Chapter 5 #2
Jeremy’s mouth twitches. He sets the glass down and leans toward me, one hand clasping the edge of the countertop in a way that makes his forearm flex.
Once again, I notice that he has really nice forearms. They’re muscular without being bulky, with a dusting of dark hair.
He must work out, right? I’m sure it’s with some personal trainer to the stars.
He’s probably hiding a ripped bod under those boring clothes he wears. Not that I want to see it or anything.
Hey, liar, my body chides. Your pants are on fire.
“Everyone everywhere knows my preferred drink.”
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, but his frown tells me he’s not proud of that fact, which is odd because isn’t it supposed to be awesome to have people fulfilling your needs before you even realize you have them?
“What’s your preference?” I ask.
“Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, twenty-three-year,” Michael answers, earning a curt nod from Jeremy.
I blink. “That’s extremely specific.”
Jeremy arches a brow. “And?”
“That’s all you drink?”
“I drink water.” He ticks off the list on his fingers. “Coffee. Protein shakes.”
“Wow. Do you have somebody taste them first?”
“Why would I—” He stops, and I can’t decide if he looks incredulous or amused by the question. “Are you asking if I screen for poison?”
“I mean, you’re a billionaire. Seems like a valid concern.”
“No one’s trying to poison me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because no one has successfully poisoned me yet.”
I laugh despite myself, and his expression shifts to mild amusement. Either that or he has gas. Hard to tell with Jeremy. His default setting seems to be vaguely irritated with a side of brooding intensity, so any deviation reads like a seismic event.
“I’m not a medieval king, Avah,” he says finally, and hearing him speak my name again, like he’s parsing out the syllables, is way hotter than it should be.
I scrunch up my nose like awareness isn’t zipping along my spine. “Born in the wrong century.”
“Clearly.”
Michael has turned away to focus on plating the appetizer, but I can see his shoulders shaking slightly. He’s laughing at us, and that makes me want to smile even harder.
We migrate to the dining table, which has already been set for two with crisp cloth napkins and silverware that’s as heavy as a gym weight.
The teak deck is warm beneath my feet, and glass hurricane lanterns flicker softly along the railing.
The lagoon shimmers beyond our private stretch of sand while the shadowy outline of Mount Otemanu rises in the distance.
The outdoor kitchen is all ambient lighting and sleek design, the kind of place that makes you forget you’re basically eating in the backyard.
I settle into my chair and take another sip of the mocktail. “My dad drank bourbon even though he hated it.”
The comment hangs in the air between us like a fart in church.
The little flash of resignation in Jeremy’s eyes when he talked about people knowing his drink order emboldened me to share the detail when I normally don’t talk about my father to anyone.
Not even my best friend in the book club, Molly, knows the full story of my family of origin.
“How do you know he hated it?” He’s watching me carefully now, like he’s decided he might not hate puzzles as much as he thought.
I pick up the napkin and smooth it across my lap. “He told me once that bourbon tastes like charred cat piss, but it’s what powerful men drink.”
Jeremy takes another sip, and I swear to God, he grimaces.
“Did you just grimace?” I lean forward. “Does your drink taste like charred cat piss?”
“I made a face at the idea I’m drinking what someone told you was charred cat piss.”
“You don’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your face said it for you.”
Michael arrives with our first course, the seared ahi tuna situation with a citrus glaze, mango and avocado, plus micro-greens arranged in a way that suggests they were individually placed by tiny chef tweezers.
“Would you like another, sir?” Michael indicates Jeremy’s half-empty glass.
“He’ll have what I’m having,” I tell the chef with a wink.
Jeremy scoffs. “I will not.”
“Two strawberry fizzy mocktails, please.” I hold up two fingers and smile at Michael, then shift my gaze to Jeremy. “You can thank me later.”
Michael stands there looking uncomfortable, his eyes darting between us like he’s watching a tennis match and can’t figure out who’s winning.
“The mocktail and another bourbon,” Jeremy says evenly.
“Please,” I add, still smiling.
As Michael escapes back to the kitchen, we dig into the tuna. It’s almost too pretty to eat, but I’m starving, and the first bite is so good I actually moan out loud.
“Thank you again for the massage,” I say after a moment. “Even though you didn’t have to do it. The cockwaffle and I were supposed to get couples massages. Today was way better.”
Something dark flashes in Jeremy’s eyes. “Have you spoken to him?”
“Not since I walked out. I blocked his number. I haven’t spoken to anyone.” I set down my fork. “Have you?”
“I keep my promises.”
The words land soft but solid, and I believe him. I don’t know why, exactly, but Jeremy Winslow seems like the kind of man who’d sooner cut off his own hand than break his word. Even to someone he barely tolerates.
Michael returns with our drinks, setting the bright pink mocktails in front of each of us and replacing Jeremy’s bourbon glass with a fresh pour. I watch Jeremy eye the strawberry fizz like it might contain actual poison, and stop trying to hide the smile that tugs at my lips.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Live a little.”
With a theatrical scowl, he picks up the glass and takes a drink. His expression cycles through surprise and contemplation before shifting into grudging approval. He tries to play it cool, but I catch the slight widening of his eyes as he swallows.
“It’s not terrible,” he says.
“It’s delicious.”
“It’s tolerable.”
“You love it.”
“I’m drinking it out of politeness to the chef.”
“It’s better than charred cat piss, and you know it.”
He doesn’t argue, just takes another sip, and I count it as another win.
The sun is setting beyond the infinity pool, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that look like something out of a travel blog.
Or a perfect honeymoon, even though mine was anything but.
I should have ended things with Jon long before yesterday, but I had my reasons for staying.
The one that held the most sway wasn’t even about me, and I have no doubt I’ll feel the consequences eventually.
I can’t think about that now. That’s a problem for future me.
And while I feel for her, I can’t prevent what’s coming, so why bother?
There’s enough to deal with right now. Particularly the fact that I’m sitting across from a man who, twenty-four hours ago, I would have bet money didn’t know how to smile. But every time he does, I feel like if that can happen, anything is possible.