Chapter 25 Sydney
Sydney
One day later, we sit near the short wall in an open-air restaurant surrounded by hibiscus and lush greenery.
Located across the street from a white-sand beach, the restaurant offers a spectacular view of turquoise waves rolling into shore and of cargo ships hulking in the distance.
Somewhere, just out of eyeshot, children scream with glee.
A gentle breeze caresses my newly tan skin, exposed by my yellow halter-top sundress.
The temperature is hot, but not uncomfortable, and the smell . . . oh, my word. Delicious.
“This is officially the best idea I’ve ever had.” I close my mouth over another forkful of banana macadamia nut pancake.
“You agreed to marry me. That was your best idea. But this is close,” Gabriel says.
Each time I glance at my husband’s name tag, I attempt to commit it to memory. Gabriel’s purple and green bowling shirt isn’t exactly the floral design so many people wear here, but it doesn’t look out of place either. Not that he’d care if it was.
“And the coffee. Best coffee I’ve ever had. Thank you so much,” I say to the waitress.
She refills my cup, her dark eyes warm. “The beans are grown right here on the island. Maui Mokka is my favorite.”
I gesture with both hands. “There you go. That explains why.”
She chuckles. “Is this your first time visiting Maui?”
I twist my lips to the side. The answer is “probably not.” Gabriel says we’ve been coming to the islands at least once a year for the last seven years. I forgot to ask when he flew us in his helicopter if I’d been to this island before.
Flying from the big island of Hawai’i to Maui reminded me of another trip. Hovering over autumn color with this man smiling beside me. I’d accused him of “stealing” me, but I’d laughed when I said it.
The waitress lifts her eyebrows, and I clear my throat. Pay attention. It’s not the time to fantasize about my husband’s hands and forearms and hair-roughened muscular legs in cargo shorts and how ridiculously hot he looks in a Mets ball cap flying a helicopter.
I fan my face with my napkin. “It’s not my first time visiting, but it feels brand new.”
The waitress looks both of us over and heaves a happy breath. “Everything is different when you’re seeing it with eyes full of love.”
I offer her a nervous smile, then focus on cutting and forking up my next bite of pancake, dragging it through the caramel sauce.
McRae murmurs his thanks as she refills his coffee cup. When she moves on to another table, he folds his hands over his flat belly and leans back in his chair. “When we’re done here, are you ready to head home, or do you want to keep going?”
I grimace. “I hate that sitting in a helicopter, driving to a restaurant, and eating breakfast for lunch have me exhausted already, but I think the caffeine and your company are the only things keeping me awake.” Some days, I have to lie down after taking a shower, let alone this level of activity.
“This is more than enough. I’ll take you home and tuck you in bed for a little nap.”
“Worried I’m not tucking myself properly?”
He leans closer. “Your self-care technique is top tier. The question is—Why would you want to tuck yourself when you’ve got a talented, thoughtful, and enthusiastic tucker ready to service your every need?”
“Are you sure you’re talking about a nap?”
He grins and brings his coffee cup to his mouth. “What else could I be referring to?”
I lick a drop of caramel from my lip and smirk when he stares. “I have no idea. I’m not the one obsessed with tucking me.”
He laughs, then he nods to my plate. “Can we classify today as a success?”
“One hundred percent. I wasn’t anxious at all. It would have taken a mind reader to target my food here.”
He nods, but his eyes have a little dent between them.
I set down my fork. “I get it. I have no proof that someone I know drugged me in the past, and no rational reason to think they could sneak into our house or tamper with our food supply either. All I have is a gut feeling that someone I trusted did me dirty.”
“You’re probably right that someone you know helped him. Ignoring your instincts is usually a bad idea.”
“Except when those feelings are nothing more than my subconscious trying to compensate for past trauma and making me think everything is a crisis.”
He plucks a deep pink blossom from a nearby bush. Leaning forward, he tucks it above my ear. “Except then.”
The desire already coiling through me twists to an almost unbearable level.
“All that silky tan skin draped in sunlight and hibiscus, your hair loose and wild, lips sweet with sugar, and your eyes reflecting the sky. You tear me apart, rearrange the pieces, and put me back together with one look,” he murmurs.
I sleep next to this man every night. He told me he loves me.
What did I do in the past that has me afraid to give in to my feelings now? Moving to a sexual relationship won’t change anything on a fundamental level. We’re already emotionally attached. I could take that step.
“Gabe? I thought that was you!” A man walking on the other side of the street shouts our way.
McRae lifts his head and eases back into his seat, a frown crossing his features before he hides it with an affable smile.
The dark-haired man, stocky with a bit of a belly and several inches shorter than my husband, huffs his way over to the knee wall between us with a beer in hand.
A beautiful mid-twenties blonde in a white sun hat, a gauzy summer skirt, and white bikini top trails behind him carrying a fruity-looking drink.
McRae rises and they reach over the wall to clap each other on the back.
“I haven’t seen you in years. It’s got to be a decade,” the man says.
“Close to that. Are you here on vacation?” McRae asks.
“A couple weeks of rest and relaxation. I was sorry to hear what your wife went through,” the man says.
Gabriel nods. “Thanks.”
The man looks at me in expectation. In my periphery, Dave steps closer.
“Sydney, this is Regis Martell. The fourth. Regis, my wife Sydney.” Gabriel puts an arm around my waist as I join him.
“Nice to meet you, Sydney. Don’t worry about the number after my name. This clown likes to yank my chain. Call me Rege.” Rege’s glassy eyes and overly hearty laugh remind me of my father and his friends. Different tax bracket. Same drinking-buddy vibe.
Normal people can cut loose and have a couple drinks on vacation. All your friends drink occasionally. Drunk on vacation doesn’t mean this guy is an alcoholic.
All true, but nothing on earth can stop my heart from racing and my stomach from tightening into a fist while I stand within touching distance of an unknown intoxicated man. The smell of the beer alone makes me want to vomit. Get a grip, Sydney.
I manage a socially polite smile but eye him warily. “Hello, Rege.”
“You must’ve had to drag this one down the aisle,” Rege says to me.
“I was the one doing the dragging,” McRae says.
Rege roars with laughter. “That’s what she wants you to think. I hope that prenup is airtight. I know better than to fuck smart women.”
What a dick.
Behind him, the blonde rolls her eyes and plays with the huge diamond in her left ear.
Gabriel shifts and puts one foot in front of mine, slightly blocking me from the other man.
Rege grins, undeterred. “Did Gabe ever tell you about the time those girls followed him to Cabo and got into a fistfight with each other over which one got to s—?”
“You didn’t introduce your friend,” McRae says, cutting him off.
Rege glances behind him, then throws his arm around the blonde’s shoulders and guides her forward. “This is Mindy. Mindy, say hello to Gabriel and Sydney McRae.”
The woman extends a hand and gives me a little grimace. “Melody. Melody Herbert. Mindy is a nickname Rege likes to use. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Melody,” I say.
As we each shake, Rege takes another swig from his beer. “I’ve got the Wandering Soul docked here. Brayden and Thomas brought a few girls each. Come on out. It’ll be like old times. I’ve got top-shelf tequila you’re going to love.”
The pancake that was so delicious moments ago churns in my stomach. I may have grown up in a different world, but some things are universal. No man with friends like this ever respects the woman he’s with, let alone puts a woman or child first.
I turn to get a better view of my husband.
I married him. I wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t earned my trust. He can’t be someone who would try to drag me out to something like this or send me home alone with security so he can party on a yacht with these guys and a bunch of women. He can’t actually like this man.
McRae shakes his head and smiles amiably. “Thanks for the invitation, but it’s not my scene. You guys have fun.”
Sheer relief threatens to turn my knees to jelly.
Rege smacks him on the shoulder. “Get the fuck out of here. You’re not still doing that teetotaller bullshit?”
“Calling it bullshit is just one reason why it’s been so many years since we’ve hung out together.”
Rege scans him head to toe with a look of disgust. “You’ve been through hell, and now you can’t even spend a weekend with your friends to recharge? She’s got you whipped, bro. You need to unwind.” He indicates my crossbody bag. “Is she carrying your balls in there?”
“They’d never fit in that little thing. I did hear something about you a few years ago. You do know if you dried out a little, you could probably manage to hold on to a relationship and an erection. Whiskey dick is reversible, little buddy,” McRae says.
Melody’s eyes widen and a spurt of laughter escapes before she stifles it.
Rege shoots her a glare. “You think that’s funny?”
Of course. A man bigger than he is embarrasses him, and instead of responding to the insult, he turns on someone he perceives as weaker.
Melody shakes her head and gives him innocent eyes. “We all know it isn’t true. That’s why it’s funny, baby.”
He grunts in approval. When Rege looks away from her to face us, she lifts her finger and thumb in a pinching motion and mouths, “It’s a little bit true.”
I sputter as I try, but fail, to control my laugh.
Rege sneers at me. “Shut your mouth. Or I’ll shut it for you, bitch.”
I push my way closer. “Try it. I’ll punch you in that tiny dick, then slam the edge of my delicious plate of pancakes into your throat while you’re crying and gagging on the concrete.” I speak slowly, so the adrenaline doesn’t short-circuit my brain-to-mouth connection.
Then, I give him the smile I once used to psych out our opposing teams. Half feral and ready for anything they could bring. Technically, I haven’t built back the strength to pour from a half-gallon jug without using two hands, but he doesn’t know that.
“I’ll hold him for you,” my husband says.
I freeze. At some point during this exchange, not only did McRae move forward to stand beside me, my “minion” stepped over the wall and into Rege’s space. These men never would’ve allowed him to make contact with me.
I attended eight different schools by my senior year and met people like Rege at every one.
I changed my grammar, my accent, and my vocabulary to fit in.
I shoved down my Appalachian roots and hid them away until that person was nothing but a memory.
Then, they had a problem with my athleticism.
My supposed lack of femininity. My clothes or that I didn’t have parents.
Too smart. Too ugly, but “what did you do to make my boyfriend stare at you?”
Every new foster placement had moments where I had to earn my place there.
I’ve closed my eyes and willed myself to disappear in a futile attempt to go unnoticed, and I’ve fought for survival, always evaluating the threat and choosing which tactic would get me furthest with my self-respect intact—faking a tough outer shell when my insides were soft as room-temperature butter.
I forgot that this isn’t the same. My life is different. For the first time in my memory, I don’t have to earn a thing. I’m not temporary or replaceable to my husband. If I can’t stand up for myself, he’ll fight for me. Beside me. I’m not alone.
“You’re the best h-husband who ever lived.” I choke on the lump in my throat.
His lips quirk in a gentle smile, and he places a tender hand on the nape of my neck.
“Your wife is insane,” Rege snaps.
“No I’m not. I just have zero tolerance for drunk assholes.” My words may be slow, but they’re razor sharp.
“Then good luck, babe. You bagged yourself the worst one of us all,” Rege says.
He jerks his chin to my left. “When you come to your senses, find me, bro. I have a case of Clase Azul tequila waiting for you and a yacht full of gorgeous women who’ll keep your balls so drained, you won’t remember your own name, let alone hers.”