Chapter Three
M olly’s eyes widen when I drag my new suitcases from my closet. She blows out a low whistle as I flop one on the bed and flip it open. After my run-in with David and Charles, I took the afternoon off and headed straight for the nearest Louis Vuitton.
There, I purchased a complete luggage set, including a ridiculously overpriced makeup bag and tote. These gorgeous creations are now the most valuable thing I own. I’ve been deeply considering the logistics of having myself buried inside the largest one.
“Gallagher is going to flip,” she squeals, running a loving hand along the smooth monogrammed leather. “Look at this stitching. And the hardware. It’s so shiny . I can see myself in it.” She crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue at her reflection.
I scoff. “Let him flip.”
She kicks back and leans on the headboard as she watches me pack. Last night, we went out for dinner as a bon voyage before I leave this afternoon. After too many Moscow mules, we stumbled to my apartment, where Molly spent the night curled up on the other half of my bed.
I open my drawer, pulling out a myriad of items with price tags still attached. I’ve been shopping nonstop for the past week, curating the most ideal tropical-meets-party-girl-meets-business-casual wardrobe anyone has ever beheld.
“Maybe you’ll meet someone interesting,” Molly says as she eyes up the sexy red dress I’m holding. It was much too expensive, but the color is perfect against my light brown skin, and the cut makes my boobs look amazing. I couldn’t resist. I’m not sure if I’ll need it, but I’m hoping a reason presents itself.
“I’m supposed to be there for work,” I say as I carefully roll it into a tight bundle and place it in the suitcase.
Molly rolls her eyes, “Oh yeah, that dress definitely screams ‘work.’” We both giggle before her expression turns sly. “That dress has nothing to do with your obsession with Rafe, does it?”
She says it so casually that there isn’t anything casual about it.
I pause my packing to shoot laser beams with my eyes. “I’m not obsessed with Rafe.”
I’m totally obsessed with Rafe, but not in the way Molly is implying.
No, my obsession was forged in the hellfires of acrimony. My obsession is purely professional, and I operate on the premise of keeping an eye on your enemies. I should embroider that on a pillow or tattoo it on the inside of my thigh. “As soon as we land in Maui, I’m ditching his ass. Rafe Gallagher isn’t ruining this trip for me.”
“Mm-hmm,” Molly says, not looking at me as she flips through a magazine, avoiding my gaze.
“Even if I didn’t loathe him, he has a girlfriend.”
“Except he doesn’t,” she says, looking up. “I know you keep trying to convince yourself of that, but there is no way they’re still dating.”
I know she’s probably right, and my stomach responds with this weird spinning thing I don’t like.
So, I scoff as I slide open my underwear drawer. “It doesn’t matter. You know I don’t date at the office.”
Molly sighs, and I avoid looking at her, knowing I’m about to be scolded. “Everyone isn’t Leo, Tris. Stop projecting what he did on every man you meet.”
Finally, I meet her gaze, clutching a fistful of silky thongs.
Leo.
The reason I flamed out at my first job with Sustain—the one I actually wanted.
Two charismatic brothers owned the company—they were both brilliant and gorgeous, and Leo took an interest in me during my first few months. Starry-eyed and flattered by his attention, I leaned into it. He had that whole tortured artist vibe, even if he got his start by puzzling out water quality calculations. He was in his thirties and too old for me, and I already knew he would probably break my heart, so I started dating him.
It lasted a year, though I didn’t see him often, considering he split his time between Chicago and LA. But he had a way of making me feel special, and so I fell in love with him, too.
Then I found out he had another girlfriend on the other side of the country. All the signs had been there, but I ignored them, overwhelmed by his focus (when I had it) and an extreme lack of youthful judgment.
When I confronted him, he didn’t take it well. He thought I was overreacting, which tells you everything you need to know about him right there. I broke it off, and I was sure he would fire me.
Instead, he did me one better and shared a private photo of me with his brother. Before I knew it, everyone in the office had enjoyed an eyeful of me in my underwear, and I had no choice but to quit, enter the witness protection program, and change my name to Susan.
Molly is the only person outside those days who knows the entire story.
“I… know,” I say, responding to her comment, though even I hear the lack of conviction in it.
“A vacation fling is exactly what you need,” she insists.
We’ve had this conversation before. Many times.
And I’m grateful that she cares enough to worry.
But she also doesn’t get how dark those days were for me.
After I left Sustain, it became clear everyone in the “environment scene” is a hypocritical gossip, and no one else would hire me. Leo knew everyone and essentially had me blacklisted. I’ll never forget an interview in which the firm’s partners claimed they couldn’t hire someone with my image problems—as if wearing underwear is a crime and I wasn’t the victim of a gross breach of trust. I could practically see the word whore written in speech bubbles hanging over their heads.
“Why do you think I bought the dress?” I ask, hoping to assuage her concerns.
I know she’s right, and I do want to move past it, but much like my career, my love life has also gone stale and dry.
“Good,” Molly says. “Then make sure you wear it.”
Once I’m finished packing, I call my Lyft, and Molly scoots off the bed and goes in search of her coat.
“Have so much fun,” she says. “I’ll miss you. Work is going to be so boring without you. Text me every day. I want to hear everything that happens.”
She wraps her arms around me and squeezes tight.
“I’ll send you a million pictures,” I promise. “It’ll be like I never left.”
After checking in at the ticket counter and handing off my luggage, I head towards the airport lounge, intent on taking advantage of all the freebies afforded by my first-class ticket.
I’m wearing a sleeveless black jumpsuit and a pair of gold sandals. I can already feel the warm breezes and hear the crash of the ocean. I don’t really like sand—I hate how it gets inside everything—and I don’t particularly care for swimming, but three weeks with ice-cold drinks sipped in my own private cabana suits me just fine.
The airport lounge stretches into miles of black leather seating arranged around pale wooden tables. I flash my phone at the friendly woman sitting at the front desk, and she waves me through.
My first stop is the bar, where I order a glass of Prosecco. Then, I grab a small plate with a few tiny desserts and find a chair facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. I love watching the planes take off to far-flung destinations. I imagine the passengers heading on adventures to witness their first waterfall or sample their first bite of some new dish they didn’t even know existed. I imagine them falling in love with their new favorite place or, best of all, sharing a kiss on top of a mountain at sunset.
I love the endless possibilities of airports and the way anything can happen.
A moment later, my phone buzzes with a text from my dad.
My parents nearly exploded with pride when I told them about the retreat. They have only some idea of how much I’ve floundered since college. I never told them about Leo because I knew they’d disapprove of our relationship. And it was easy enough to hide since he wasn’t around much. When things went off the rails, I couldn’t bear to tell them, so I lied and said I left Sustain because it wasn’t the right fit.
When I couldn’t find work, I was terrified that I’d have to move back home and be forced to explain what happened. They would have been horrified. I love them to death, but they’re big on milestones and achievements. They’re only impressed if my younger brother and I are accomplishing something. I couldn’t bear their disappointment if they ever found out what I’d done to myself.
During my job search, they worried endlessly, calling me every day and inviting me over for dinner to stuff me full of samosas and send me home laden with plastic containers filled with vindaloo and roti.
If they knew about all my missed promotions, their quiet pity would crush me.
Finally, having good news to share about my job was a sigh of relief for all of us.
I slide open my phone.
Dad: You got to the airport? All checked in?
Me: Yep. I’m just waiting to board.
Dad: Do you need anything?
Me: No, I’m good.
Dad: Call your mother when you land. I’m proud of you.
Me: Thanks. Love you.
I smile at my phone and then place it on the table.
After a few minutes of watching the planes, I pull a book from my monogrammed tote and settle back with a new romantasy series I recently started.
“Is this seat taken?” asks a deep male voice about fifteen minutes later. I scowl up at Rafe Gallagher, who stands with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. I can’t help but notice his hair is just the kind of messy that makes me want to leave him everything in my will.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, striving to look down my nose from a seated position.
“Going to Hawaii.” He pulls his bag over his head and sinks into the leather chair beside me.
“I know that. But what are you doing here ?” I gesture to the room to encompass our surroundings. “Shouldn’t you be waiting out there?”
He shrugs his wide shoulders, and I also note how his burgundy button-up clings to the curve of his biceps. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and my attention briefly lingers on the flex of his forearms, the light dusting of dark hair, and the veins that pop against his tanned golden skin.
“Belinda said she booked our tickets together,” he says, his gaze focused out the window.
Dammit, Belinda. This is my blackmail.
I look around the room again. “Where’s your dad? Is he on this flight, too?”
Rafe shakes his head. “No, he left yesterday to meet with the other execs before the retreat begins.”
He shifts in his seat, his hips thrusting as he tugs on the legs of his jeans and settles back. Someone, somewhere , must have turned up the furnace as I stare at his denim-clad thighs, willing my gaze away from anywhere deemed inappropriate by the WMC Purcell HR manual.
Rafe glances at me, giving me a once-over. “A little early to be drinking, isn’t it, Trishara?” he asks, eyeing the delicate glass perched in my hand.
Pinning him with a defiant stare, I drain the rest of the contents in one gulp. I might regret that later. “It’s five p.m. in London.”
“We aren’t in London.”
I place the glass on the low table between us. “You’re almost as smart as everyone pretends you are, Rafe.”
A muscle tics in the precise line of his chiseled jaw, and he turns back to gaze out the window. Assuming that ends our conversation, I flip my book open.
“What are you reading?” He tips his head to the side and peers at the cover. I was just getting to the part where the main character was about to give a revenge blowjob to the hot fae prince who kidnapped her, but there’s no way I’m telling Rafe that.
“Why are you turning red?” he asks, a light dancing in his eyes.
My nostrils flare. I refuse to be embarrassed. I’m a grown woman, and thanks to my trust issues with the entire male species, it’s been almost a year since I’ve had sex. There’s nothing wrong with fulfilling my needs through the pages of a smutty novel. Rafe raises an arrogant eyebrow when I remain silent.
“You can borrow it when I’m done,” I answer. “Maybe you’ll learn something about how to please a woman.”
I don’t wait for a response. Instead, I ignore him and return to my reading, finding it impossible to concentrate thanks to his suffocating presence.
A moment later, Rafe stands and snags my empty drink.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He peers down at me with the delicate glass dangling from one of his large hands.
“Getting you a refill.”
“Oh… thanks.”
He tips his chin and heads for the bar.
My frown deepens as I wonder why on earth he’s being nice to me.
Rafe and I don’t do nice.
The first time I met him was a few weeks after I’d started at WMC. I was distracted by my phone and nearly crashed into him in the hall. He grabbed me to keep me from falling, and then I looked up into the most beautiful, deep brown eyes I’d ever seen.
We stared at each other for several seconds, and it sounds ridiculous, but it almost felt like a movie. Like that moment when the crowd parts and you see someone across the room and zap—instant attraction.
But I immediately recoiled from it. After what happened with Leo, I wasn’t about to fall for another pretty face. And certainly not one at the office. I froze up, shook him off, and then walked away.
Over the next few months, I did my best to avoid him, though it wasn’t always possible due to the nature of our work. He was smart and charismatic, and he reminded me too much of Leo—not physically—but Rafe had the same effortless, confident aura. It scared me. He scared me.
It was about a year into my time at WMC when we were assigned to the same project and got into a heated disagreement about how to reroute a pipeline around a protected wetland. His method was cheaper and quicker, but I was positive it would result in an inferior outcome. We argued about it until we reached a begrudging compromise, but neither of us was satisfied.
From that moment on, we couldn’t seem to agree on anything. We butted heads at every turn. Slowly, we became something else. Slowly, we became adversaries. Everything became a competition between us. Who could work the fastest. Who could solve problems the most efficiently. Who could produce the best results.
And it’s been that way ever since.
A few moments later, Rafe returns with a fresh glass for me and a beer for himself. He’s also acquired a small ceramic plate with a few miniature desserts—I already devoured several before he arrived. I watch him pick up a tiny lemon tart and pop it into his mouth before he grimaces.
“Problem?” I ask.
He drops the plate on the table like it’s personally offended him and wipes his hands. “Tastes a bit like cardboard.”
“Oh,” I say because I thought it tasted fine. I didn’t realize Rafe Gallagher had such a picky palate. He goes for his beer, taking a long swallow, and I give him a pointed look when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Someone told me we’re on London time,” he responds, and I huff out an unexpected snort. I cover my mouth, my cheeks flushing at the undignified sound. The corner of Rafe’s lips twitch, almost like he’s clamping down on a smile.
It catches me entirely off guard.
Rafe smiles a lot. He smiles at his friends and his coworkers. He smiles at his girlfriend and his assistant. He smiles at the Khakis and Belinda. At Molly and Brian and Charles. Even at his dad, who I get the sense he doesn’t like very much.
But Rafe Gallagher never, ever smiles at me.
He’s beautiful when he smiles. I can see that. He’s got straight white teeth and a dimple that pops in the corner of his cheek. His brown eyes turn bright, like the color of warm sunshine reflecting through syrup. He’s the guy who shakes hands and makes everyone feel like the most important person in the room. He’s so magnetic, he’s the North Pole.
And I could blame it on our combative relationship, but he’s that way even with people I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like.
That single moment of suppressed amusement might be the closest he’s come to smiling at me in a very long time, and it fires a weird, twisty feeling in my stomach that I don’t like one bit.
I stare at him for a second too long and then blink, turning away.
While we wait for our plane to board, we don’t say much else. Rafe scrolls on his phone while I try to read and pretend he isn’t there.
Finally, it’s time to leave, and we find ourselves on the plane.
Not only did Belinda book Rafe in first class with me, but she also booked our seats together. She’s getting a strongly worded email as soon as I connect my laptop at the hotel.
“I want the window,” I demand as Rafe shoves his bag in the overhead bin.
He gives me a one-shouldered shrug as if it doesn’t make the slightest difference. It doesn’t to me either—I don’t care about the window seat—but needling each other is what we’ve always been good at. With a nod, I slide into the row and plunk down, wiggling my butt deep into the plush leather.
“Comfortable?” Rafe asks as he sits.
“Very,” I say, stretching my legs out and crossing my ankles, admiring my toes manicured in Strawberry Margarita. Rafe settles in his spot, his long legs offering him less freedom to move around, even with the added cabin space. What is he? Six-three? Six-four?
“What?” he asks, and apparently, I’ve been staring. I need to stop this. In theory, anyone would be drawn to Rafe, assuming you’re into that whole “looks just like Henry Cavill if he was ten years younger” thing.
A flight attendant with golden blond hair tied into a smooth knot arrives, holding a tray lined with stubby plastic water bottles. We help ourselves as she asks, “Can I get you a drink? Mimosa? Or—”
“Yes, please,” I say before she can finish.
“Make it two,” Rafe says, flashing her a smile that inexplicably fills my lungs with puffs of green. She gives him an appreciative once-over before she nods and turns away. See? I’m not the only one who finds him attractive.
“Won’t you be a little warm dressed like that?” I ask after our drinks have been served, and we wait for the plane to take off. He looks down at himself and then back up at me.
“I’ll be fine,” he says.
“Not really a flower shirt and shorts kind of guy?”
“Why are you so worried about what I’m wearing?”
“I’m not. You just look hot in that.” My cheeks burst into flames as I realize what I’ve said. “I mean jeans and long sleeves. It’s going to be more than eighty degrees in Maui, and with the humidity, it’ll be stifling…” I can’t stop babbling as I try to cover up my Freudian slip, and Rafe’s mouth curls into a smirk.
A smirk. I guess that’s the closest to a smile I ever get.
“Oh, never mind.” I sit back and fold my arms, staring out the window as the plane starts to move.
“I know you’re obsessed with me, but don’t worry, Tris, I’ll be okay.”
I turn to glare, trying to convey the fathomless depth of my desire to see him jump from this plane somewhere over the Pacific. Ideally, without a parachute.
When the overhead announcements come on, the blond flight attendant gives me a look that suggests she’ll be keeping an eye on me if I’m not paying attention to the safety procedures.
With a huff, I settle back into my seat, daydreaming about the next three weeks. It’s not all bad, even if I’m stuck with my least-favorite person ever. I wish Molly were here—we’d have had such a good time sneaking in some delicious food and going shopping in between whatever the powers that be at WMC have planned for us.
But Google assured me the resort has over six hundred rooms and like six pools and nine bars and twelve restaurants. Plenty of space to ensure I’ll see Rafe as little as possible.
Sure, this is a work trip, but I’m also planning for some R&R. If the only reason I’m here is to make David Gallagher look good, then I’m not wasting this chance to enjoy an all-expenses-paid bit of paradise.
My period just ended, I’m fresh from a Brazilian wax, and I just had my eyebrows rebladed. After four years of casual flings, I swore off men and sex when the last one wanted to get more serious. I wasn’t ready for serious. I’m still not.
But what was an act of self-preservation became a certified drought, and at this point, the only person I’m punishing is me. Not only am I working on my tan and reading as many romance novels as I can, but Molly’s right, and it’s time to find someone hot to make out with. I desperately need to get laid.
But… I also can’t help but focus on the actual reason for this trip.
Most of me has given up on my future with WMC, but I can’t help but nourish a small kernel of hope. What if I could secure one of those spots in the training program? What if I could turn things around? Or what if I’m just kidding myself?
I did fire off the application for the job I was considering with EnviroTech a few days ago to remind myself that it is probably time to move on.
What happened in my past is the past, and I don’t have to keep being grateful to a company that doesn’t value anything I have to offer just because they gave me a job when no one else would.
But my confidence is also shot, and I don’t like my odds.
I sigh as my gaze flicks to Rafe, who’s lying with his head back and his eyes closed. I study his annoyingly pretty face for several moments, noticing how his eyelashes are long enough to create shadows over the arcs of his cheekbones.
Then I shake my head, put in my earbuds, and put on some music as I stare out the window.
A few hours later, I’m awakened by the sound of an overhead voice announcing a patch of turbulence. When I open my eyes, I notice Rafe appears to be speaking. My phone lies on the console between us, and he’s eyeing it with mistrust.
“Mmm hmmfmd mmf,” he says as I blink.
I pull out one of my earbuds. “What?”
“How many times are you going to listen to that song?” He gestures to the screen of my phone where Spotify shows the cover of Taylor Swift’s Folklore . I’ve been listening to “Exile” on repeat.
“Why? What difference does it make to you?”
“It’s weird. Who listens to the same song for two hours?”
I sit up in my seat, not just annoyed but on the verge of homicidal.
“Um, I do? And it’s not weird. Plenty of people do it. Ask anyone.”
“I don’t know anyone who does that. I don’t do that.”
I exhale a long-suffering sigh. “Okay, Rafe. If you don’t do it, then I guess no one can.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Why would this bother you? Am I hurting anyone? I like this song, okay?”
“It doesn’t bother me. It seems to bother you .”
I give him an incredulous look. “You’re the one who started this!”
“I don’t care if you want to listen to the same song for hours.” His tone suggests I’m being the unreasonable one, and I wonder what the maximum prison sentence is for causing a violent incident on a trans-Pacific flight.
I stare at him. It’s been a while since we’ve done this.
When things first turned competitive between us, we channeled our desire to one-up each other by subtly and carefully riding the confines of professionalism.
An offhand comment designed to subtly and cleverly undermine one another during a conference call. A change of time or location of a meeting to ensure the other is a few minutes late. Debating over everything.
There was also the time I stole the e off his keyboard and snapped the lever on his chair so it was stuck on the highest setting. He’s so tall that his knees wouldn’t fit under his desk until they could find him a replacement. Someone was constantly unplugging my monitor, and I couldn’t keep the same stapler for more than a week before it went missing.
But then he started dating Hannah, and the games stopped.
Instead, we resorted to the silent treatment and hundred-yard stares beamed across the conference table in our continued battle of wills. It’s been a while since we’ve experienced this sort of forced proximity, and it feels like we’re falling into an abandoned but familiar pattern, bickering like we used to.
“Can I just enjoy the rest of the flight in peace?” I ask, picking up where we left off two years ago, ignoring how the familiarity of our fighting almost feels like snuggling into a warm blanket.
He raises his hands in supplication. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”
“Good.” I go to put the bud back in my ear.
“It’s just weird,” he says, and I throw him a look dark enough to summon an eclipse.
This is going to be a very long three weeks.