6. Brent
Brent
November isn’t prime tourist weather, and the air is thick with the promise of rain when we leave the hotel. I can’t remember why Trevor said their wedding had to be this weekend—knowing him it’s because the venue was cheaper. Nothing in Bermuda is cheap.
A low concrete wall frames every property we pass, and most of them have a metal gate or some other way to get into their enclosed gardens. The stucco houses are painted blue, yellow, white, or pink. A tropical paradise, and I wonder whether any of it reminds Posey of home.
“Give me your worst memory,” Posey says as we stroll along the sidewalk to the restaurant.
“You’re going for the jugular?” I stuff my hands into my pockets. Deeply personal is not happening tonight. “Is this what Bellerive is like?”
“Since you’re keen to discuss my favorite place in the world, I will let you sidestep my very important question.”
I snort. She doesn’t need my worst memory. I’ve had a pretty good life, and that memory isn’t going to tell her much the world doesn’t already know.
“Bellerive is magical.”
She says it without an ounce of insincerity. “Like fairies and shit?”
“Fairies and shit.” She pretends to think. “I’m sure there’s shit. It’s a natural by-product of living things. As for the fairies, really, Brent? Really?”
I chuckle. “All right. What makes it so magical then?”
“It’s the perfect blend of modern and old-world. My limited experience of Bermuda, which includes my internet searches on the plane, tells me that this island is an infant compared to Bellerive.”
“Oh really? An infant. Bold statement.”
She eyes me with a sly smile. “Bold is the only way to go, baby.” Her voice is husky with fake desire. She can turn it on and off like a faucet.
I shake my head at her audaciousness. One thing I can say about Posey already—life with her would never be boring. “How old is Bellerive?”
“We go all the way back.” She winks. “Monarchy records start in the 1100s after a brief war for power. We weren’t discovered, so much as evolved.
We’re one of the few countries that didn’t have multiple external power exchanges.
Our monarchy, when other countries came knocking, was strong enough to maintain control.
We’re also small, and not particularly useful in terms of war or trade. ”
“Does everyone on the island know so much about royal history?”
“Um.” Posey’s gaze darts away as though she’s unsure how to answer.
“Hard question?” I smirk. “It’s not like I asked for your worst memory.”
“Would you like to know my worst memory?” She squares her shoulders.
“Feels like a trap.” I check the map on my phone, and then I glance at her.
“My worst memory involves my sister, Julia Jensen.” She tries to smother her grin and fails.
The name rings a bell for some reason. I frown and indicate the street ahead of us. “We turn here. What makes it so bad?”
“Her best friend, Nick, was in a motorcycle accident, and he refused to see her.” Posey’s expression turns far away. “She was so hurt. So, so hurt. Unrequited love is the worst.”
“She was in love with him?” I place my palm on the small of her back to steer her toward the restaurant’s entrance, and the contact warms more than my hand. “Sounds like a disaster.”
“She was. It was.” She sighs. “Still is. Love is nothing but trouble.”
“That why you don’t do boyfriends?”
“I—I don’t know.” She frowns.
“If your worst memory is your sister having her heart broken, that’s quite an impact.
Bound to make you cautious.” Did Val and I ever talk about anything important?
Most of our time together was spent with me balls deep in one of her orifices or with her posing me for thirst-inducing photos.
Soul searching questions like my worst memory never came up.
“I’m probably about one hundred paces away from cautious... Is there a phobia of relationships? That might be me.”
I open the door to the restaurant, and I consider Posey’s claim. “Sounds hyperbolic.”
“Oh yeah. Totally is.” She laughs. “I have a healthy fear of relationships.”
A slow smile spreads across my face, and as a waiter approaches, I whisper in her ear, “Sounds like an oxymoron.”
“For two?” the waiter asks.
“You sound like an English major.” Posey beams at the guy. “Yes, for two.”
“Business major.” I follow the two of them to a small table in a corner. The restaurant is tiny, with maybe fifteen or twenty tables in total. On coat hangers, hung from the ceiling, and around the perimeter of the restaurant are hats on hooks, so many hats.
“Ah, big business.” Posey smirks.
“Alliteration,” I say while I take in the deluge of hats. Odd, but I suppose that’s how they sell the Mad Hatter image without infringing on Alice in Wonderland.
“Well done. You’ve become my senior English class in a slightly more attractive package.”
“Slightly more attractive?” I scoff. “I bet the hearts on my ex-girlfriend’s portfolio of photos say otherwise.”
“I don’t give away my hearts to just anyone.” Posey tucks in her chair and then flaps out her napkin.
“I think you might be emotionally stunted.”
“Says the guy who dated his girlfriend for a year and doesn’t know whether she’s in love with him. Your armchair diagnosis is unreliable.” She opens the menu. “Besides, I freely shared my worst memory. No hesitation.” She eyes me over the top. “You, on the other hand...”
“I didn’t share it because it’s common knowledge for super fans.”
“The only thing I’m a super fan of is your body.”
“Slightly.” I mock her claim about how attractive she finds me while the waiter fills our water glasses.
“Perhaps more than slightly.” She holds up a finger. “I never acknowledge any of her photos or yours. Not that you post much.”
“Maybe not with your finger on the button.” I lift my water for a drink. I’ve fallen behind on my hydration.
“Oh, there have been some fingers involved.” She gives me a naughty grin. “Two?” She shows me her index and middle finger squeezed together. “They just press a different button to demonstrate their approval.”
I choke on my sip of water. Did she just admit to masturbating to my photos? She could be lying to get a rise out of me, but I’m not convinced in either direction. Hot as hell, though. I could get used to these overshares—true or not. “I hope it was a satisfying experience for you.”
“To be honest, I hope other experiences prove to be more satisfying this weekend.” Her gaze travels over me.
“Than your own hand?” I tease.
“If your hand satisfies you more than someone else’s, they’re doing it wrong.” She doesn’t bother to meet my gaze as she peruses the menu. “I hope that’s not an indication of what I’ll be getting because...” She makes a thumbs down motion.
“Nice to see you’re capable of more than rotating your fingers in a circular motion around me.”
“Yep!” She purses her lips and peers over the menu again. “And if you see either happening while we’re together, you’re not winning any points.”
“Oh, there’s a points system?” I lean forward. “I do appreciate a challenge.”
“Ooh. You enjoy being treated like a child? Would you like me to create a chart? Maybe buy some stickers for it?”
The waiter appears at our table before I can say anything, not that I had much of a retort. Replies seem to drip from Posey’s tongue as though she has her witty autoreply engaged.
“Have you decided?” the waiter asks.
“We have a food voucher from a friend’s wedding,” Posey says, and she motions for me to get it out.
I pass it to the waiter.
He nods. “Ah, okay.” He rattles off the menu for starters, mains, and desserts.
“Ladies first,” I say to Posey when the waiter is done. She orders the mixed greens and rock fish. “Make it two. And a bottle of your house—” I gesture for Posey to fill in the blank.
“White.”
“Very good. I’ll bring your soup out shortly.” He takes the menus and disappears behind the serving doors.
The restaurant is quiet, and we sit sipping our water for a beat. When Posey isn’t talking, it feels like a punishment, as though she’s withholding her chatter. I’ve never been around a woman where I couldn’t wait to hear what she’d say next.
While I’m sure she can’t always be switched on, her witty banter amuses me. I’m somewhat surprised to admit it, but I’m enjoying myself. A few hours ago I met a complete stranger at the airport, and she already feels like a friend.
A slightly combative friend.
“My worst memory?” I suggest.
She wiggles in her chair and sets down her water. “Ooo. Yes. Give it to me.”
“I’ll give it to you all right.” I grin.
Her eyes light up with delight in response. She places her elbows on the table and angles herself toward me as though I’m about to tell the best story. “Go deep. I want you all the way in.”
Christ, my pants are uncomfortably tight. It’s a good thing we’ve got multiple courses before I need to leave this table.
“You really don’t know the story?” I ask.
“No.” She shifts away from the table. “I’m this shallow. Your hot body was the extent of my investigation.”
“At fourteen I missed making the Olympics by .001. The loss was terrible. Absolutely terrible. I gave up so much to be in that pool in that moment. Felt like I choked, even though it was a best time. Zero perspective. Then I was a complete dick to my coach on camera. You must’ve seen that?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I think it’s probably wrong for me to say you were cute even at fourteen? Is that wrong? I would have been fourteen too. Maybe not so wrong.”
“As I am sure you can imagine, the backlash wasn’t pretty.” I rub my face. “Learned a lot in that experience. Never played the ‘poor me’ card again. No need for the world to know my true feelings. Just get on with it. Ignore it all and keep pushing forward.”
Posey tips her fork from side to side on the table, and the waiter returns with the wine to pour us each a glass. He sets the bottle in the middle of the table.
Before the waiter can leave, Posey sits up straight in her chair. “Excuse me? The hats around the restaurant. Are we able to try some on?”
The waiter nods. “Of course.” He disappears into the kitchen.
Posey stares at me expectantly.
“No.” I take in the vast array of apparel, but no part of me is tempted to indulge. “I’m not putting some lice factory on my head.”
“If lice are the worst thing you catch in your life, that’s not so bad.” She rises from her chair. “I’ve spotted yours.”
“That’s not a valid argument,” I call to her.
“Pick one for me or forfeit your chance.”
I leave the table to snatch up the one with a bunch of snakes sprouting out of it. When she comes back to the table, she’s got a psychedelic squid. I didn’t go ugly enough with my choice. She pushes the hat onto my head with a satisfied smirk.
I pass her the abundance of snakes.
“Medusa.” Her lips twitch. “I mean, there is a piece of you I’d gladly turn as hard as stone.”
I run my hands down my face, and Posey laughs.
“Everything that comes out of your mouth is a giant sexual innuendo.”
“Giant. Mouth. Putting those two things in a sentence is just asking for trouble.” She bats her eyes at me. “I already have certain expectations. I have seen you in a very tight, very little swimsuit.”
“I’ll make a sign when we get back to the hotel to slap over top of my underwear.”
The waiter slides a bowl of soup in front of each of us.
Once he’s out of earshot, Posey says, “Out of curiosity, what would the sign say?” She raises the spoon brimming with hot liquid to her lips.
With my hand, I get ready to space out the three words in the air. “Not as advertised.”
She sputters out a laugh and drops the soup into the bowl again. She points her spoon at me. “We’re going to have a fun weekend.”
There’s no doubt in my mind either. She’s not at all who I expected, but she might be exactly who I need.