Chapter 2
Friends Without Benefits
Marnee
“This sun is amazing. Could you rub more lotion on my back? I don't want to burn.” I hold my bottle of sunscreen out to the gorgeous cabana boy in front of me.
“I’d be happy to, miss,” he says, stepping toward me.
“Touch her and you die a slow death,” Jake says from the lounge chair next to me.
In addition to being my best friend, Jake is also a total cockblock.
With perfect ominous timing, thunder rumbles off in the distance.
There’s a storm warning for some of the Caribbean islands, but Jake, The Weather Channel, AccuWeather, and a local Instagram-famous meteorologist named Island Weather Wally have all assured me it’s not headed in our direction. The spaghetti plots are in my favor.
The cabana boy nods nervously at Jake, turns on his heel, and heads quickly to the group of women in neon bikinis at the far side of the pool.
One of them is wearing a sash that says “bride in training.” I’m tempted to warn her about a few things—that marriage will change her in ways that she won’t expect, that her husband will disappoint her in ways she never thought possible, and that her sash is going to leave one hell of a tan line.
“You’re a shitty wingman, Monroe. I just got divorced. You’re supposed to be helping me get over that hump.”
“Don’t say hump. It turns me on.” Jake grabs the bottle out of my hand, squirts half of it into his left palm, and slathers it onto my back.
“You really are a child, you know that?” I huff.
“Is that why I’m finger painting right now? Jesus, what is this stuff? It’s like white paint.”
“It’s reef-safe, mineral sunscreen. Because people in nice places actually care about the environment.”
“Is that what you call spraying an entire can of that dry shampoo into your hair? Because I’ve seen you do that. I hear aerosol is awesome for the environment.”
“Give me my sunscreen, dick. I’m going back to the cabana boy.” I try to grab it from his hand, but he plants a hand on my back and keeps me in place.
“Shut up and stay still. If you roll over this lounge chair is going to look like a chalk outline crime scene.” He stops finger painting on my back and rubs the sunscreen over my shoulders, under my straps, down my sides, using up all the excess he squirted out down the back of my calves and arms.
In general, Jake is too rough and too tough. He’s a big guy—hard muscle in all the places my ex was soft—and has the same gentle finesse as a bull in a china shop. But what he's doing now—his strong fingers digging into my tense muscles that haven’t been touched since I got divorced—is heavenly.
Before the divorce really, if I’m being honest with myself. But this trip isn't about being honest, so I ignore my inner voice, lay on the chair and take the rub down.
“You need to let me do these things,” Jake insists as he works on my shoulders. “This is a recon mission. An info-only trip. We are supposed to fly under the radar. This way, we look like a happy couple on vacation. What does it say if I let some local pool boy rub lotion all over my girl?”
“That you’re confident in your manhood,” I say into the hotel towel.
“I’ll show you my manhood. You can check and see if it’s confident.” I'm still face down on the towel, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
“That’s not what… you know what, never mind,” I laugh to myself and roll my eyes.
Despite being in his mid-twenties, Jake is a brute with the sense of humor of a fourteen-year-old boy.
He’s been this way for as long as I’ve known him, but his heart and intentions are pure.
He’s been more than just an incredible friend since everything happened.
He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. Period.
“I’m not interested in your manhood. And I’m not your girl. What time is the lunch reservation?”
“Noon. Bingham has a reservation a half hour after that, and I want to be seated and watching when he rolls in. I want to get eyes on him, his car, his entourage, everything. And during lunch, we need to look like a lovey dovey couple.”
“We need to look like a couple. Lovey dovey was not in the job description.”
“I’m just saying, no pool boy rubdowns or flirting with cute waiters. I’m not your wingman here, I’m your boss. What if I was doing the same from one of those pretty island girls with the welcome margaritas? We’d be made in a second.”
My boss. As if.
“Not necessarily. Plenty of people have open relationships. Maybe we’re a confident couple who swings? People don’t know.”
“If we swing, it’s not going to be with that pool boy, or any other guy. It’d be with another girl. Or maybe two.”
“Jake, swingers trade partners. What you’re referring to is a harem. Unless you bring in multiple guys to one girl, then, technically it’s a reverse harem.”
“A reverse what?”
“A reverse harem. Where one girl has multiple guys. Though really they’re more than just sex partners, they’re usually boyfriends.”
“Now you’re just making shit up.”
“I’m not.” I glance down at my book tucked under my chair. “It’s a thing.”
He rubs the last of the lotion into my back, gives me a playful swat on my ass, and says, “if you say so, Flapjack.”
My ex-husband, Nick, was told more than a few times that he smelled like soup. I didn't notice it at first, or maybe I just didn't care, but as we moved away from a loving marriage and toward something totally unmanageable, I became acutely aware of the smell.
Like minestrone. Kind of tomatoey.
I don't know where the smell came from, but It was unnerving, and made him entirely unkissable. On the day I signed the divorce papers, Jake drove me to and from the lawyer’s office. On the way out, he said, “Congratulations, Flapjack.”
“Flapjack?”
“Yup. Something sweet that should never be paired with syrup or whipped cream. Strawberries, even. Never with minestrone-fucking-soup. Get in the car, we’re going out to celebrate.”
That night he got me rip-roaring drunk, carried me home to his house, put me to bed in the guest room, and made me flapjacks for breakfast the next morning, which I subsequently threw up.
A young woman walks up to our lounge chairs and a shadow covers my back as she blocks the sun.
“Excuse me, are you Jake Monroe?”
“Depends on who’s asking.” Jake's tone darkens.
“I’m Geneva. I’m with the front desk. Your room is ready.”
“About time,” he says.
“Your bags behind the desk will be brought over for you.” She hands him a small envelope containing our room keys and leaves.
“Thank you,” I call after her.
“You don’t have to be nice to everyone, Flapjack,” Jake insists.
“Lighten up, Monroe. She’s just doing her job. I promise, she’s not going to tell the rest of the world that you’re actually nice. Your secret is safe.”
“I’m just saying. It takes up a lot of brain power to constantly be so polite. It’s not necessary. And it can get you into trouble.”
“Ever hear the expression you get more flies with honey?”
He scrunches his face. “Why would I want more flies?”
“Ugh, you’re infuriating.”
“I’m cute, too.” He tips his chin up then holds out a hand to help out of the lounge chair.
I roll my eyes. “Come on, take me to our room. I need to shower off this sunscreen.”
“Ha, I knew it. You hate it. You do look freakishly pale with it on. You might end up with a reverse tan.” He winks and hands me my book.
“Fuck you, Monroe,” I smirk sheepishly and nudge him with my freakishly pale shoulder.
“Only with three other guys, apparently.” He nudges me back.
We arrive at room seventy-six, on the first floor as requested, and I stop cold in the entryway as Jake pushes the door open.