Olympic athlete who dates supermodels and rock stars. I know. I’ve seen them pressed up against him in photos on his Instagram feed.

  You’re way in over your head.

  Kai escorts me to table ten. He holds the chair for me while I sit down. “So, what happened on your ‘date’ with Professor Ellington?” he asks pointedly.

  “It was a disaster. One minute, we were talking about dating. The next minute, he implied my eggs were drying up like raisins.”

  Kai pulls a face. “Sounds painful.”

  “I’m fine,” I giggle. “Honestly. Never better in my life.”

  “Not to make light off your situation. But I don’t have any cartilage in my right knee. I’ve broken both legs. My left wrist, and I can’t count how many fingers. Six months ago, I busted my collarbone bouncing off the rim of a half-pipe in New Zealand. Now, I’ve got two steel rods holding my shoulder together.”

  “That does sound painful.”

  “It is.” Kai leans back to sip his drink. “Probably, right up there with having all your eggs dry up on you.”

  We clink glasses conspiratorially.

  “It’s not all Dean’s fault,” I confess. “He may have touched a nerve. I am ancient. Not, you know, in the general scheme of things, but in social media. My clients want to get advice about social content from digital natives and Generation Z. They think the kids have all the fresh ideas. And, I have too much experience. Which means, I’m expensive. I may price myself right out of the job market.”

  “I hear you,” Kai concurs. “We’re in exactly the same boat.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You’re an Olympic legend with three gold medals.”

  Kai presses his lips into a fine line. “For the past two years, I’ve been competing against kids who are half my age. Some were born right around the time I won my first gold medal.”

  “Wait. You’re not even thirty, are you?”

  “I’m twenty-nine. But in the world of com
petitive snowboarding, I’m Methuselah.”

  I put my hand over my mouth, but can’t stop giggling. I’m breathless and light as air. Kai Cooper speaks my language. He gets me.

  Here’s the deal. Basic theorems of science are incomprehensible to me, so I have no idea how air travel works. I’ve only been on an airplane once, and I was unconscious for most of the journey. But, there’s no doubt in my mind somewhere between Chicago and Maui, I passed through a portal into an alternative universe. A place where an old maid with dried up eggs and a super-hot Olympic champion with three gold medals have more in common than anyone else on the island of Maui.

  It’s magic. Just like Petey said. There’s no other explanation for it.

  A smile plays across Kai’s face ending with the dimple in his cheek deepening. “Dance with me, Viv.” He doesn’t ask, he demands.

  “I don’t think so,” I demur.

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “People will see us,” I hiss.

  “Damn right, they will. I want to be seen with the most beautiful chick here. I’m an Olympic champion.”

  The words for a glib response are stuck in my throat, looking up at his smiling face.

  “I saved you,” he insists. ”Twice. You owe me.”

  He extends his hand toward me, his palm facing upward to the ceiling as an open invitation. I hesitate for a second, and then put my hand on his.

  He pulls me out onto the dance floor. I find myself wrapped up between his arms. He’s built like a fireplug and unlikely to blow over in a strong breeze. As he gently folds me up against his body, he feels solid, dependable and strong.

  I look up into his eyes. He’s not that much taller than I am. It’s only a matter of inches between our faces, and I can’t take my eyes off him. I’m mesmerized.

  I’m a little unsteady in Kai’s arms. I pull away, feeling uncertain.

  “Stop fighting me,” he snaps.

  “I’m not. I swear,” I say while fighting his attempt to steer us to a better spot on the dance floor.

  “Let me lead.” Kai speaks through gritted teeth with a smile plastered on his face. “I’m the dude.”

  When the music stops, Kai escorts me back to the table. When he looks at me, my heart flutters like the wings of a butterfly.

  I’ve spent a good part of the day looking up into Kai’s handsome face and I’m definitely not tired of looking at him. The walls of the fortress I’ve spent so much of my life building up to defend against marauding intruders come tumbling down, if only temporarily.

  I move closer to him. He wraps an arm around my shoulders.

  Just then a text message alert lights up my phone.

  Ezra: CALL ME. DO IT. NOW.

  Reflexively I pick up my phone, and get to my feet.

  “Where are you going?” Kai asks.

  “I’ve got to go.” I explain, tapping out a response as fast as I possibly can when Kai’s fingers wrap around my wrists.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “My boss just sent me a text. He wants to talk.”

  “He’s your former boss. You don’t have to jump when he asks.”

  “But his text is in all caps.” I hold up my phone as evidence.

  “Why are you going back to something you know isn’t right for you?”

  “It’s my job.” My voice has an unexpected brittle edge.

  Kai lets go of my wrist. I pull my hand away and hurry out of the room without saying goodnight to the bride and groom. In the darkness, I find my way through the maze of garden paths around the main resort back to the beach cottage.

  A heady mix of my perfume and Kai’s cologne hangs in the air in the sitting room when I open the front door. Ignoring the ache it stirs in my heart, I change into sweats and stretch out on a cushioned chaise lounge on the private lanai overlooking the ocean. My phone lights up with an intermittent incoming call. I recognize Ezra’s home number, but I don’t answer. I let the call go to voicemail.

  I use my phone like a rosary. Running my thumbs over the smooth surface, going back and forth over my troubles, hoping to find some solutions. They’re not on my phone. Instead, it’s the ocean lazily lapping against the sand that soothes my ragged soul. The stars in the sky give me hope. I let my head fall back against the cushion and relax a little.

  For the past fifteen years, all I’ve wanted was for Ezra to recognize me as an essential part of Brown & Fox Media. And now that I’ve got him right where I want him, I’m not so sure it’s what I want anymore.

  Ezra calls again. Two more times. My phone lights up the dark. I recognize his personal number. I shake my head. It must be the middle of the night in Chicago and he’s making calls. If I answer the phone, I’ll be drawn back into his world.

  The phone stops ringing and suddenly, I’m overcome by exhaustion. I’ve been up since four o’clock in the morning. I’ve been swimming, snorkeling, dancing, and drinking. Not by any stretch of the imagination, has it been a regular day for me. All I want is to lay down and go to sleep.

  Leaving my cellphone on the table on the lanai, I tiptoe back inside the beach cottage. Kai’s luggage is open in the sitting room, his clothing strewn across all of the furniture. Like a gas, Kai has organically spread out to fill the space he’s occupying.

  Closing the door to my room, I slip between the cool sheets and lay awake listening to the night sounds. I tell myself I’m straining to hear the calls of exotic animals hidden in the lush foliage, but my heart knows I’m waiting to hear the sounds that will let me know Kai has returned to the cottage for the night.

  I fall asleep waiting for him.

  CHAPTER 6

  The palm fronds near the beach cottage are rattling gently in a balmy breeze. I open the blinds and shade my eyes from the sun. The blue sky fades into the ocean somewhere far away on the horizon. There’s not a cloud in sight. Another day in paradise.

  I stretch every muscle I’ve got, and a flutter of actual happiness fills my body.

  My plane ticket is the kind with no refunds and no changes. I’m not scheduled to fly home until tomorrow afternoon. So I have twenty-four hours left to enjoy all the magic of Maui.

  The door to Kai’s bedroom is closed at a forty-five degree angle and the shades are drawn. The room is dark, but I can hear the sounds of his deep, even breaths. Kai must still be asleep.

  I settle down with my laptop computer at the big table in the sitting room. The fruit bowl has been replenished with fresh pineapple. I eat every delicious bite while checking my email. I note I’m l blocked from accessing my work emails.

  I shrug.

  Not my problem.

  I put on my Target tankini. Maybe by the time I get back from the beach, Kai will be gone, and I’ll have the beach cottage to myself. With any luck, I’ll be full of fish and pineapple by the time I board the plane to fly home tomorrow afternoon

  Not that I haven’t enjoyed Kai’s company. He’s really nice, and flirty. I’ve enjoyed speaking with him. He’s smart and funny, and I can’t stop thinking about him.

  Naked.

  I grab my beach hat and tote bag, checking to make sure I have sun block and a towel. I slip out of the cottage on tiptoe, leaving the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door and Kai ‘Sleeping Beauty’ Cooper inside.

  The pool deck is already filling with hotel guests. There’s an excessive amount of children floating in the river pool. I circle the entire complex three times before I find a spot near the main pool where I can tuck myself away and escape inside a book. A place where awaiter will bring me diet Cokes on a silver platter, and check in with me every half an hour or so to make certain all my needs are being met.

  It sounds like heaven. But not mine. Someone else’s version.

  I pull the brim of my big floppy hat lower and walk quickly and deliberately in the opposite direction. Fighting for a chaise lounge at an overcrowded pool isn’t the adventure I want when I only have one day left in paradise.

  “Is there a quiet beac
h nearby?” I ask the concierge on duty. “A place I can read a book under the shade of a tree and maybe take a relaxing walk on the beach. Alone.”

  She nods. “Sweet Sugar Beach. Wide beach. Pink sand. There are some lovely trees that provide natural shade. You can stretch out comfortably and read your book in peace and quiet. It’s remote enough it doesn’t attract the average tourist. Yet, there are enough people who seek it out, so several really good food trucks stop by around lunchtime.”

  “Yum.” My stomach rumbles at the suggestion.

  “Get the fish tacos,” she insists. “You can thank me later.”

  “How do I get there? Can I walk?”

  “You can, but I think you’ll be happier getting there on a bike. Ask one of the valets out front to help you.”

  When I walk out of the front of the hotel three valets rush forward to help me. One of them leads me to a bike rack where a bubblegum-pink beach bike is parked. It’s been fitted out with an enormous white wicker basket with plastic flowers and name of the resort emblazoned in a large font on the frame.

  “I’ll blend into the flora and fauna on that,” I joke.

  “Not a chance,” he says. “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “Sugar Sand Beach.” It sounds like a magical place when I say it out-loud.

  “The locals believe the sugar sands have healing powers.”

  “Healing powers?”

  He makes a silly face undermining the validity of such things. “Who knows? It’s a fabulous place to hang out.”

  “That’s exactly what I need.”

  “Follow the bike path to the boardwalk. You can leave the bike and walk down to the sand. Then, take a left at the topless beach.”

  “There’s a topless beach?”

  “To the right.”

  “Got it.” I push off and am under my own power. I can’t remember the last time I rode a bike. Freshman year of college? Maybe. It’s been a long time. Why did I stop? I feel like I’m flying.

  The path curves through a dense jungle of tropical trees, shrubs and sprawling vines of bougainvillea. I pedal at an easy pace, breathing deeply all of the scents in the air while my mind rushes to worry over my troubles.