Chapter 9
9
Ezra
“Millie, where are you?” I whisper, praying she can hear me telepathically.
Our flight boards in half an hour, and while it’s not international, it is off the continent, and I told her to be here two hours before our departure time. All my phone calls have gone straight to voicemail and my texts have gone unanswered.
I tug at the collar of my shirt, really wishing my deodorant wasn’t at the bottom of my bag.
Seated at the gate for our flight to Honolulu, sweating like I’m in a sauna, knee bouncing, I can only imagine how suspicious I look. Oh god, did she change her mind? Is she not coming? What the fuck am I going to do if she doesn’t show? If I arrive solo, I’ll never hear the end of it from my dad.
I’m standing in front of my chair, scanning the long hallway of the terminal, when she finally appears. She’s walking quickly, dodging families with strollers and nearly taking out a toddler with her rolling suitcase. In her other hand, she’s holding a coffee and a phone charger.
“There you are. ”
“I’m so sorry.” She tips her coffee back, then tosses the cup into a bin nearby.
“I told you to be here two hours before takeoff.”
She huffs. “Yeah, that’s ridiculous.” Grumbling, she pulls her phone from her black leggings and plugs it into an outlet. “Who shows up two hours before a flight?”
I jab a thumb into my chest. “Me.”
With a roll of her eyes, she waves dismissively. “My phone died on the way over, and I must have forgotten to pack my charger. Had to stop to buy a new one, so that’s my bad.”
I release a long exhale and shake off my agitation. No sense in giving her grief over it. She’s here, and that’s all that matters.
“Would Mr. Ezra Miller please come to gate twenty-four. Mr. Ezra Miller to gate twenty-four.”
With a confused look, Millie unplugs her phone and lifts the handle of her suitcase. Then she trails behind me to the counter, where we’re greeted by an older woman.
“Mr. and Mrs. Miller? It looks like you’ve been upgraded to first class.” With a practiced smile, she hands Millie two tickets. “You will be boarding in a few minutes. Feel free to go ahead and get in line.”
“First class? What for?” I ask.
The woman’s face brightens. “Because it’s your honeymoon, of course. Let’s see that ring, sweetheart.”
Millie pulls her hand back from the counter like it’s burned her. “Oh, I uh?—”
In a flash, I dig into my pocket. “She left them on the counter this morning,” I announce, presenting a thin white-gold band and a matching ring with a circular diamond surrounded by smaller diamonds.
I don’t know which sparkles more, the rock or Millie’s eyes.
“Here, honey.” I slide the rings onto her finger.
Thank goodness Joey gave me her ring size .
I turn to the woman behind the desk. “I guess she’s not used to wearing them yet.” Forcing a chuckle, I silently pray the woman doesn’t see through our little facade and rescind the offer for the upgraded tickets.
Instead, she laughs along with me. “I remember those early days of marriage.”
Millie’s hand is frozen in midair, her attention fixed on her hand.
Interlacing my fingers with hers, I thank the woman. Then I lead my fake wife toward the front of the line.
It isn’t until we reach the third aisle that I release her. When I do, I flex my fingers, already missing the way her hand fits in mine.
Hmm , weird .
We ended up on the same flight home from Greece last year, where I learned that Millie prefers the aisle seat over the window, so I slide in first. As I’m settling in, the elderly man who boarded behind us struggles to lift his carry-on into the overhead bin, so Millie offers assistance. When she raises her arms, her shirt lifts, and I’m gifted with a sliver of her perfectly creamy abdomen.
She catches me staring and immediately tugs on her shirt, then slides into her seat. Okay . It’s becoming clear that my attention makes her uncomfortable; I’m not sure why—her new curves are incredible.
Turning to me, her lip caught between her teeth, she flashes her left hand between us. “These are fake, right?”
“Nope.” I flash her my matching band.
“ What ?” she gasps. “I can’t. No.” She twists the rings with shaky fingers. “Obviously I’ll give them back after all this.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say, my attention catching on a cuff around her wrist. “What’s that?”
“Oh, a motion sickness band.” She sighs. “I didn’t use to get queasy on flights, but for some reason, I do now.” As she plugs her phone into the complimentary outlet, it buzzes. “Look,” she laughs, angling the screen in my direction.
Joey
Enjoy first class, bitches
On the eleven-hour flight, we had more than enough time to solidify our story about how we met, got engaged, and ultimately eloped. And her long nap during the last part of the flight gave me ample opportunity to admire her. Her fair lashes fluttering, mouth ajar. Her beautiful chest rising and falling in a meditative rhythm.
With the six-hour time difference, it’s eight p.m. in Honolulu when we land, but I’m wiped. Jet lag is the absolute worst; our sleep is going to be all sorts of fucked up tonight.
Valerie, my mom’s oldest friend, picked us up from the airport and gives us a quick tour of the apartment above her garage, where we’ll be staying for the next couple of weeks.
At the top of the landing, we abandon our suitcases so Val can show us around. On the covered lanai off the main living space, the ocean is visible, even in the dark. Behind the living room is a small kitchen with a table and four chairs off to the side. Beyond that is a bedroom and en suite bathroom with a shower and separate soaking tub.
“I’m sure you two are exhausted,” Val says. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m not working tomorrow, so when you’re up and around, let me know, and I’ll take you over to the car rental place.”
“Thanks, Val.”
“I’m just so glad to have you back. And happy to meet your wife.” She winks.
After she lets herself out, I bring our luggage to the bedroom.
“One bed, huh?” Millie states when I find her standing in the middle of the space.
“Yup. ”
She angles to one side and peers through the doorway. “You’re not gonna offer to sleep on the sofa?”
“Nope.” I make a point to pop the p this time. “This isn’t one of those romance books Joey loves so much. I’m not going back and forth with you on this. We’re adults, and I’m far too old—and big—to sleep on the sofa. But if you’d feel more comfortable out there, be my guest.”
“Fine.” She leaves the room and returns a few seconds later, her arms loaded with throw pillows.
“What are you doing?”
With a grunt, she heaves them onto the bed. “They’re for the pillow wall.”
“What the fuck is a pillow wall?”
“A barrier. So don’t try anything funny.”
Amusement washes over me. “Honey, if I tried anything with you, you’d be too busy moaning to think it was funny.”
Lowering her head, she clears her throat and busies herself with her suitcase. “We should probably force ourselves to stay up a bit, yeah? It’ll help us adjust to the time zone.”
“You’re right.” Following suit, I unpack my toiletries and stash them in the bathroom.
“Are you hungry?” I ask once we’ve unpacked and have wandered out to the kitchen.
“Not really.” But she opens the fridge anyway and pulls out a container. “Look. Poke bowls.”
I open the plastic lid and am instantly hit with the tangy aroma of ginger and green onions. The poke bowls in Manhattan are nothing like the kind here in Hawaii. “Val must have gone shopping. That was nice of her.”
Millie opens drawers and cabinets, revealing a fully stocked kitchen. Val picked up fresh fruit and vegetables, as well as milk, juice, and bread. As I peruse the snacks, I spot a variety of nuts— cashews included—so I toss those out immediately. We do not need a visit to the hospital.
After we’ve yawned at least a dozen times each, I suggest we call it a night.
“Check out the cuck chair,” Millie says as we shuffle around the bedroom.
I nearly choke at the words coming out of her mouth. “Come again?”
She points to the upholstered chair in the corner of the room. “You know, the chair in por?—”
“I know what a cuck chair is.”
She raises a brow, her lips twitching.
“Not like that,” I laugh.
“Well, it’s officially the laundry chair now,” she announces, tossing a sweatshirt onto it.
While she shuts herself in the bathroom, I climb under the covers and situate the damn pillow wall she’s created.
“Hey,” she says as she appears again. “Who says you get the left side of the bed?”
Frowning, I sit upright on the mattress. “What are you talking about? This is the right side.”
She looks at me like I’ve just told her the Earth is flat.
“I’m in the bed, and I’m on the right side.”
For a second, I catch her checking out my bare chest, but she gives her head a tiny shake and focuses on my face again. “That’s not how you determine which side of the bed it is.”
“Enlighten me.” I wave a hand.
“If I’m looking at the bed,” she says, hands on her hips at the foot of the mattress, “you’re on the left side.”
“Okay, but you sleep in a bed, so sides have to be determined once you’re in the bed .”
She lifts her chin, scoffing. “That makes absolutely no sense.”
“ You make absolutely no sense.” I laugh out loud. This is literally the most ridiculous debate I think I’ve ever been involved in—and that’s saying a lot, since I teach middle school.
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Agree to disagree. But do you mind if I have that side?”
It makes no difference to me which side I sleep on, so I scoot—to my left—at her request. Only the wall of pillows stops me. Clumsily, I shimmy beneath them, staying under the covers, then rearrange them once I’m settled. “Are you getting in?”
“Um, can you turn around?”
I sit up and grin. “Why? Do you turn into an ogre at night?”
“ Ha ha , very funny. At least I don’t look like one all the time.”
With a mock gasp, I toss a pillow at her, which she easily dodges.
As she straightens, she sobers, her expression going pensive. “Actually, I, uh, kinda don’t sleep in clothes, so I need you to face the other way.”
Heart stuttering, I gape. “That makes two of us.”
With a brow arched, she crosses her arms over her chest. “Excuse me? You can’t sleep in the nude if I’m sleeping in the nude.”
I match her stance, crossing my arms. “Why not?”
“Because…” She trails off, as if she doesn’t have a valid reason. “This is absurd. Just put some clothes on.”
“Why me? If you’re so uncomfortable, then you should be the one to keep your clothes on.”
“I can’t sleep in pajamas. I have…” Eyes darting around the room, she worries her lip. “Sensory issues.”
This time I swear my heart stumbles over itself. “That makes two of us. Again . Being restricted in clothes while I sleep is a nightmare.”
“Me too,” she whispers, her eyes widening. “Shit. This is awkward. What are we going to do?” She peers over her shoulder and out the open door, like she’s considering sleeping on the sofa after all.
“We have this heavy-duty pillow thing. It’ll be like we’re sleeping in separate beds. It’s fine.”
Shoulders slumping, she sighs. “I guess you’re right.”
“What’s that?”
“I guess you’re—” Eyes narrowing, she picks up a pillow and throws it at my face. “Jerk.” She breaks into a smirk and plugs her phone into its charger. Then she commands me to look away.
As the bed dips from her weight, I close my eyes, even though my back remains toward her. “Get some rest.”
“Yeah, you too.”
For several minutes, we’re enveloped in the quiet of the night, the only sound the humming of the ceiling fan and the wind singing outside. Despite how exhausted I am, my mind races with thoughts of my dad and Kane.
“Hey, Millie?”
“Yeah?”
I swallow past the lump that’s formed in my throat. “Thanks for coming.”
“Good night, Ezra.”