Chapter 3
Chapter Three
LEXI
Ten days later, my old life is roadkill that’s been picked up by the garbage truck somewhere in the night.
Evan is the perfect person for me to hang out with right now—optimistic, ridiculously chilled, and in charge of my recovery, as he calls it, which includes lounging by his pool and sipping mojitos most of the time.
Now that I’ve been forced to slow down, I realize how much I needed a break.
Evening is upon us and the sun has set. Evan is heating up his barbecue for burgers. I’m on his laptop, scouring the internet for a job—any job. We’ve spruced up my résumé, so I’m ready to rock and roll.
So far nothing more has happened with the Mia Reed video and being away from the St Chalamet environment makes me believe it was all just a horrible nightmare.
The shock has ebbed. I always knew I was easy to replace.
Even my ever-present anxiety has taken a partial hike.
And yet my eyes stray ever farther from jobs in the USA.
I’ve started looking at Europe, Southeast Asia, and even Australia. How far and incognito can I really get?
When moments of panic strike, which they do in sudden surges out of nowhere, the other side of the planet looks very enticing. It won’t be forever, and I’d always planned to go places through my work. Maybe this whole situation is the catalyst to kick me out of my comfort zone.
Evan comes to sit on the deck chair next to mine and reaches for his beer. “You finding anything?”
“My dream job.” I pass him the laptop and lean back with a sigh, picking up my finished mojito and rattling the ice to coax one last sip out of it.
“An island off an island off the coast of East Africa?” Evan shoots me a glance. “Sounds like a schlep. You can get the same thing in the Caribbean.”
Not exactly. This ticks other boxes for me. It’s very far away, WiFi is dubious, and it’s in a different time zone. The shit could hit the fan, and I would only know about it later, if I cared to look.
I know the exact moment when Evan opens the resort’s website because he draws in a sharp breath. “Wow. Exclusive much?”
“Oh yeah. Ne’emba Island is a Beaumont property. They’re on par with St Chalamet, if not more exclusive. The hotel group isn’t in the US, but it has boutique hotels and resorts all over the rest of the world.”
“This looks like something else.” He keeps scrolling, and I lean over to see what he’s looking at on the screen. “Paradise redefined.”
“Basically. It’s barefoot and relaxed.” This is nothing like the extremes of the massive St Chalamet resorts of the Caribbean. The bungalows at Ne’emba have palm leaves as part of the walls.
“Would be a bit of a mind shift—”
“I can do with that right now.” In fact, over the past few days, I’ve become like a black crayon who’s discovered there are other colors in the box.
Imagine not having to work in high heels!
I secretly hyperventilate a little, but they say change is as good as a holiday, and since I’ve been flung on this path of rediscovery, I might as well go all out.
With ten years’ experience, I have options.
“Ooh-kay. Here it is,” Evan says. “The coral reefs around the island are designated as a World Heritage Site. Only topped by the Great Barrier Reef. Jeez. I didn’t know that, and I thought I knew all that stuff.”
“It has to be recent.”
“And they’re the only property with diving rights around these atolls?” Evan smirks. “I’d love to know how that works.”
He’s on the page now with underwater photos.
Each one in there reminds me of Tristan, the snag in my time here that’s yet to materialize.
I’ve stopped holding my breath. “It’s only a three-month contract though,” I say.
“They close the resort for two months over April and May as it’s the rainy season.
” Good thing too. I’m not one for cyclones and hurricanes.
I’ve already had my fill, and even a strong wind can reduce my stomach to a pulsing ulcer of anxiety.
“It looks like they’re looking for a stopgap. Or it’s a probation period, but…”
“But?”
“The position is for a managerial couple. The gig isn’t geared for singles.” Which is too bad. It would have been the perfect solution to my problem and the perfect escape. Especially since the contract runs until early April—way past the Oscars and any rogue Mia Reed promotional stunts.
It would give me time to look for something else while I hunker down on an island in the middle of nowhere, but the biggest lure for me?
It could give me a foot in the door at Beaumont Hotels.
I’ve been on and off on the Beaumont website all day, and it’s like dipping in and out of a fairytale with all the gorgeous chateaux they own in Europe.
St Chalamet is American classy, like Jackie Kennedy. Beaumont is the original Coco Chanel.
“Come on, Lexi, this looks fantastic. Don’t let a minor detail put you off. Where’s the job description?” Evan asks, pulling me from my thoughts. “With your work experience, you can easily manage an über-exclusive twelve-room resort without an extra pair of hands.”
I laugh at his tone and point at the webpage.
“It’s there.” For a moment, I lean back and stare at the stars shining through the Miami haze, dipping into the dream of going to Ne’emba Island.
Crickets start up their nightly song. I’m still getting used to the nature noises and relative quiet of this suburb.
Imagine falling asleep at night to the caressing rise and retreat of ocean waves…
Evan is quiet, and I loll my head to the side to watch him. He closes the laptop, seeming deep in thought.
“What is it?” I ask.
“They’re looking for a managerial couple because one half runs the hotel, and the other half runs the dive center. Apparently three dives a day are included in their all-inclusive package. Two daytime dives and an optional night dive for overeager folks.”
Hmm… I saw that. Literally glanced over it and zoned out. “Yep. There’s no chance in hell. I’ll keep looking tomorrow.”
“Lexi.” Evan clears his throat. “Hear me out.”
“What?”
“Tristan would give a kidney to spend three months on that island. Trust me.”
“What?” I chuckle as I sit straighter. “A kidney?” I might have wanted Tristan’s cock at some point, but his kidneys he can keep.
“Oh yes.” Evan studies my face. “You know he’s a marine biologist, right? He got his doctorate a couple of years ago.”
It’s Dr. Tristan Martinelli now? That’s news, but I’m not sure why I’m surprised. The last time I saw him he’d been wrapping up his master’s degree. He didn’t blast his doctorate all over the internet, and it’s not as if I’d google him. His Instagram account is all I need to get my fix.
Evan leaves the comment hanging for me to probe further.
“Good for him.” I stand, refusing to take the bait. I don’t want to dig deeper into why Tristan would give up a kidney on a whim. “Isn’t your grill ready?”
I walk through the sliding doors to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, which I guzzle down. I pluck the salad ingredients from the fridge and throw stuff together, listening to Evan move around and lift the grill’s hood. Seconds later, raw meat sizzles.
“When did you last see Tristan?” he calls from the veranda.
Five years. Two months. Give or take a few days. I’d just turned nineteen. “I dunno!”
Evan walks into the kitchen, picks a cherry tomato out of the salad and pops it in his mouth.
“Oi! Fingers out of my salad!”
“It must be years?” Evan says around the tomato. “You know, he’s still exactly the same.”
Which means he’s a total dick.
“You two used to get along so well. Sometimes I thought he hung out with me because of you.”
“Dream on, Ev. Tristan hung out with you because he didn’t want to be at home. I came with the house.”
Evan laughs as he opens the fridge and takes out another beer. “And here I thought you were crushing on him like a lovesick teenager.”
Ugh. Gag. Uggggh. Why was I so easy to read back then? I might have been nineteen the last time I’d seen Tristan, but I’ve known him since we moved to Miami and he became best friends with Evan.
Evan winks at me as he strolls back to the grill and flips the burgers.
“He was hot,” I call. “I crushed like every other girl who laid eyes on him.” No need to deny it. Hormones are a fact of life. And Tristan is still hot. Another fact of life.
For a moment it’s quiet as Evan focuses on the grill and I finish the salad.
I put the bowl and everything else we need on a tray and head for the outdoor table.
Best I steer this conversation back to safer waters.
“Why would Dr. Tristan Martinelli, marine biologist—who probably spends so much time in salt water he’s basically cured meat—give a kidney to spend three months running a dive center in the middle of butt-crack nowhere? ”
Evan’s mouth splits into a wide grin, and he laughs—the hearty, full-belly laugh of someone who’s enjoying the moment way too much. “Because he’s in a pickle.”
“Ah, buzz off.” I claim propriety rights to that nickname, situation, and no—I don’t do pickles on my burger. I’m one of those people who tells them no pickles, please at the McDonald’s drive-thru.
“Nope, he’s in a tight spot.”
Freaking Evan. He’s toying with me, reeling me in like little Nemo on a hook. I cave. “Why?”
“He’s been working for years on a TV series about ocean life—a David Attenborough type of thing, but not grandiose. It focuses on symbiosis in the oceans, the break in the chain due to pollution and the oceans warming up. You know, that kind of thing.”
I don’t know, but my interest is piqued. “And?”
“He’s running out of time and money.”
I snort. “And how is this my problem?”
“This job could give him the break he needs. Imagine three months in a marine reserve where he’d be able to film and dive, all expenses paid? I can imagine that as a World Heritage Site those coral reefs must be untouched, in perfect condition, still supporting life and biodiversity.”
I stare at him. The passion in his voice catches me off guard. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because I want him to succeed. He’s pumped everything he has into this over the past five years. He’s on an environmental trailblazing mission and doing something selfless.” Evan takes a drink of his beer. “And I’ve seen his first few completed episodes. They’re fantastic.”
Okay. Maybe I’ve seen some of the footage on Tristan’s reels. They’re breathtaking, to say the least. “Why’s he running out of time?”
Evan exhales. “He sold his series to a streaming service based on the first two completed episodes. He needs to deliver the rest next year or the deal will fall through.”
I hitch a brow. “And?”
“Mother Nature hasn’t been playing along, and he’s running behind, with no options going forward.” He reaches for an empty plate and flips the burgers again. “Three months—imagine all the images and footage he’d be able to take.”
“Technically he’d be working. Running a dive center? Making sure guests who pay thousands of dollars a night are happy?” I’m talking as if this could be a reality right now, in full visualization mode. “He won’t be able to spend all his time underwater taking photos and whatnot.”
Evan smiles. “But he’ll make the most of it.”
That he will. I take a deep breath and huff it out. “Wow, just look at you, fabricating a whole scenario here. You forget that Tristan needs a better half to get this gig, a better half who knows how to run a hotel, and that isn’t going to be me.”
“And there I thought you said Ne’emba Island was your dream job,” he deadpans, eyebrows hitched.
Our gazes lock, and I clench my teeth. I’m not sure Evan understands what he’s suggesting we do to get this job.
Being coupled didn’t seem like a suggestion on the website.
It seemed like a requirement. And after the St Chalamet disaster, mixing men with work sounds like a terrible idea.
In fact, Lexi O’Reilly’s rule #1 for any new job should be male co-workers are off the menu.
Permanently. “I think the burgers are ready.”
With a shrug, Evan plates the meat and closes the grill. We settle at the table, my throat suddenly parched for a very strong drink.
“When’s Tristan coming?” I ask, breaking the silence.
Evan looks down at his plate as he squirts ketchup on his burger. “I don’t know.”
“Before Christmas?”
“That was the plan.”
I still have time.
We eat in silence. I peck at my salad, trying to ignore the seed that Evan’s planted in my head. Nope, nope, nope. Not going there. Even though it’s perfect. So freaking perfect.
“It won’t be for forever, you know,” Evan says between bites. “Just three months. And afterwards you’ll have the experience on your résumé and a foot in the door with Beaumont Hotels.”
“Whatever. It’s such a long shot, and the position is probably filled already. It’s for January.”
“And yet they’re still advertising it on the biggest hotel-industry recruitment site.”
“What are you suggesting, Ev?” It’s madness. Must I attach myself to Tristan—fake being a couple, married, engaged, whatever—to get a job? My dream job? To Dr. Tristan Martinelli?
Hell no.
“Sleep on it. That’s all.”
What a joke. I won’t sleep at all tonight.