Chapter 6
SIX
With Andy’s eager help, I spent the entire week figuring out the whole scoop on Nicholas. I’ve never had such an interesting week at work.
We couldn’t find any criminal convictions or juicy scandals—besides the one he’s wrapped up in with my mom, of course—but we did find out that he’s a marketing coordinator for a manufacturing company (which is a lot more stable and boring than I anticipated).
He’s a regular participant in Driftwood Cove’s golfing fundraiser for cancer research and has been one of the top donors for the last five years—which I have to admit is nice. I’m bitter, not heartless.
He also won a pie-eating contest at the summer fair, but I’m not letting Maren know about that one. I can only imagine the jokes she’d make.
Nicholas has Instagram and Facebook and after hunting on both of them, I’ve figured out my next opportunity for sabotage.
He was slightly vague about his upcoming weekend plans but not vague enough.
It just took some cross-checking and a little bit of a deep dive on Google.
He’s going away. With my mom, of course.
Hibiscus Beach Resort. So, I did what any sane person would do in my situation.
I booked myself a room and hit the road.
As soon as I told Andy my plans, he tried to convince me to let him and Santiago come along, but I had to refuse because those two are the life of any party and I need to stay as incognito as possible.
Jayden has a work thing, Maren has a family thing, and Gia has an unhelpful thing, so I’m hitting the resort solo.
So here I am, cruising down Ingle Street toward the highway. I’m blasting hardcore metal and nodding my head angrily to the beat, which is something that used to make me feel better when I was a teenager, but today it’s just making me a little carsick.
Two and a half hours later, I arrive at Hibiscus Beach Resort. I’ve listened to every pissed off anthem ever recorded, and I’ve built up enough rage to give my mom and her new boyfriend a serious piece of my mind.
Unfortunately, the desk clerk wouldn’t give me their room number—despite the flutter of my eyelashes and a not-so-subtle bribe involving a twenty-dollar bill and a bottle of my favorite wine.
I mean, how do you say no to Velvet Moon chardonnay?
I should really figure out his secret. That kind of willpower is nothing less than amazing.
I didn’t expect things to be easy. I’ll figure this out. As soon as I spot my mom and Nicholas, I’ll follow them, figure out my next move, and somehow, I’ll fix everything.
Hibiscus Beach Resort used to be a plain four-story building when it first opened, but now it’s been completely renovated to look like something straight out of Mexico, with its selection of luxury villas, lush greenery, and tropical flowers.
I throw on an oversized hat and sunglasses and speed-walk down the winding trail from the front desk to the garden villas.
Room 206.
I unlock the door and step into a space that smells faintly of citrus and freshly washed linen.
A king-size bed sits at the center, draped in crisp white sheets.
The polished hardwood floors gleam in the sunlight spilling through the windows, and minimalist artwork with coastal blues and sandy neutral tones are hung on every wall.
I drop my bags with a soft thud and fall backward onto the bed.
It’s so soft, so ridiculously comfortable, I almost convince myself a quick power nap wouldn’t affect my mission—but honestly, a nap could mean a wasted opportunity.
I reluctantly leave the villa and follow the paved trail back toward the lobby bar, sunlight flickering through the palm leaves overhead.
No sign of Mom or her boy toy yet. I grab a margarita and head to the pool where I circle the loungers, peek into a few shady cabanas, and sip my drink like it’s giving me answers. Nope. No luck.
I make my way to the outdoor buffet. The scent of grilled pineapple and sunscreen fills the air, and for a second, I let myself enjoy it. I scan the crowd—families, couples, vacationers in floppy hats. Still no Mom. Still no boy toy.
But hey, I’ve got a cold drink, the sun is shining, and the day’s not over.
Then it hits me, a nauseating realization I try to swallow down. They might be holed up in their room doing it the entire weekend.
They’ve got to take breaks at some point, right? To eat?
I sit at a table with a giant plate of fries, download a book on my phone, and start reading, pausing every few pages to scan the area. If I weren’t on high alert, I might actually find it peaceful here.
On a small platform stage, a guy in a backward baseball hat strums pop songs on an acoustic guitar.
Tropical plants frame the space, and each table is topped with a cheerful hibiscus arrangement.
A couple of brown pelicans perch lazily on the low wall that separates the restaurant from the Pacific Ocean, and the scent of salty seawater and grilled chicken drifts through the air.
Still no sign of my newly blonde mother and her trophy lover. But it’s only a matter of time.
I’m just starting chapter eleven when they appear.
Nicholas strolls in, khaki shorts snug enough to show off his muscular thighs, a white linen shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a well-defined chest. With his shoulder-length hair, he looks like some kind of cheesy heartthrob from a ’90s romance movie.
And he knows it. He’s got all the confidence in the world and then some.
And it’s not like I’m staring but either he’s stuffing his underwear or he’s as well-endowed as Maren suspects he is. Shit.
Next to Nicholas, my mom looks . . . well, she looks radiant.
She’s wearing a floor-length floral dress, her hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders.
I’ve used the word “glowing” before, usually as a nice way to describe someone who’s sunburned or sweating, but now I get it.
She looks like she’s been lit up from the inside.
She practically floats across the room, her entire face overtaken by a giant smile.
If Maren were here, she’d say, “Your mom looks like the definition of someone who gets laid. A lot.” I’d probably shoot her a dirty look or nudge her in the ribcage, even though I’d know she’s right.
Mom’s happy. And not with my dad. And as much as that angry music had me ready to storm in and lay into them the second I saw their smug faces, I can’t bring myself to do that—again—because as furious as I am, I don’t want to be the one to take that smile away. At least, not right now. Not yet.
They stop at a table directly across the room from me. Nicholas pulls out her chair like a perfect gentleman, and she sits, still beaming.
I adjust my sunglasses and the large straw hat to ensure as much of my face as possible is covered, then shift the floral arrangement so it blocks me even more—even though my mom is totally absorbed in her date and Nicholas still probably has no idea what I even look like.
It’s not like they’ve had time for deep conversations or photo sharing, considering they can barely keep their hands off each other.
They sip water between bursts of conversation and laughter, then finally stroll over to the buffet table.
Nicholas loads his plate with seafood, while Mom piles hers high with chicken and a huge serving of salad.
From where I’m sitting, I can’t hear a word they’re saying, but judging by their wide grins, they’re getting along way too well.
If Maren were here, I’d reluctantly ask her to do the voices again, then would probably regret it after a few lines of her impersonations.
Someone two tables over sighs loudly, and it perfectly echoes how I feel.
I glance over and see a man sitting with both elbows on the table, his fists clenched.
His sunglasses hide his eyes, but I’m certain they’re sharp and focused, glowering even, because his thick eyebrows are drawn down and together in a tight scowl.
He pushes his wavy brown hair off his forehead and tugs at his beard.
I consider moving a few tables away, even though I’ve got the perfect setup right where I am.
Angry people make me uncomfortable—years ago, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up with a drink thrown at me that was meant for someone else.
The man takes an expensive-looking camera out of his backpack and snaps a few photos—and I might be paranoid, but I’m pretty sure his lens is aimed at my mom and Nicholas.
The guy playing guitar makes his way off the stage and a forty-something man with a straw fedora and a Hawaiian shirt takes his place. He shades his eyes and looks out across the sea of tables.
“Good afternoon, everyone! I’m Chris and I’m hoping there are some singers among us. Karaoke is about to begin! Please use the app pictured on the screen to lock in those requests.”
He gestures to the screen to the left of the stage that has the app name, PitchPop, written across a large music note icon. I eye my mom and Nicholas. She’s nudging him playfully, probably encouraging him to sing her something. Hopefully he’ll refuse. I’d rather not barf up my fries.
I check out the angry man again. His camera rests on the table now and he looks down at his phone, types something, and seems to relax a little.
Maybe he’s here for the karaoke and was mad it didn’t start on time or something.
Andy’s always telling me about some of his friends who are diehard karaoke fans—the kind of people who practice all night, never miss a week, wear full costumes to look like their favorite musicians, wigs, makeup, all that stuff.
The guy with the straw fedora sings “Build Me Up Buttercup” and although his voice is pleasant, it’s a little too sunshine and rainbows for the mood I’m in right now and it’s distracting me from figuring out what move I want to make.