Episode 228
Misty
“Okay. Now I’m interested,” June says when Jake leaves my suite with Brett.
“Interested in what?” I ask.
“Did you see the way they were looking at each other?” June shakes her head. “I wouldn’t mind either of them looking at me like that.”
I roll my eyes. What the hell is she talking about? “You’re imagining things.”
She cocks her head at me. “For someone who’s spent the best of this day in bed, you’re looking pretty flushed, Misty. Not pale at all.”
Okay, then. So much for her thinking Brett and Jake have something going on.
She’s back to insulting me.
I’m done.
Done trying to convince June that I ran too fast on the beach, nearly fainted from dehydration. “I need a shower,” I say. “So…yeah. Bye now.”
June gives me a smirk but doesn't argue. I waste no time in returning to my bedroom, leaving her standing in my living area with a knowing smile on her face.
The shower does wonders for my mood, the hot water relaxing my tense muscles and washing away the sweat and stress of the day. When I turn off the water and step out, I feel refreshed. A little better equipped to handle whatever drama is waiting for me outside the bathroom door.
I return to my bedroom and get dressed in a yellow sundress. May as well be ready for whatever bachelorette shindig June has put together. And I’d better not see my half-brother’s ass.
I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for June’s prying questions or whatever other mess awaits me as I leave the bedroom.
But June is no longer in my suite when I venture out.
I haven’t eaten much today at all, and it’s nearing dinner time. I haven’t spoken to anyone other than June and Jake today, so I have no idea when or where this bachelorette thing is. They’d probably all rather I not show up anyhow.
Can’t say that I blame them. I’ve been a bitch in heels.
The only one who’s tried to be civil to me is Emily.
Probably only because I was treating my precious designer gowns like garbage, and she felt sorry for me when I told her the woes of my mother showing her love through expensive things rather than affection.
Poor little rich girl.
What if I’d grown up in that small town with Jake? I want to know what our mother was like, but I didn’t get the chance to ask him much.
Now he’s off somewhere with Brett. But that was a while ago now. At least an hour has passed. Maybe they’re done, and I can get some alone time with Jake.
I walk out of my suite and down the stairs to the second floor, where the men are staying. Evangeline assigned Jake a suite, but I have no idea which one it is. No problem. I knock on all of them.
And I get no response.
It was a long shot anyway. Why would anyone be inside on this gorgeous day?
I walk down to the first floor and run into Darby the doctor.
“Misty, you’re up,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thanks. I thought I’d get some fruit and water from the kitchen.”
“Good idea,” she says. “I’ll come with you. I want you to get your electrolytes up. Maybe there’s some Gatorade or something in the fridge.”
“Ugh. I detest Gatorade.”
She laughs. “Yeah, it does suck. But we’ll find you something.”
Together, we make our way to the kitchen. Staffers are milling about, preparing food for tonight’s festivities, I assume.
A young woman nods toward us. “Dr. Sullivan, Ms. Holmes, do you need anything?”
“Don’t mind us,” Darby says. She opens the door to the huge refrigerator, roots around, and produces a bottle. She hands it to me. “Try this. It's good for rehydration."
I take a sip. It tastes watered down and weirdly warm, even though it’s cold.
There's a hint of tropical promise, like maybe it should be refreshing, but instead it coats my tongue with a flat aftertaste that reminds me of sunscreen.
Still, I keep sipping. It's not as syrupy or fake as Gatorade, at least. No neon colors. No chemical tang that makes my throat burn. Just...coconut water. Bland, strange, but tolerable. Sort of like making peace with something you’ll never love but can live with.
Kind of a metaphor for my life, come to think of it.
I take another sip anyway, as Darby hums under her breath as she rummages through the pantry for dried mango, her doctor-mode never truly switching off. I appreciate the distraction, even if it’s a weird one. I feel a little more solid on my feet, a little less like I’m floating through a headache.
That is, until Evangeline walks in.
The air changes when she does. It always does.
She’s tense. Too tense for someone who’s supposed to be organizing sexy cocktails and penis-shaped appetizers for Ariel’s bachelorette night.
She’s holding a phone in her hand, thumb frozen over the screen.
Special dispensation for the event planner, apparently. After all, she needs to get things delivered for us…and she’s planning two parties tonight and a wedding tomorrow.
Darby looks up. “Everything okay?”
Evangeline doesn’t respond.
Her expression is unreadable, but something about it—tight lips, the faint twitch at the corner of her eye—snaps my attention away from the vile taste in my mouth.
I’ve known Evangeline for years, and our relationship hasn’t always been pleasant.
In fact, I kind of blackmailed my way onto this island telling her she owed me.
She does.
I know who the father of her baby is.
I know she was fucking my father.
And I also know that if my father knew? He’d be hunting her down and taking custody of that child before it takes its first breath of air.
I feel kind of bad about the whole thing now.
I feel kind of bad about a lot of things.
“Ev?” I say quietly.
She blinks and gives one of those tight smiles. “All good.”
Liar.
Darby glances between us. “Okay,” she says. “Well. I’ve got to prep Ariel’s banana IV bags for tomorrow morning. Hangover protocol just in case.” She’s out of the kitchen with barely a backward glance.
Evangeline is still staring at the screen.
Then, shockingly, she turns it toward me.
One message.
From an unknown number.
I know your secret.
My stomach knots.
I look at her.
She’s pale. Not Evangeline gothic pale.
But real pale. Raw. Rattled.
“We need to talk,” I say, gesturing away from the ears of the kitchen staffers.
She nods, her voice barely above a whisper. “Massage room?”
We don’t wait. We slip out the side hallway. The spa wing is empty this time of day, the staff busy setting up tiki torches or folding napkins into swans for whatever ridiculous theme Evie has decided on for the parties.
I turn to her. “How long has the number been texting you?”
“That was the first one.”
“And you’re sure you don’t recognize it?”
“I would have deleted it if I did,” she snaps.
She paces to the massage table and leans against it, arms folded tightly over her chest.
“You think it’s him?” she whispers. “Your father?”
I hesitate. “I swear to God I didn’t tell him, but he has his ways. It’s possible.”
“Jesus.” She presses her palm to her belly.
He doesn’t know.
He can’t know.
He would never let her out of his grasp again.
“You haven’t told anyone?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“I thought I had time,” she says. “To figure it out. To disappear after this event wraps. The guys are paying me an ungodly amount for this. Enough that I can move somewhere he’ll never find me. Rebuild my career after that fiasco that nearly cost me everything. And now—”
The phone buzzes again in her hand.
She doesn’t look at it.
She hands it to me.
I flip it over and read the second message.
I left something for you.