Chapter 5
After arriving at Nadi International Airport, we catch a taxi to the resort.
Nate holds social hour with the driver, who shares insights about the Garden of the Sleeping Giant (named after a nearby mountain range), hot springs and mud pools with therapeutic properties, and one of the most prominent Hindu temples in Fiji featuring hand-painted murals from Hindu mythology.
Okay, hearing all of that is exciting. I’m just exhausted and Nate is…
Nate. Being stuck in this twin-switch charade with him is the worst. Though we’re in Fiji—a land of unbelievable sunsets and romantic beaches, a place packed with everything from exotic forests to envy-inducing activities, a world of its own with culture, history, and intrigue.
I’m not with Brody as planned, but I can still make the most of it.
As I inhale the island air whipping through the car’s open windows, it’s easy to believe this is a place where anything can happen.
Maybe I’ll discover a magical way to deal with Nate for two weeks, pull off this crazy plan, revamp my career, and save Brody’s.
Because accomplishing all of that would be nothing short of magic.
We pull up to the resort, and staff members wave and holler, “Bula!” This is a common Fijian greeting, according to my research. Who knows what Nate thinks they’re saying, though he doesn’t look confused. He nods in their direction and repeats, “Bula!” back to some of them.
“Do you even know what you’re saying?” I whisper the accusation as our car pulls to a stop in front of the lobby.
“Yes, Abigail. I, too, can read guidebooks.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, which he takes as a challenge. It might be. He’s too busy for his brother, learns about this trip at the last minute, and shows up late to the airport but still manages to study the area? Doubtful.
Nate’s mouth quirks. “It essentially means hello or welcome, but the literal translation is ‘life.’ It’s a way of wishing someone good health. Given what I’ll be embarking on with the show, it’s a greeting I’ll accept in surplus.”
I roll my eyes at him as someone opens my car door and helps me out of the vehicle.
In front of me is an open-air lobby, exuding sophistication and charm with high ceilings, warm island breezes, and elegant decor inspired by Fijian culture.
Soft island music plays inside, beneath which I can hear waves lapping at the shore. Absolute paradise.
Except for the heat. My oversized sweatshirt had been the right extra layer for the evening in Vegas and our subsequent flights, but it’s far too much for Fiji’s morning heat. I pull the sweatshirt over my head, thankful I’m wearing a ribbed tank top underneath, and tie the sleeves around my waist.
As a bellhop retrieves our bags, Nate appears next to me with crossed arms and surveys the resort’s main building. “I’ve seen worse.”
“Like when you look in the mirror in the morning?” I mutter to myself.
“Ah, so the spunk from the hospital wasn’t just the distillery talking.” Nate continues looking ahead, but I can see he’s biting back a smile. “Guess these two weeks won’t be so routine after all.”
I open my mouth to retort, but Nate is already walking toward the lobby, leaving me no choice but to follow.
The music grows louder as we step into the covered area where another woman greets us with a hearty “Bula!” She ushers us to her check-in desk while another employee steps forward with a tray offering a complimentary beverage he describes as a refreshing combination of tea and lemonade.
I’m not much of a tea person, but there’s no coffee in sight, and I’m undeniably thirsty.
I take a cautious sip of the beverage, which is a delicious blend of sweet and tart—earthy notes of tea on the front, followed by a zesty burst of freshly squeezed lemonade.
It’s so good, I almost miss Nate taking over the check-in process.
“Should be under Bannam,” Nate says.
The woman, whose name tag reads Berta, clicks a few keys on her computer. “Yes, Bannam. You are booked for two weeks in one of our overwater bungalows. Excellent choice. Very romantic.”
I nearly spit my drink across the counter. Did she say romantic? And overwater?
“I’m sorry, we’re staying where?” I can’t keep the high-pitched squeak out of my voice.
“Is that not right?” Berta clicks more keys on her computer, then looks back at Nate. “My records show Mr. Bannam reconfirmed the accommodations last week.”
Even without Nate’s shell-shocked expression, I don’t need to crunch the numbers to know what’s happened. Brody, the real one, must have confirmed the accommodations pre-accident and forgot to mention it or was waiting to see my reaction when he and I showed up in Fiji. Only now…
Nate clears his throat. “That’s correct. It’s a surprise for my girlfriend.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “You’re always saying you want more romance, sweet pea. Here you go!”
I plaster on a smile and spit out an appropriate reply to save face. “That is just so sweet of you, baby cakes.”
Berta’s smile widens as she sets a map out in front of us.
“You’ll be taking a golf cart over to your bungalow, so don’t worry about your luggage.
Here are some key locations on the map.” She points to one of the little rectangles in the water.
“This is your bungalow. Over here is the infinity pool.” She points out the pool on the map, followed by other impressive sites—a great place to watch the sunset, a gym, and other amenities.
It all looks incredible, but I’m trying to wrap my mind around an aspect of this plan that hadn’t occurred to me until now.
I’m going to be sharing a room with this man.
A stranger in every way but his appearance, and even that’s a little off.
I’m supposed to play pretend with him all day, and then go home with him every night?
Where is the reprieve? Where’s the privacy?
“The breakfast buffet is a must,” Berta concludes before sliding the map and our keys across the counter. She then gestures to a waiting golf cart. “If you’re ready, we’ll take you over to your accommodations.”
We’re about halfway to the golf cart when Nate whispers, “Please tell me you actually call Brody ‘baby cakes.’ I would love to lord that over him forever.”
I shrug, waiting until we’re both in the golf cart to reply. “Guess you’ll never know for sure, my little gummy bear.” I give Nate’s cheek a generous pinch for good measure. We are selling a relationship, after all. Might as well do it right.
Nate’s groan cuts off as the golf cart lurches forward and a warm breeze envelops us, welcoming us to Fiji.
A rocky beach to our right melts into the shimmering azure waters of the bay.
On our left, the nearly mythical blue-green waters of a lagoon sparkle, reflecting the sparse morning clouds and budding sun.
We trace the lagoon’s curve as we turn onto a path lined with palm trees where cottages—which, thanks to Nate asking our driver, I now recognize as Bures—dot the shoreline.
We should be able to enjoy the awe-inspiring views in silence, but Nate can’t let our earlier conversation drop.
“If you won’t tell me what you call him, tell me what he calls you.”
I side-eye Nate. “Abigail.”
He rolls his eyes. “Other than Abigail.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes, Abs. Usually Abby.”
Nate chokes back a laugh. “I won’t be calling you Abby.”
His reaction, arguably an overreaction, confuses me. “Why not?”
“Because you hate it.”
I open my mouth to protest, but I can’t. “How would you know?”
“Your nose scrunches up every time someone says Abby. See? Like that.” He points at my face, which I quickly adjust to hide my reaction. “Is that really what he calls you?”
It feels wrong to talk about Brody like this—to make it sound as though he doesn’t care about me when he does.
Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been dating for five-plus months while working together daily.
Not my longest relationship, but a record for Brody, whose relationships (if they can be called that) barely make it a month.
Surpassing that milestone and then a few more is serious by Brody’s standards.
Though I don’t understand why he’s blowing past these milestones with me.
We hit a bump with the cart, jostling our luggage and bringing me back to Nate’s question. “I don’t mind when he calls me that.” At least I shouldn’t.
“If that’s what you want to tell yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
Nate shrugs. “I’m just saying I picked up on your hatred for that nickname at the hospital.”
When I don’t connect the dots, he clarifies. “At the hospital, when my brother called you Abby. So perhaps you mind more than you think.”
It is futile to convince Nate otherwise when he’s already uncovered the truth for himself, so I pivot. “Sounds like you have quite the observational skills, Gnat.”
“What did you call me?”
“Gnat. G-N-A-T,” I spell out, keeping my voice low so the driver won’t overhear. “You’re certainly as annoying as one.”
There is a pause, and then a wicked smile works across Nate’s face. “Fine. Then I will call you Gingersnap because I’m trying to be nice, but you’re always snapping.”
“Always? You’ve known me for like a day.” My dislike of Nate could span forever, but he doesn’t know that. Yet.
His smile grows, reaching the corners of his eyes. “Always.”
I could have argued further, but the golf cart slows at a pier jutting over the lagoon.
My pulse quickens at the beautiful but daunting sight.
Railings run down both sides of the pier, which branches off into pathways leading up to individual bungalows.
It’s like an intricate wooden bridge. And bridges are safe!
People and vehicles cross bridges all the time.
Even overwater ones, no problem. Not. A. Problem. I am fine. Safe. Alive!