Chapter 8
The espresso machine behind the counter hisses, drowning out the conversations around me and erasing the overhead announcement. The airport coffee shop is packed to the gills with businesspeople on their way to God knows where. A sigh escapes me when I realize, had I not forced the transfer to Atlanta, I could be on my way to Spain or Australia or Italy right now.
None of those options compares to the adventure I embarked on yesterday.
I can see Andie by our gate, leaning against a wall, trying to escape conversation with a chatty woman next to her who must have found out we were on our honeymoon.
The show made us wear these stupid T-shirts in matching colors, so there’s no escaping the congratulations as we flee the country.
Andie slouched in the van all the way to the airport, her sunglasses perched on her nose. She curled up in the fetal position against the window, attempting to get more sleep, probably. If the other couples weren’t with us, I’d have teased her relentlessly about choosing to sleep on the couch.
But seeing her in her satin shorts and tank top this morning was a sight that went straight to my cock. She’s filled out in all the right places. Her hips are more pronounced, and even under clothes I could see the soft curve of her belly, where before there was only skin and bones.
She looks so much softer than she acts, which feels like a secret only I know. She’s incredibly tender underneath the scales and claws and growls and glares. When she wants to be, she’s so brutally soft, it knocks the wind out of me. Or at least it had back then. Maybe her body is the only gentle thing about her now; we’ve both changed.
I frown at my shoes.
How’s that spot on her hip that looked raw last night? She hasn’t complained about it, but it must be black and blue by now. And we’re about to cram into tiny airplane seats for a few hours. Do I have any Advil in my messenger bag? I might have time to grab some if I—
The barista yells my name and I flinch out of my brooding thoughts. I collect my coffee and the brown paper bag she slides across the counter.
I head back to the gate, making a beeline to rescue Andie from the chatty woman, but I’m intercepted by one of the other grooms, who pats the empty seat next to him. With a glance at Andie—she hasn’t even noticed I’m back—I take the seat.
“Is it just me, or was it iceberg city between you two on the bus this morning?” Patrick doesn’t waste any time.
I bide my time with a sip of coffee so hot it scalds my tongue and makes my eyes water. The waters between Andie and me are frigid, to say the least. They’re choppy and filled with the flotsam and jetsam of our previous crash and burn.
By the time things had settled down enough at home for me to get my head on straight, I was delinquent on my phone bill and couldn’t pay to turn it back on. Strung out on adrenaline and grief, I didn’t have the forethought to bring my laptop with me, so I hadn’t emailed her either. When I was finally able to turn my phone back on, there was a voice mail from her, confirming all my worst fears.
We were done. Forever.
We need to fucking talk. She needs to know why I left, that it had nothing to do with her or the stupid fight we had right before my world fell apart. But she doesn’t want to hear it. Won’t even let me finish my damn sentence.
Not now, and not then, either. When I finally found her, her roommate wouldn’t let me in. Called me all sorts of names on her behalf. I did catch a glimpse of Andie on the couch just before the door slammed in my face. She was … broken.
That image has been burned in my brain for a whole decade, along with all the things I wish I’d told her earlier.
I don’t know what our plan is going forward, to get through the next eight weeks. I feel like the universe personally handed me a get out of jail free card, and I’d be an idiot not to cash it in. Surely eight weeks is enough to convince Andie I’m sorry, to show her the truth.
What we shared for those few months was unforgettable, even a decade in the past.
Patrick nudges me with his elbow. “What did you do?”
I swallow the bile climbing up my throat. “Nothing. She’s just … going to be a tough nut to crack, I think.”
Patrick nods, looking toward his bride, Kendra, who’s headed our way, coffees in hand. His face softens. I’ve never seen anyone truly light up before, but Patrick does. “If the matchmakers did for you what they’ve done for me, Andie will be worth the effort, man.”
Once in the air, Andie won’t stop fidgeting. She’s clearly doing everything she can to avoid touching me, but we’re packed into this plane like sardines. Calmly, I ask, “Is your hip bothering you?”
“What?” Her brows furrow as she finally looks at me like she’s surprised I’m here.
“That spot on your hip looked raw last night,” I remind her. “You’re clearly uncomfortable now. Is it bothering you?”
She lets out a heavy sigh and flops into her seat. “No. I mean yes, but no.”
I can’t help the snort of laughter that comes from me.
“I’m—” She pauses, frowning at the seat back in front of her. Then she shakes her head and mutters something to herself under her breath. Finally, her foot bouncing on the carpet, she tells me, “I didn’t know I’d have to turn off my phone.”
I frown. Her passport told me she’s never flown internationally. That comment tells me she’s never flown at all. “You really are a virgin, aren’t you?”
She lifts her thumb to her lips to chew on it, shooting me a sarcastic look. “I had to hand over some business stuff while we’re away. I just hate not knowing what’s going on.”
An amused smile tugs at my lips. There’s that control I remember. “You’re welcome to use my phone. It’s got international service if you need to check on something when we land.”
She looks at me, lips parting gently. Her eyes skate over my face, and for a split second, I think she’s going to do something bizarre like thank me. Instead, her brows draw together, and she gives me a firm shake of her head. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”
I nod. She said those words like she’s trying to convince herself rather than me. Distraction it is, then.
She doesn’t want to talk about the past, so the present is what’s left. I dip my head to speak with her more privately. Her hair tickles my nose. “Maybe it’s a good time to talk about what we want the next eight weeks to look like.”
She takes in a sharp breath as her leg slides against mine. God bless coach—it’s the only time she’s likely to touch me, it seems. Breathily, she says, “Seven weeks and five days.”
“Andie,” I scold in a low voice. I plop the paper bag from the coffee shop into her lap. “You should have eaten more at breakfast.”
“You didn’t eat at all,” she counters.
“Not a breakfast person.” I shrug. It’s the truth, but also it’s a bold-face lie. I don’t eat breakfast because I remember what it’s like to go hungry. The gnawing ache in my stomach, the dizzy spells, the brain fog. I don’t want to forget that feeling. It motivates me on difficult days.
As Andie peers into the bag to see the croissant I got her, I try again. “It would help if I knew why you signed up for the show.”
“I told you”—she tears off a chunk of pastry—“I’m trying to find love.”
I can’t help it. I chuckle. It earns me a glare. I lift a hand in surrender and counter, “You told me once you never wanted to get married.” In fact, she doubled down on it the night she showed up on my doorstep in tears after her mom told her she was getting a divorce. Marriage is just another way to force women into a life of servitude because some fictional woman ate a fucking apple.
Andie bides her time with another bite of croissant. Her fingernails are painted a delicate pink. Flakes of pastry cling to them, and I want to lick them off. I swallow to chase away the image coming to life in my head.
“Andie,” I say gently, “why did you jump through all the hoops to be on the show?” If she went through every interview and background check I did, she wants this. In some way, shape, or form, she wants this.
It’s just me she didn’t plan on.
She fingers the edge of the pastry bag, pressing her lips into a frown. She glances to the row in front of us, where Patrick and Kendra are seated. Both have their headphones on. Andie chews the inside of her cheek for a moment, contemplating.
When I think she’s never going to show her hand, she shrugs and admits, “I need the money.”
My brow furrows. “What money?”
Andie looks at me like I’m stupid. “At the end of filming, if we choose divorce on decision day, we get a hundred grand each.”
“No, we don’t.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s in the contract as payment for damages.”
It takes a moment for her words to sink in. Cold seeps into my chest as I sit still as a stone. Here I’ve been thinking we can connect again, maybe have a chance to start over, and she’s been planning on divorce since she put her name on the application. No matter who she got stuck with. Hell, it shouldn’t feel so goddamn personal. But it does. Oh, it does.
Slowly, I ask, “What do you need the money for?”
She can’t be in massive debt or a fortune hunter—the show screened those contestants out with all their flaming hoops. For better or worse, the producers were actually trying to make good matches. Which raised the question—what did they see on our applications that made us special?
Andie looks out the airplane window for a moment. When she turns back to me, her eyes have a determined set to them. “I told you yesterday, I’m a dressmaker.”
I nod. I don’t dare speak, for fear she’ll reconsider telling me anything. Dressmaking wasn’t on her radar when we were in college; she was after a business degree at the time. What changed?
She toys with a loose thread on the seat. “I, um, have a spot at Fashion Week in October, and if I can attract some investors, I—”
She bites off the end of her sentence and shakes her head. “You don’t need to hear all this.”
But I do. I need to understand what makes Andie tick. To know what she dreams of accomplishing. It’s a piece of her, and I’m greedy for it like a dog desperate for scraps from the dining table. I nudge her with my elbow. “Tell me.”
She eats the last bit of her croissant and begins licking the crumbs off her fingertips. I bite back a groan, curling my hand into a fist on the narrow airplane armrest. She crumples the pastry bag into a neat little ball, then rubs it between her palms. Her lip is going to go as raw as her hip with the way she’s chewing on it.
With a little line between her brows, she tells me, “A lot happened after we—”
I feel her words lodge in my own throat, sticky and hot. I hold my breath, waiting for what she’ll say next.
She looks at the floor. “I wasn’t able to finish my degree.”
The air in my lungs comes out in a rush.
She waves it off with a wry snort. “Don’t flatter yourself. There were a lot of things going on.”
Of which my leaving her was one. I swallow, guilt gnawing at my insides.
With a determined set to her jaw, she meets my gaze. “I built my business from the ground up. With my bare hands.” She holds them in front of her, palms up.
Another look at them shows me what I felt yesterday at the altar—calluses on her fingertips, dry and chafing everywhere else. The manicure she got before the wedding probably helped, but it wouldn’t make up for years of difficult manual labor.
“If I can get investors”—she curls her hands into fists and rests them on her thighs—“it’s a gateway to a more secure income that won’t rely on the whims of a single bride or internet review. Right now, it’s feast or famine.”
I want to tell her I understand, that she’s a goddamn force of nature to build that on her own. But I don’t want her to think I’m bullshitting her, so I keep my mouth shut. A flight attendant comes by with a drink cart. I ask for another coffee, and Andie gets a club soda.
After we’ve both indulged in the beverages, Andie asks, “And why did you sign up for the show? Somehow, I doubt it was to fall in love.”
She spits out the word like it disgusts her. I suppose that’s fair. She did tell me she loved me all those years ago. We were half asleep. I never returned the sentiment, frozen by what it would mean. Love was big, love was permanent. Love was terrifying. Even more so when I learned how much love could wreck you when it was gone.
That fight over what she said—or rather, how I reacted to it—feels so stupid now.
Slowly, in a measured tone, I say, “I don’t know about love. But I do want to find a wife.”
She tilts her head in question. “What does that even mean?”
“I’ve spent a lot of time building my career, securing myself financially.” I shrug. Knowing Mom’s prognosis, I want her to see me settled. Soon. It’s the only thing I can remember her actually asking me for in the last several years. “It’s time to find a partner, and dating takes time I don’t have.”
Andie scoffs, looking out the airplane window. “Well. With an attitude like that, I can’t see why you haven’t found your match yet.”
After this conversation, the only thing I’m sure of is that neither of us planned on each other being at the altar on wedding day. Would I be this invested in the outcome if it was anyone else?
Andie picks up the DSLR camera Cassidy slipped us to film some footage on the plane. She holds it up with the lens facing us, then shoots me a look. “Act like you like me for five seconds, okay?”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. But then she rests her head on my shoulder, and my heart stutters in my chest. She taps the button to record.
“We’re on our way to Costa Rica!” She smiles into the camera.
I can’t help it; I smile too. I reach up to pat her cheek, teasing, “Ready to spend forever with me, sweet potato?”
She shoots me a glare. “Can you pick another pet name?”
“But you are sweet.” I pinch her cheek for emphasis.
She lifts her head to rest the point of her chin on my shoulder. “Sweetie is right there.”
“It’s so generic.” I flick away the suggestion. “You, sweet potato, are one of a kind.”
She playfully sticks her tongue out, and I laugh. She smiles too, wrinkling her nose. It’s enough. For now, it’s enough. She stops recording and tucks the camera back into her purse under the seat.
With a sigh, settling back into her own space, Andie says, “I need that money, Kit.” She sounds so earnest, so raw, my heart is ready to sacrifice everything if it will make her happy.
I can’t help myself—I brush a hair out of her face and cup her chin. She really is something else.
When I stare at her gently parted lips for a second too long, she whispers, “Maybe you should save that for the cameras.”
My hand falls from her like I’ve been burned. “Touching you?” I ask, because surely she can’t mean caring about her, like I can turn that function on and off at will.
“Yeah,” she looks at my hand on the armrest. “It’s safest, don’t you think?”
To keep her safe from me, or the other way around? Who are we protecting? I frown. “So we—what?—put on a show for the cameras, then? Then part ways amicably in eight weeks?”
Her eyes light up at the idea. I hate it. She sits a little straighter in her seat. “We can say we became good friends and just couldn’t see ourselves married. Whatever. Don’t worry, I won’t fall in love with you.”
Bitter, I brush the idea away with my hand, like it doesn’t matter. “Fine.”
As much as I hate the idea that I’ll have to let her go again, I suppose it’s penance for the last time. This time we’ll do it on her terms; I owe her that. But every stupid hope I had of us somehow rekindling what we had in college just dove straight off the airplane wing and into the Caribbean.