My last text from Theo came in at three p.m.: Finishing up here soon.
One good thing about Theo Bouras is that he is, like me, a social creature by nature. Not only was he delighted at the thought of going to Cecil’s not-birthday party, but he’d offered to meet me there, so I didn’t have to wait on him.
I work until six, then take a quick shower, swipe on some mascara, and head out for the night. Downtown is packed, and I have to park four blocks away. As I’m doing so, my phone buzzes with a message from my mom.
I say “message,” but really, it’s just a link to an article about how California is going to eventually go up in flames, then break off from the rest of the country and sink to the floor of the ocean.
Ever since I first moved to LA, I’ve gotten a text like this a few times a year, with such regularity that at times I’ve wondered whether she has a calendar alert set to nudge me about my new home’s impending doom.
I tried to accept it as a form of love, even if the greater implication was also that all my decisions were wrong.
Wow, that’s terrible, I write back, and before I hit send, I stop short just outside of Fish Bowl, guilt creeping in.
I should be checking in with her more often, making sure she’s okay. Dad would be so disappointed if he knew how little we’ve seen of each other since he died.
I’m in Georgia for a story, I add. And I was wondering if I could drive down to see you next weekend?
Sure, she says. Not the most emphatic of responses, but still, a weight eases off my chest.
I tuck my phone into my bag and step inside.
If Fish Bowl verged on overstimulating during my last visit, this time it can only be described as visually cacophonous. From the fishnet-covered ceiling, dozens if not hundreds of colored paper lanterns hang. Massive bouquets of tropical flowers sit atop every table, and most of the guests are dressed in bold florals to match.
The theme, if there is one, appears to be: Bright.
The place is packed, but hardly any tables are taken, everyone standing and milling instead. I pick my way over to the bartender and ask for something tropical and nonalcoholic. He comes back with a tangerine-colored concoction in a goblet, an orchid spilling out over the top of it. “Open or closed?” he asks about my tab when I hand over my credit card.
“Open’s fine.”
He cups a hand around his ear and leans in to hear me over the roar of both the crowd and the music.
“OPEN’S. FINE.”
He goes to run the card, then slides it back over the counter as I scan for anyone I might recognize. Cecil’s nowhere in sight, and the only other person I’ve met before, in any capacity, is Sheri, the waitress carrying a tray of some kind of cheese-puff treat around. I retreat to the booth in the corner to wait for Theo.
When I sent the address to him, he’d sent a thumbs-up back, but no other acknowledgment. I do the math in my head, trying to guess how much longer it might take him to get here.
I send him one more text: Eta?
Rather than pretending to be engrossed by my phone, I opt to set it aside and try to look approachable. This mainly consists of gazing hopefully around the room for anyone not already engaged in conversation whom I could make small talk with.
I would’ve been more careful what I wished for—if I’d thought for even one second that there was a chance Hayden might be here. Again.
He’s the stillest thing in the room, which makes him stand out. His height, even sitting, and his stark black-and-white wardrobe don’t help either.
He’s at a table on the far side of the restaurant, and I become acutely aware that I’ve taken his go-to spot, in the corner, near the bathrooms.
He lifts his water glass in greeting. I lift my ridiculous mocktail back. Then he unfurls from his seat and stalks toward me.
“Twice in one day,” I say.
“It’s a small island,” he says.
“Still,” I say. “An incredible coincidence.”
“Can I sit?” he asks.
I glance toward the door.
“Your hot date,” he says. “Right.”
“He’s running late,” I say, just a hair defensive.
“I can keep you company,” he offers. “If you’d like.”
His voice is low, even, warm—a surprisingly inviting combination. I glance at the time on my phone again, finishing off the calculation that spotting Hayden had interrupted. “For a minute,” I say. “He won’t be much longer.”
His chin dips once and he slides into the booth, across from me. “So are you here tonight by coincidence or have you also met Cecil?”
I crack a smile. “Cecil invited me. And I was feeling pretty special for that, until ten seconds ago.”
“Oh, you should still feel special,” Hayden assures me. “He only invited me because he decided—based on nothing, I should add—that I’m doing a write-up on this place.”
I laugh. “No, that’s pretty much why I’m here too.”
“Maybe,” he allows, “but was he smiling when he invited you?”
“I have yet to see that man not smiling,” I say.
“And that, Scott, is where our experiences with Cecil diverge.”
I shift in my seat, suppressing a laugh. Even when I want to be cold with him, I can’t. Maybe I should just give it up. Accept that, as is typical for me, I like and even respect someone regardless of whether they like or respect me. “Then why’d you come?” I ask him.
He stares at me for a beat. “I felt bad.”
“Honestly, I doubt Cecil would have noticed if either of us didn’t show up,” I say, “especially since he doesn’t even seem to be here.”
He gives one firm shake of his head. “Not about that. About the other night.”
Oh, god. A burn begins at the tips of my ears, spreading toward my face.
At the top of the list of things I want in this moment: to pretend the kiss never happened.
My phone starts ringing on the table between us, Theo’s name flashing on-screen. Once again, the universe is coming through for me. I flash Hayden my sunniest smile. “My date.” I tip my head toward my phone and answer the call, turning sideways on the bench. “Theo?”
“Alice, hi.” Whatever he says next gets lost in the noise.
“Hold on a second,” I tell him. “I have to go outside. I can’t hear you.”
I excuse myself from Hayden with a one minute gesture and head out to the street. “You still there?”
“I’m sorry, Alice,” he says.
“Sorry?” As I say it, something sinks in my chest.
“The photo shoot ran long,” he says.
“That’s fine,” I promise him. “How far away are you?”
He sighs. “I haven’t left yet.”
“Oh.” I turn back to the window, inadvertently meeting Hayden’s eyes. The embarrassment and disappointment bubble over then in the form of stinging tears. I face the street again, urging my voice into steadiness. “So what are you thinking?”
“I just bit off more than I can chew,” he says. “It would’ve been fun to meet up, but my flight’s tomorrow night, so at this point, I feel like I should probably just chill here. The drive wouldn’t be worth it, I don’t think.”
I stop myself, right in the nick of time, from suggesting he change his flight to leave from here. Surely this has already occurred to him. He travels as much as I do. He knows how all of this works.
It’s not worth it to him. That’s the end of the conversation. And it’s not a surprise, but after the last few days of emotional highs and lows, it hits me harder than it should.
“I understand,” I tell him. “We’ll just catch up later.”
“I knew you’d get it,” he says. “You’re the best, Alice.”
I smile but can’t quite will myself to thank him for the compliment. I clear my throat. “Get home safe.”
“Enjoy the rest of your stay,” he tells me. “See you back in LA.”
“Yep!” I cheep. He says bye and clicks off. For a second I just stand there, phone still pressed to my ear, debating what to do.
I can’t face Hayden right now. It was bad enough being rejected by him, mid–make out. Now I’ve bragged about a date that isn’t happening.
But my purse is still inside, sitting at the table with him.
Get your bag, go home, and get back to work, I tell myself. It will be fine. A nice night in might be exactly what I need. I can text my friends and do some more research, or else settle in with some key lime pie and reality TV.
All that stands in my way is walking through that door and snatching my purse.
I can do it. I steel myself, drop my phone to my side, and march back in.
Hayden’s brow shoots upward at something in my expression as I approach. “Everything okay?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, grabbing the strap of my bag. “Something just came up, so I’ve got to head out.”
“Like an emergency?”
“Sort of.” I avoid eye contact while I stuff my phone into my bag. “Enjoy your night.”
I hear him call my name at my back, but with the party in full swing, I figure I have plausible deniability there. I don’t turn around.
I just flee down the dark street.
I’ve made it two blocks toward my car when I hear him shout my name again.
Shit.
“I have to go,” I call back, not slowing my pace. It doesn’t matter. He’s too tall; he’s got the advantage. He catches up to me right as I’m turning down the narrow, empty side street where I left my car parked between two palm trees.
“What happened?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
Something in me snaps. I whirl back around on him. “Are you trying to embarrass me, Hayden?”
Shock splashes across his face. “What?”
I stalk toward him. “It wasn’t enough for you to kiss me—and let’s be clear here, you kissed me—shut me down, and insult my ability. You had to show up here tonight, to what? Ruin my date? Or—did you not even believe I had a date? Well, guess what! You win! I don’t! He’s not coming after all! He, like you, changed his mind at the last second. I guess I have that effect on a certain kind of man. So if you’re done chasing me down the street to get a good look at my humiliation, I’d love to go home right now and pretend this night—this whole last week—never happened.”
I spin toward my car.
He grabs my arm.
My gaze snaps from his loose grip up to his face, hovering over me and torqued in frustration.
I wait for him to say something, or to let go. One second. Two. Three. It’s like we’re both frozen there.
“I thought you invited me,” he blurts.
“What?”
He huffs, eyes dropping to our feet before rebounding to my face. “I thought you were kidding. About the date.”
I stare at him, utterly shocked.
“Not because I don’t believe you could get a date,” he goes on gruffly. “Just because we’ve only been here a week and a half, and almost everyone who lives on this island is a retiree.”
I’m still staring, blinking at him, mouth open, like a goldfish who accidentally plopped out of her fish tank.
“So I thought when you said…” He grimaces. “You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about here, Alice. I know I’m the one who kissed you. I know I’m the one who shut it down.”
I still haven’t regained control of my voice. Or my limbs. His hand softens on my elbow, and I do everything I can not to lean into the touch, to find comfort there.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” he says, shaking his head.
I finally manage a small “Okay.”
Once more, his dark gaze sweeps toward the gap between our feet. “She asked for me.”
Our eyes connect. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t track Margaret Ives down,” he says. “You’re the only one who found her.”
I sway slightly on the spot.
“She found me,” he says. “She reached out to my agent. I guess she read Our Friend Len, and she asked if I’d be open to doing some meetings to see whether I’d be a good fit to write her biography.”
My legs wobble. Hayden’s grip on me tightens slightly as I lean back, slowing my fall as I slump against the side of my car. He steps in close, balancing me for a second before his hands uncertainly release me.
“So she’s already chosen,” I half whisper.
“No,” he says quietly, but when I meet his eyes, he looks down. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Now I’m the one to study our feet, both of mine in between both of his. “You could’ve told me sooner.”
He sighs. “I felt bad. You did all the work of finding her, and then I just showed up.”
“Why did she even have me come down here?” I ask, shaking my head. Tears well in my eyes. A snort of laughter escapes me when I realize. “Long day,” I say, wiping at the damp spots in my tear trough.
With a frown, Hayden touches the side of my face, a gentle slide of his palm and then a sweep of his thumb over the top of my cheek, collecting the moisture. “You wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t still open to working with you.”
“Yeah,” I say half-heartedly. He’s right though. He has to be. There has to be a reason I’m here. “Or maybe it’s all some kind of game to her. Maybe she’s just using me to try and get your best work or something.”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I started with an advantage. It didn’t feel right, kissing you, when you didn’t know the full story.”
I look up into his eyes. “That’s why?”
His hand curves softly around my ear. “That’s why.”
Delicate warmth unfurls through my belly. “No girlfriend?”
“No girlfriend,” he says. “And your date?”
“Real,” I say. “But not a boyfriend.”
I straighten away from the car, the movement pressing me against him. “This still wouldn’t work, Alice.” His voice rumbles through my stomach and my hip, where his free hand has settled.
“What wouldn’t?” I ask.
His eyes track the rise and fall of my breath. “We’re still competing for the same job.”
“So I’m competition again?” I tease.
His hand flexes at my waist, and I’m pulled snug against him, where I can feel every hard line of him. “You were always competition.”
“I’m going to kiss you, Hayden,” I say, almost a warning.
But I don’t get the chance. His mouth is already on mine, one of his hands snaking into my hair, his other sliding down my backside as I arch hungrily into him. I’m pinned against the car, gasping into his mouth, my thigh lifted up along his hip on this abandoned street. His long fingers curl into my skin. His hand slides higher, pushing my skirt up along my thigh, moving closer and closer to where I want him. He brushes along the damp lace of my underwear and swears against the side of my throat. “You never wear pants,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing down me. “It makes it hard to think.”
“You always wear pants,” I manage to breathe out. “I’m worried you’ll have heatstroke.”
His laugh is gravelly at my ear, the sound sending as much of a thrill through me as his careful touch. I move against him, and he slides his hand down me more fully. A jumble of voices and footsteps approach us from around the corner, and he steps back abruptly, smoothing my skirt down my thighs again.
“You can come over, if you want,” I say thickly.
“Stop inviting me,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because eventually I’m going to say yes,” he replies.
“That’s the general idea,” I say.
“I’m obviously attracted to you,” he says.
“Obviously,” I agree.
“This can’t go well, Alice,” he says.
“Which part?” I ask, doubtful. There’s at least one thing I’m very nearly certain could go well.
“We both want this job too much,” he says. “Even more than we might want…”
“You’re worried I’ll get too attached,” I guess.
“I’m worried about the work,” he says. “Neither of us can afford to be pulling punches here. If either of us doesn’t give this our all, we’ll regret it. And then we’ll resent each other for it. And I don’t know if I can handle being the one person on the planet Alice Scott doesn’t like.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could,” I tell him.
His smile—wide enough to reveal teeth—dazzles me for a moment. I want to climb inside of it.
The group that came from around the corner staggers tipsily past. When they’ve moved off, he steps in close again, our waists connecting, the infinitesimal amount of pressure flooding me with want. “Maybe some other time,” he says, the rest of the sentence hanging in the air, unspoken. “After all of this.”
“Maybe,” I agree.
“Would you be able to forgive me?” he asks, looking up at me through his lashes.
Of course I wouldn’t hold it against him if he got the job, but would I be able to handle the way his presence would remind me of my failure?
“Would you?” I ask him, rather than answering.
He frowns, and I can see it in his face. For all of our differences, we’re both proud. This spark between us is fun and surprising right now. In three more weeks, it could settle into something bitter.
“Okay.” My nod feels strangely final, like a handshake agreement: May the best writer win, and may it be enough to make up for the orgasms we forsake.
He steps back from the curb, and I straighten, pulling my keys free from the outside pocket of my bag.
He gives me the same kind of nod. “Get home safe.”
The formality of it makes my heart twinge. “You too.” I turn and round my car, unlocking it.
“Alice?” he calls over the top of it.
“Hmm?”
“She lies to me too,” he says. “For whatever it’s worth, Margaret Ives isn’t telling me the truth.”
