Chapter 17
Holland
It takes me only one week of being Holland Park to discover the most fundamental flaw in my marriage to Phoenix, and it is this: I cannot be mean to him all the time.
Because the truth is, I’m not usually a mean person. And the same is true of him; he’s overbearing and overprotective and invasive, sure, but rarely mean .
Now we’re living together. We see each other in the mornings and at night. We drink from the same carton of orange juice. And no matter how we might normally treat each other, neither of us can be petty and rude and argumentative all the time. It’s too exhausting.
Which means I’m starting to see the other sides of Phoenix—the ones I’ve always ignored. And he’s seeing the same in me; I can tell by the twitch of his eyebrows when I use basic manners like please and thank you.
I don’t want to be reminded of thoughtful Phoenix or dry-humor Phoenix. I definitely don’t want to think about vulnerable Phoenix—the one that spoke to me in the dark of our honeymoon suite, his body wrapped around mine.
Neither of us mention the things we said or did in that suite—which sounds way more risqué than it actually is—and if his psycho family has said anything more about our marriage, he hasn’t told me. He doesn’t tell me anything, in fact, because we barely speak at all. I work as many shifts at the salon as humanly possible over the course of the week leading up to the Fourth, just to avoid being at home with him.
I can’t handle all those facets of his personality. And scary Phoenix? The one who swooped in and told Dot not to call me anything but Holland or ma’am ?
That version of Phoenix was just as devastating as vulnerable Phoenix, though in a vastly different way. I will die before I ever tell him so, but there’s something about a man defending your honor while also looking sexy in an uber-expensive suit.
I press my hand to my chest, frowning as I inhale and then exhale.
“What’s up?” Cat says from next to me, a large plate of pancakes in front of her.
“Huh? Oh,” I say, looking at my own half-eaten stack—courtesy of the Fourth of July pancake breakfast being held in the town square this morning. “Just feel a little—funny.” But something twisting and anxious is starting to squirm in the pit of my stomach.
I’m imagining things, right? My heart didn’t flutter . Not for Phoenix.
Not again.
Food poisoning, maybe, or pneumonia, or the stomach flu. It’s probably one of those.
And this is why I’ve been avoiding the house: because my heart is doing things I don’t like, randomly, and for no reason at all.
“If you get me sick and I end up throwing up all these pancakes, I’ll never forgive you,” Cat says .
“Oh, don’t talk about throwing up,” Ivy says with a groan, looking at her own pancakes. “Not while I’m trying to eat.”
“No one will be throwing up,” I say as I collect another bite and then shove the whole thing in my mouth, syrup dripping off my fork. “I don’t think I’m sick. Just a little…off.”
“Off how?” Cat says.
“I don’t even know,” I say with a sigh.
She gives me a questioning look, but I don’t have an explanation for her. I just shrug, and then we chat for a while as more people join us at the table.
The Fourth of July is an all-day affair in Sunset Harbor, and most of the town comes out to celebrate. There’s a breakfast to start out, and then a parade, then games on the beach, and finally music, dancing, and fireworks.
I’m not really interested in games, but I do love free breakfast, and I’ll probably go listen to Mo and the Kokomos later. They’re headlining the show tonight for the billionth year in a row, and they’re always good.
“Where should we watch the rest of the parade this year?” I say once we’ve finished our pancakes.
“There’s a nice place in the shade that we went to growing up,” Cat says, looking at Ivy. “Let’s try that.”
“I’m good with shade,” I say, because the sun overhead is already uncomfortably warm, and it’s not even nine yet. We make our way through the town square and then north up the island until we reach a sandy little hill, shaded by palm trees and facing one of the streets the parade will travel.
We settle in and watch from there, listening to the music and watching the floats. I’ve seen some of these floats every year since moving here, but I’m still not tired of them; it’s just hard to be anxious or upset when a giant silver star is rolling by, accompanied by a spangled, festooned marching band.
Even if you’re stressed about your errantly fluttering heart, like I am.
Once the parade is over, the three of us part ways; Ivy and Cat head to the beach, and I head home.
And by home, I mean Phoenix’s house.
I haven’t seen him yet today; he was gone when I got up this morning, and because we’re not actually in a romantic relationship, he didn’t leave a note telling me where he was. I considered texting to ask, but that felt clingy.
I shiver as I step through the front door, the AC kissing my sweat-sheened skin; my white-eyelet sundress was perfect for the heat outside, but not so much in here. I’m just slipping off my sandals when Phoenix rounds the corner into the entryway, a large cooler in one hand, his eyes going wide when he sees me.
“Do we have any of those popsicles I bought?” I say, fanning the back of my neck. But when I take a closer look at him, my jaw drops. “Are you wearing a t-shirt? Will you be okay without your emotional support button-down?”
Phoenix just stares at me, and I’m about to ask what his problem is when two more people follow him around the corner: Beau Palmer and Dax Miller.
Phoenix’s wide eyes are nothing compared to Beau’s when he sees me; Dax just looks vaguely confused.
“Ah.” The word slips weakly from my lips. But what else can I say? I’ve just let myself into the house with my own key, and I asked if we had any popsicles left.
“Hi,” Beau says, a smile spreading slowly over his face as he looks back and forth between me and Phoenix.
“Hi,” I say. “I—didn’t know you were here.”
“Clearly,” Phoenix says with a strained expression. He sets the cooler down and runs one hand over his face. “Yesterday you said you were going to the parade.”
“I did go to the parade,” I say dumbly. “The parade is over. Cat and Ivy went to the beach”—Dax straightens up when I mention Ivy, I can’t help but notice—“and I decided to come back home.”
“Are you two living together?” Beau says. He looks happier about this than Phoenix and I have ever been.
I don’t want to lie, so I pass the buck and stay silent.
“We’re married, actually,” Phoenix finally says, his voice resigned. “And we’d prefer to tell as few people as possible, because we’re only doing it to take care of some family stuff, and then we’ll separate. So keep your mouth shut, please.”
“We’re only doing it to take care of some family stuff.” Hear that, heart? I tell myself. Stop fluttering.
“I have so many questions,” Beau says, and Phoenix rolls his eyes.
“I thought you were in a hurry?” he says.
“I am.”
Phoenix nods shortly. “Then let’s go. Dax, we’ll drop you off on the way.”
Dax nods too, and the three of them move past me, each carrying a cooler. Beau shoots me a smile over his shoulder as they leave, but he’s the only one; the door shuts, and I’m alone again.
I spend the rest of the afternoon reading a book and icing my knee—which, according to the doctor I saw two days ago, just needs moderate activity and physical therapy. I hear Phoenix come home late morning, but I stay in my room. Only when six o’clock rolls around do I venture out, like a hermit going into public for the first time.
“Are you coming to the beach?” Phoenix says when I reach the kitchen. He’s still got on his light blue t-shirt, and it looks stupidly good on him.
“Yeah,” I say, drifting over to the counter by the fridge. “I like Mo and the Kokomos.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
“Why?” I say as I reach for an apple. I look down at my sundress and grin. “Do you want to borrow it?”
He just rolls his eyes. “I didn’t know if you needed time to change. If you don’t, let’s go.” Then, after a pause, he adds, “You know, I’ve been paying attention for the last week, and you only smile at me when you’re making fun of me or when you’re pretending to be a devoted wife.”
“So?” I say with a snort. He said something about this after we met with Mavis. “Why are you bringing up my smile again? You don’t smile at me at all .”
“Yes I do,” he says, looking offended.
I just shake my head and start toward the door. He mutters something under his breath about not true and ridiculous as he follows, but I ignore it.
Mo and the Kokomos are already in full swing when Phoenix and I arrive at the beach. Several groups of people are getting bonfires ready up and down the stretch of sand, though they won’t actually light any fires until later. We separate as soon as we arrive, Phoenix heading to hang out with Beau while I search for Cat and Ivy.
It’s hard to hear much over the music, but we dance and snack as the evening wears on; Ivy leaves about an hour in. When she and Cat have both gone to do their own things, I look around for someone to talk to—Capri Collins and Tristan Palmer are here, I notice with a smile, but they’re looking very cozy, so I decide to give them their privacy. I see Briggs Dalton a second later, so I head in his direction. Briggs isn’t my type, but even I can admit he’s cute. He’s got a nerdy-hot thing going on, and he looks perfectly suited to his job at the book shop.
“Hey, Briggs,” I say, smiling as I approach him.
“Hi,” he says with a little nod.
“How’s it going?”
He shrugs, looking around. “Well enough,” he says. “How have you been?”
What a question. “I’ve been okay,” I say, because the truth is complicated and uncomfortable. “Just?—”
But I break off when I see Phoenix. He’s talking to Jane, the two of them a decent stretch of beach away. He cuts an imposing figure even in a t-shirt and shorts, and Jane looks as cute as always.
“Sorry,” I say, pushing aside the weird little twist of my stomach at the sight of his expression.
He says he smiles at me, but I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation that looks like that—chatting politely, pleasant expressions, and—yes—smiles. Real, genuine smiles.
“Yeah, I’ve been good,” I manage to get out. “How’s the shop doing?”
Briggs smiles a little; it seems like asking him about the shop is a good way to get him talking. “It’s doing all right. A lot of steady, repeat customers—like you,” he says with a nod.
I watch over his shoulder as Jane laughs at something Phoenix says, and my stomach sours.
What’s wrong with me? I like Jane. Jane is totally great. We’re friends.
It’s because Phoenix and I are legally married now; that must be it. His ring is on my dresser. That would make anyone feel a little possessive. I don’t actually care if Phoenix is giving his smile to another woman; it’s just a wife thing.
I nod to myself. That makes sense.
“You work at the salon, right?” Briggs says, pulling me back to our conversation.
“Huh? Oh, yes,” I say with a nod before stealing another glance at Jane and Phoenix.
I’m barely paying attention to what Briggs says; I catch him mentioning something about the book shop, but all I can really focus on is Phoenix’s face as he talks to a woman who isn’t me.
This is insane. Completely insane. I cannot be possessive over a man I don’t love or even like.
But no matter how many times I tell myself that, the acid in my stomach continues to eat holes through my insides until finally, I can’t take it anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell Briggs. “I’ve got to go.”
“Sure,” he says with a nod, his glasses glinting in the light of the bonfires spotting the beach around us.
I turn toward Phoenix and Jane, my heart pounding in a way that doesn’t make sense. My hands are clenched into unnecessary fists, and my feet are all set to carry me to the two of them—to do what, I’m not certain.
I’m surprised to see, then, that they’ve stopped talking; Jane has disappeared into the crowd, and Phoenix?
Phoenix is moving toward me.
He’s moving in my direction, and even in the orange light of the fires I can see his eyes darting back and forth between me and Briggs before finally, dark and burning, they settle on me.
Something swoops low in my stomach, something anticipatory, something wanting. It’s a feeling that’s both foreign and faintly familiar—a book that was shelved long ago, dusty and hidden, now being rediscovered.
There are people mingling everywhere, dancing all around us, but they fade into the periphery as he stalks closer. He’s a magnet, pulling my eyes, pulling the breath from my lungs.
This should not be happening. He should not be storming toward me with that look in his eyes, and my pulse should not be tripping.
Keep things business-focused, I tell myself.
“I think we should add something to the contract,” I say as soon as he comes to a stop in front of me.
“I agree,” he says, his voice low and silky. He’s too near; but the music is loud, and the people around us are dancing, and somehow I find myself taking a step closer, until we’re separated by mere inches.
“Even though this marriage is in name only—” I begin, but I break off, trying to find the words I’m so embarrassed to say. Because I can’t tell him not to smile at other women if he’s not going to smile at me. That’s ridiculous and stupid and I shouldn’t care.
When I look at him for help, though, Phoenix only raises his eyebrows—like he’s daring me to go on.
“Yes?” he says, clasping his hands behind his back.
I exhale roughly, frustrated. “You know what I mean.”
“Hmm,” he hums. He tilts his head as he looks down at me. “Do I?”
“I just think that while we’re married, we should refrain from—from?—”
He moves impossibly closer, his dark eyes holding me captive. “Say it,” he breathes. It’s not a request; it’s a command.
But I can’t make myself speak. I can’t bring myself to spit those words out, because they’ll mean something—it will be as good as admitting that I’m jealous.
“As my wife, Amsterdam,” he says in a low voice, “you’re the only person in the world who has the right to ask this of me, so just say it.”
I narrow my eyes, annoyed. He already knows what I’m trying to say, and he’s making me speak the words anyway.
But you know what? He’s right. I am his wife. I can’t tell him not to smile, but I’m allowed to ask for more reasonable things. So I take a deep breath and straighten up, the sand soft beneath my feet as I shift. Then, trying to ignore the heat I feel in my cheeks, I speak. “I think we should refrain from extramarital relationships for the duration of the contract.”
“I agree,” he says immediately. “I’ll have Wyatt add it first thing in the morning.”
My shoulders relax as relief trickles gently in, a cool breeze after uncomfortable warmth.
But Phoenix notices—and something wicked flares to life in his eyes. “Never thought I’d see you get jealous,” he says, cocking one brow at me as his lip curls like the smoke rising to the heavens around us.
I stare at him, lost for words, until finally I manage to splutter something out. “I’m not jealous. I just think you’re giving a lot of attention to other women when you’re not actually available?—”
“And you’ve been smiling at Briggs Dalton an awful lot for someone who comes home to me every night,” he cuts me off smoothly.
“ Comes home to you —” I begin, my eyes widening. It sounds so intimate when he phrases it like that. “Are you—wait.” I break off as his words register.
He knows who I’ve been talking to. He knows I’ve been smiling .
He’s been watching me, just as much as I’ve been watching him.
“ You were jealous,” I realize, my eyes wide.
“You wish, Amsterdam,” he says with a snort. But he breaks our eye contact, and the words are too casual to be convincing.
“You were,” I say again, my certainty growing. “You’ve been watching me. You’re jealous.” Something like triumph rises in my chest, and my lips pull into a smile of my own.
“Absolutely not.”
“Really?” I say, leaning closer to him, close enough that I can smell leather and mahogany over the scent of the bonfires. “So if I asked Briggs to dance, you’d have no problem with it?”
“Of course not,” he says, scoffing.
“Mmm-hm. And if I hugged him, you’d be fine?”
He rolls his eyes. “Friends hug all the time.”
I nod slowly. Then—I don’t know why I do it. I really don’t. It’s stupid and impulsive.
But the next thing I know, I’m rising up on my tiptoes, steadying myself with my hands on his shoulders. His grip finds my waist, probably instinctively—because the look on his face tells me he’s not paying attention to his hands right now.
His eyes flare wide, his lips part, and those are the last things I see before I lean in and kiss him.
The lightest touch of my lips to his, and I don’t stay for longer than a second, but it’s enough to set off a pleasant fizziness in my stomach.
“What about if I kissed him like that?” I say when I lean back. I don’t let go of him, and I don’t stand down from my tiptoes.
Phoenix’s hands on my waist tighten, and he glares at me, his eyes full of fire as he speaks. “You could kiss fifty men like that, Amsterdam, and I still wouldn’t be jealous.”
I kiss him again—firmly this time, and longer, my lips against his, hunting for the answers I want, because he doesn’t respond at all…
Until he does.
A low sound leaves him as his lips come to life, moving suddenly, slanting impatiently over mine as his fingers dig into my sides. I don’t even notice the pain, because this kiss is telling me something—something I can’t quite grasp no matter how desperately my lips chase his.
He’s there for three seconds, and then he’s gone—his mouth rips away from mine, and when I lean away, he’s already shaking his head.
“No,” he says, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes locked on my lips. “Still wouldn’t be jealous.”
“Liar,” I say, just as short of breath as he is.
The word is barely out of my mouth before he’s back. He comes as close as he possibly can without actually kissing me, and even though he doesn’t speak again, I can feel the debate raging inside of him; his lips hover so close to mine that I can feel their heat, feel every breath, feel every rise and fall of his chest. His hands slide from my waist to my back, but he doesn’t close that last bit of space.
When I speak again, it’s so soft that I question whether he can even hear. “And if I wore a silk nightgown and spooned with him in a honeymoon suite on a bed covered in rose petals?” I say.
“That would fall firmly under the extramarital relationship category, so try it and see what happens,” he whispers against my lips, the words clipped.
“Admit that you’re jealous,” I whisper back. Somehow my arms have wound around his neck, and his arms have snaked all the way around my waist. When did that happen?
Phoenix’s black eyes glitter with challenge as he looks down at me. “You first,” he says.
I swallow, and I can’t stop my gaze from darting over his features. Fire light does great things for his bone structure.
“I was jealous,” I finally say, so quietly I can barely hear myself. Then I go on. “It’s because you’ve been saying all that stuff about smiling at each other. You got in my head,” I finish, accusation in my voice.
“I got in my own head, too.” His words are reluctant, but when he goes on, his voice gets stronger. “Smile at whoever you want. But you will kiss no one else, in any way, while we’re married?—”
“No one else? As in…only you?”
His cheeks flush.
“No one at all,” he corrects himself. “I’ll abide by the same rule.” He swallows. “No romantic relationships for either of us.”
“Do you actually think I would cheat?” I say with a scoff, letting my arms drop to my sides again.
“No,” he admits, and he takes a few steps back. The cool air is a welcome relief. “But it’s still good to have a contract in place.” He hesitates; then, looking at me, he says one more thing. “This is your last warning, Amsterdam,” he says, his eyes dark. “Don’t start a game you can’t win. Don’t kiss me whenever you feel like it.”
The words slam into me, unexpected, a blow to the solar plexus that makes it difficult to breathe.
“Or what?” I say.
“Or I’ll kiss you back,” he says, looking suddenly tired. “And we’ll like it, Holland. You know we will. We’ll start kissing, and we’ll never—” He clears his throat, his gaze darting away. “We’ll never want to stop. Things will get messy and complicated. So don’t do it, not unless you know what you’re getting yourself into.” He gives me a little parting nod before turning silently and disappearing down the beach.
A single tear slips down my cheek, and I have no idea why; I swipe it angrily away.
But another one just falls in its place.