Chapter 8
Holland
The girls at the salon can tell something’s wrong.
When I say girls , I actually mean ladies. Felicia and I are the youngest ones there, both of us in our late twenties, and everyone else is in their fifties, sixties, and even seventies. Betsy Barnes, the owner of Cuts and Curls, is fifty-something, and she has more energy than I do; she waltzes around with her pixie cut, her skin tan from spending so much time in the sun.
That energy is infectious, though, and it fills the inside of Cuts and Curls, turning the little salon into a cheerful, lively place to be. She painted the walls a pale lavender last year, and the year before that she changed out the black product shelves on the wall for pink ones. I don’t know how she has time to do everything she does; her husband is Mayor Barnes, but she’s still here five days a week.
Maybe I could ask her what it’s like being married to someone in the spotlight.
No, I tell myself firmly, shaking my head as I wipe down my station and my tools at the end of the day. It doesn’t matter what it would be like being married to a mayor or a CEO or anyone else, for that matter. Because I’m not getting married—not now, anyway, and definitely not to Phoenix Park .
I wasn’t the kind of girl who dreamed about her future husband as a child or even a teenager. I focused more on the day-in, day-out present, even when I had boyfriends. I knew they weren’t marriage material; we were in high school. I never expected otherwise.
But things have changed very drastically in the last twenty-four hours, because right now, marriage is all I can think about. I tossed and turned all night, and today hasn’t been any better.
How desperate must Phoenix be to come to me? Because asking me , of all people, to marry him—it’s insane.
I would cover Maggie’s tuition for the remainder of her degree. Grad school too, if she wants.
I shake my head again and try to get his offer to stop bouncing around in there. It’s ridiculous—absurd. It would never work, not in a million years.
“You’re a little off today,” Felicia says as she appears in my peripheral vision, and I jump, glancing over at her. Our stations are right next to each other, but they look vastly different; while I keep my counter mostly bare, preferring to store my tools in the drawers, Felicia keeps her things out. We spend most afternoons with clients, chatting in between and bonding over lungs full of hairspray.
“I guess I am,” I say vaguely, smiling even though I don’t feel like it. “Is it obvious?”
“You’ve been wiping down that same spot for ten minutes,” she says, pointing at my counter. “So, yeah. It’s kind of obvious. What’s up?”
My brother’s best friend asked me to marry him.
“Nothing much,” I say. “I didn’t sleep well last night. And it was a rough weekend.” All true. “But I’ll be fine. My clients were all good today.”
“So were mine,” Felicia says with a bob of her head that causes her curly ponytail to bounce. “Let’s hope tomorrow is the same.”
I give her another smile and put down my rag—because Felicia is right, I’ve been cleaning the counter for way too long. “I’m sure it will be. I’ll see you then, okay?”
Her answering nod and smile are half hearted, her brows furrowed with concern, but I can’t bring myself to talk about what’s going on. I sweep the floor quickly and quietly, wipe down my chair, and then head out before anyone can ask any more questions. My parting wave as I hurry out the door is too exuberant, my smile too cheerful, and I cringe internally.
By the time I’ve made it out of the salon, my mind is a million miles away from Sunset Harbor. The warm, early-evening breeze tugs at my hair and cools my skin; I inhale deeply, savoring the fresh air as I trudge through the town square, my thoughts racing.
Why is Phoenix asking me to marry him? I don’t get it. Yes, he wants to inherit the company, and I can admit that his cousin is the worst—he really did call me and ask if Phoenix and I were sleeping together, completely out of the blue. It’s understandable that Phoenix wouldn’t want Butterfield to go to him.
But is that important enough for Phoenix to ask me—someone he hates—to marry him?
He must know other women. Him marrying one of my friends would be weird, but there’s a whole world out there, full of other people.
So why me? Why does he want to marry me instead of someone else, when he dislikes me so much?
Unless…
I gasp, slapping my hand over my mouth. The faint scent of hair product left on my skin stings my nose, but I ignore it .
He doesn’t like me, does he? Phoenix Park doesn’t like me.
“No way,” I mutter. A shaky little laugh escapes. “No.” I’m not likable—not to him, at least. We’re not nice to each other. “There’s no way.”
I look ridiculous, I realize, talking to myself, but I need to talk to somebody. So I pull out my phone and call Cat.
“Hey,” I say when she picks up. “I have a hypothetical question for you.”
“Is this one of those hypothetical questions that’s not actually hypothetical?”
I don’t want to lie to her, so I don’t answer. I just go ahead and speak. “Is there any reason a man would propose to a woman he doesn’t have feelings for?”
There’s a split second of silence, and then Cat’s voice explodes down the line. “Did Phoenix propose to you?!”
“Shh!” I hush her. “Don’t just shout that! He—not really—kind of—” I sigh and force out the word. “Yes? But it wouldn’t be a proper marriage, to have and to hold and all that,” I say quickly, because it feels very important to clarify. “There would be no having or holding. He basically just needs to be married to inherit the family company. And I could use some extra cash, so he would compensate me in return.”
“Okay…” Cat says, and I can hear her struggling to keep up. “So a marriage of convenience thing? I didn’t realize people actually did that in real life.”
“Me neither,” I say. “I just finished reading a good one the other day, though. By Sunny Palmer.” I pause. “Her fictional man was much more tolerable as a fake husband than Phoenix would be.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Cat says grimly. “So Phoenix asked you specifically because…? ”
“That’s my question,” I say. Then, though I feel stupid thinking it, much less saying it: “There’s no way he likes me, right?”
“I mean, I don’t know,” Cat says, sounding uncomfortable now. “I obviously can’t say for sure. But I think you’re very lovable”—I snort— “and you guys do pay a lot of attention to each other.”
“Not good attention.”
“I know,” she says. “I really have no idea. I can say this, though: if I were an ultra-rich hot guy who could feasibly get any woman I wanted?—”
“Hey,” I say.
“I wouldn’t propose to the woman who hates me. But hey, I have to go, Holls,” she says. “I need to go strip a few beds and get the linens washed.” Cat runs a bed and breakfast, located on the other side of the town square; I send a little wave in the direction of the pale-yellow house with a white porch and white shutters.
“I’m sending my love from over by the salon,” I tell her. “Talk to you later.”
“Later!” she says, and we hang up.
I take a deep breath and begin walking again, turning her words over in my head. Despite the breeze that was so pleasant before, I find myself feeling too warm now, the prickle of sweat on my scalp and clammy hands still clasped around my phone.
“Another deep breath,” I say. It takes more than one to steady myself, however.
Because the thought of Phoenix Park having feelings for me—it’s laughable. Unfathomable. And even if he doesn’t…if we got married, we would have to pretend to like each other. I would have to look at him every single day. Could I handle th at? For much-needed income and health care and Maggie’s tuition…could I handle that?
No.
Right?
Maybe. I don’t know. But if he does have feelings for me—there’s no way.
The oxygen feels heavy in my lungs as I breathe, and I can’t seem to swallow properly. So with clammy fingers, I dial Phoenix’s number before I can think better of it. He answers after the first ring, and I don’t even let him say anything before I speak.
“We need to talk.”
“Do we really, though?” he says, sounding distracted.
I roll my eyes. “Yes.”
“In person?”
I swallow. I need to see his face to know if he’s telling the truth. “Yes.”
“I’m at the office,” he says. “So if you insist, you’ll need to come to me. Preferably before it gets dark, as I don’t trust your self-defense skills, should you be ambushed.”
Relief floods through me as the tightness in my chest eases. This Phoenix is familiar—this, I can handle. “Our crime rate is famously low,” I say. “Beau said so.”
When Phoenix responds, his voice is less absent. “When did he say that?”
Oops. “I don’t know. I just—remember him saying something.” Very recently, in fact, when I reported that I’d been scammed. Now that I think about it, I should have made sure he wouldn’t tell Phoenix; they’re good friends.
Thankfully, Phoenix doesn’t ask anything else; he just hums. “Well, come over, if you must.” Then he hangs up, and I’m left glaring at my phone. I hope he can feel it from here.
It’s a fifteen minute walk from the salon to Phoenix’s office building, and I make it just as the sun is starting to sink in the sky. It’s a small, two-story building, with neatly maintained rock beds and palm trees. There’s nothing beachy or island-like inside, though; the temperature drops as soon as you enter, and it looks like I’d imagine all big city corporate offices look. An overall sense of gray, mostly, with fluorescent lighting and neatly arranged cubicles. The windows save the whole place; the sunlight streaming in during the day makes the environment bearable.
I look decidedly out of place in my sundress and white sneakers as I stroll past the nearest row of cubicles, but the people smile at me anyway; I blink in surprise when a guy at the water cooler actually greets me by name.
“Hi, Miss Blakely!” he says, sounding more chipper than I would sound if I worked here.
“Hi,” I say, but the greeting trails off in my confusion. How does he know me?
I clear my throat and tuck my hair behind my ear—nervous habit—before hurrying to the stairwell in the back. I take a direct left when I reach the top floor, passing more cubicles and listening to the sound of click-clacking keyboards and pleasant, professional phone calls.
When I finally reach the floor-to-ceiling windows of Phoenix’s office, I slow down. I can’t see what he’s doing in there, since the windows are lined with blinds, but it’s probably something stuffy and bossy. I hesitate briefly at his door, and then I knock.
If I wait too long, I’ll lose my nerve.
“Come in.” His voice, clear and professional and authoritative, filters out to me, and I enter, closing the door behind me again—rustling blinds and a little click.
“Hi, Wyatt,” I say to Phoenix’s assistant, a middle-aged man who’s way nicer than Phoenix deserves. He dips his chin at me from his leather chair, a large folder open in his lap, and Phoenix speaks from behind his giant executive desk.
“What do you want, Amsterdam?” he says, not looking away from his desktop. There’s a furrow of concentration between his brows, a little frown bracketing his lips.
“There was a man downstairs who said hi to me,” I say, dropping into the armchair across from Wyatt’s. My pulse is jittering at the conversation I’m about to have, and while I normally enjoy looking around Phoenix’s office, today I’m too nervous.
“I prefer to employ pleasant people,” he says, eyes still on his computer. “Part of why I only reluctantly offered you work here.”
I ignore this barb in favor of the point I’m trying to make. “No, he greeted me by name. ”
“I don’t understand the question,” Phoenix says. He clicks the mouse with an air of finality and then leans back in his chair, finally looking at me. “How does he know your name, you mean?”
“Yes,” I say. “He called me Miss Blakely.”
Phoenix shrugs his broad shoulders. “You visit the office relatively frequently.”
I blink at him, frowning. “No, I don’t.”
He snorts and swivels his chair, standing up. “Yes, you do. Wyatt, I’m done on here,” he says to Wyatt, gesturing to the computer. “You can get in there and organize those accounts now.”
Wyatt nods while I think back, mentally examining my calendar of the last month. I came once to pick up the window locks Phoenix insisted I use; another time I dropped by to return the suit coat I had to have dry cleaned after I (mostly accidentally) sprayed hairspray on it.
I guess I come here sometimes.
I shake my head. “Fine. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.” Taking a deep breath, I stand up. “We need to discuss something.” My gaze darts to Wyatt, but I don’t say anything; I’m not his boss, and he’s under no obligation to listen to me.
He seems to understand, though, because he inclines his head again and rises from his chair. “I’ll be in my office,” he says tactfully, and some of the tension leaks out of my shoulders.
I don’t really want anyone else to hear this conversation.
Phoenix rounds his desk slowly, eyes on Wyatt as he exits. Only when the door has clicked shut behind him does he turn his gaze on me.
“Have you reconsidered my offer?” he says, strolling casually toward where I’m standing. His hands are in his pockets, and one dark brow is raised at me—he fills this role so easily, with an arrogant elegance that comes from a lifetime of privilege and power.
It’s a look he wears well.
I swallow and don’t let myself shrink away, standing taller instead. “No. Or—I don’t know.” Admitting you need help is its own form of bravery, I remind myself. “Maybe.” And here comes the heat creeping up my neck; I ignore it. “We need to clarify something first.”
His eyes narrow on me, but he nods slowly and takes another casual step in my direction. “All right. I’m listening.”
Say it. Just say it. It will sound stupid, but it would be more stupid not to clarify.
So I take one last breath, so deep my lungs hurt, and then I blurt it out:
“I’m worried you might have feelings for me.”