SOS
AMI
MR. HAMILTON IS HERE AND I TOLD HIM I’M MARRIED AND IDK WHY? NOW I HAVE TO PRETEND TO BE MARRIED TO ETHAN FOR AN ENTIRE DINNER AND I’LL PROBABLY BE FIRED AND HAVE TO SLEEP IN YOUR BATHTUB BECAUSE I’M A TERRIBLE LIAR.
AMI THIS IS A TWIN EMERGENCY
STOP
I don’t have any fluids left in my body
I’ve been with mom nonstop for over 36 hours
If I don’t die from this I might need someone to kill me. Or her.
SLOW DOWN
Sorry, Sorry
BUT I’M FREAKING OUT
Your new boss is at the resort? In Maui??
He’s here for his anniversary.
Someone called me Mrs. Thomas and I apparently lost my mind.
People are going to be calling you Mrs. Thomas the whole time.
You better get used to it. And calm down. You can do this.
Have we met? I absolutely cannot do this.
Just keep your answers simple.
When you get nervous you look guilty
Omg that’s exactly what Ethan said
Who knew Ethan was so smart
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to throw up for the 50th time today
Don’t waste my trip
I stare down at my phone, wishing my sister were here. I knew this was all too good to be true. I type out another quick message telling her to call me tonight and let me know how she’s feeling, and then I text Diego.
Teach me how to lie
Who is this
GDI DIEGO.
FINE. Who are we lying to?
My new boss.
In Maui???
Please don’t ask.
Just tell me how you managed to date those twins w/o either of them finding out.
Teach me, Yoda.
First, only lie when you need to and keep it simple.
You always overexplain and it’s secondhand embarrassing.
MOVING ON
Know your story going in
Don’t try to make it up on the fly. God you’re so bad at that
Don’t fidget and def don’t touch your face. You do that too. Just sit still
Oh, and if you can, touch them.
It creates a sense of intimacy and makes them want to take their pants off instead of asking you questions
Ew this is my boss!
I’m just saying it couldn’t hurt
Diego.
You’re a scientist. Do some research.
I glance up from my Google search at the sound of a knock.
“Not to be all cliché and husbandy and hassle you about being late”—there’s a pause and I can practically see Ethan frowning down at his watch from the other side of the door—“but it’s almost six.”
“I know.” I manage to keep the shouted version of my reply contained to the inside of my head. After Ethan agreed to dinner, I sprinted to the bedroom to try on every article of clothing I brought with me, before texting my sister and Diego in a panic. The room is a disaster, and I’m not sure I’m any more ready to do this now than I was an hour ago. I am a mess.
Ethan’s voice carries through the door again, closer this time. “ ‘I know’ as in I’m almost ready, or ‘I know’ as in I know how to tell time, kindly fuck off?”
Both, if we’re being honest. “The first.”
Ethan knocks. “Okay if I come in my room?”
My room. I open the door and let him in, feeling delighted by the mess I’m leaving behind me.
Ethan steps in. He’s about to meet my boss and spend the next few hours lying his face off, and he’s in black jeans and a Surly Brewery T-shirt. He looks like he’s going out to dinner at Chili’s, not having dinner with the wife’s new boss. His calm exterior only amplifies my panic because of course he’s not worried; he has nothing to lose. The dread in my stomach blooms. Ethan has this, I absolutely do not.
He looks around the room and runs an aggravated hand through his hair. Of course it manages to fall perfectly back into place. “All of this was in one suitcase?”
“I am totally out of my depth here.”
“That’s been my general impression so far. Be more specific.”
I drop onto the bed, kicking aside a hot pink bra and groaning when it snags on the heel of my shoe. “Whenever I tell lies, I get caught. I once told my professor I had to miss class to take care of my sick roommate, and he looked up right as my roommate walked past us in the hallway. He knew her from his Tuesday/Thursday lecture.”
“Your mistake was in going to class at all. Just send an email like a normal liar.”
“Or there was the one time in high school I had my cousin Miguel call in sick for me and pretend to be my dad, but the office called my mom to confirm because my dad had never called in before.”
“Well, that was just poor planning on your part. How is any of this relevant right now?”
“It’s relevant because I’m trying to look like a wife, and have been researching how to lie.”
Reaching for my leg, Ethan wraps a warm palm around my calf and plucks the bra from my shoe. “Okay. Does a wife have a specific look?”
I snatch the lingerie from where it now dangles on the end of his finger. “I don’t know, like Ami?”
His deep laugh echoes through the room. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
“Hey. We’re twins.”
“This isn’t about looks,” he says, and the mattress sinks under his weight as he takes a seat at my side. “Ami has this indescribable confidence. It’s how she carries herself. Like no matter what happens, she’s got her shit together enough for the both of you.”
I’m conflicted between being proud of my sister—because, yeah, she does make people feel that way—and vainly curious about what he thinks of me. Vanity and the confrontational side of me that rears its head around Ethan win out. “What impression do I give?”
He looks at my phone, and I’m sure he sees the words How to lie convincingly in the search bar. With a laugh, he shakes his head. “Like you should put your head between your legs and pray.”
I’m about to push him off the bed when he stands, looks meaningfully down at his watch and then back up at me.
Passive-aggressive hint noted. Standing, I give a final look in the mirror and reach for my purse. “Let’s get this over with.”
• • •
AS WE MAKE OUR WAY to the elevator, I’m reminded of the supreme imbalance of the universe; even in unflattering overhead light, Ethan still manages to look good. Somehow the shadows sharpen his features rather than unattractively exaggerating them. Standing in front of the mirrored doors, I note the result is not the same for me.
As if reading my mind, Ethan bumps his hip into mine. “Stop it. You look fine.”
Fine, I think. Like a woman who loves her cheese curds. Like a woman whose boobs pop out of her bridesmaid dress. Like a woman who deserves your disdain because she isn’t perfect.
“I can hear you thinking about that one word and reading more into it than I intended. You look great.” Once inside, he presses the button for the lobby and adds, “You always do.”
These three final words bound around my cranium before they absorb. I always look great? To who? Ethan?
The floors count down and it feels like the elevator is holding its breath right along with me. I meet the eyes of my reflection in the mirrored doors and glance over at Ethan.
You always do.
Color blooms high on his cheekbones, and he looks like he’d be happy if the cables snapped and death swallowed us whole.
I clear my throat. “In a 1990 study, researchers showed that it’s easier to catch someone in a lie the first time they tell it. We should figure out what we’re going to say.”
“You needed Google to tell you that?”
“I do better when I’m prepared. You know, practice makes perfect.”
“Right.” He pauses, thinking. “We met through friends—technically not a lie, so it will be harder for you to screw it up—and got married last week. I am the luckiest man alive, et cetera, et cetera.”
I nod in agreement. “Met through friends, dated for a while and oh my God, I was so surprised when you begged me to marry you.”
Ethan’s lip curls. “I got down on one knee while we were camping at Moose Lake. Proposed with a Ring Pop.”
“Details are good! We smelled like campfire the entire next day,” I say, “but didn’t care because we were so happy and having lots of celebratory tent sex.”
The elevator falls deathly silent. I look over in a strange combination of horror and joy that I’ve managed to render him speechless with the prospect of sex with me. Finally, he mumbles, “Right. We can probably leave out that detail for your boss.”
“And remember,” I say, loving his discomfort, “I didn’t mention you, or being engaged, even at the more casual lunch at the interview, so we need to look a little windswept by it all.”
The elevator dings, and the doors open into the lobby. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble pulling that off.”
“And be charming,” I say. “But not like, likable charming. Passably charming. They shouldn’t leave wanting to spend any actual time with you. Because you’re probably going to die or turn out to be terrible in the end.” I catch his small, irritated scowl as he heads into the lobby and can’t help but throw in a little dig. “Basically, just be yourself.”
“Man, I am going to sleep so well tonight.” He stretches, like he’s prepping to starfish on the enormous bed. “FYI, watch the left side of the sofa. I was reading there earlier today and noticed there’s a spring that digs a little.”
Soft music echoes through the lobby as we make our way to the exit. The restaurant is just off the beach; it’s convenient because when all this blows up in my face, it will only be a short walk to drown myself in the ocean.
Ethan opens the door to the expansive courtyard and motions for me to lead the way down a lighted path. “What is this company again?” he asks.
“Hamilton Biosciences. They’re one of the most well-known contract biologics company in the country, and on the discovery side, they have a new flu vaccine. From all of the papers I’ve read, it sounds groundbreaking. I really wanted this job, so maybe mention how happy we are that I was hired, and that it’s all I’ve talked about since.”
“We’re supposed to be on our honeymoon, and you want me to say you’ve talked nonstop about their flu vaccine?”
“Yes. I do.”
“What’s your job again? Janitor?”
Ah. There it is. “I’m a medical-science liaison, Eragon. Basically I talk to physicians about our products from a more technical standpoint than does the sales force.” I glance over at him as we walk. He looks like he’s trying to cram for a test. “He and his wife are here for their thirtieth anniversary. If we’re lucky, we can just ask them a bunch of stuff about themselves and not have to talk about us at all.”
“For someone who claims to be unlucky, you’re putting an awful lot of faith into your lucky streak.” He does a small double take when he registers that this has hit me like a truth slap. We stop in front of a shimmering fountain, and Ethan pulls a penny—but not that penny—from his pocket and tosses it inside, “Seriously, calm down. We’ll be fine.”
I try. We follow the path to a Polynesian-style thatched-roof building and step up to the hostess stand. “I believe the reservation is under Hamilton,” Ethan says.
Dressed in all white save for a large gardenia pinned in her hair, the hostess scans a screen in front of her and looks up with a bright smile. “Right this way.”
I move to step around the podium, and that’s when it happens. Ethan moves into my side, his palm pressed against the small of my back, and just like that, our carefully preserved bubble of personal space is gone.
He looks down at me with a sweet smile and soft, adoring blue eyes and motions for me to lead the way with the hand not currently straying south. The transformation is . . . amazing. Debilitating. My stomach is in knots, my heart is lodged in my windpipe, and there’s something very aware happening along every inch of my skin.
The restaurant is on stilts above a lagoon, and our table is near a railing that overlooks the water. The interior is elegant but cozy, with leaded glass candle holders and wicker lanterns that make the space glow.
Mr. Hamilton stands when he sees us, fluffy white robe mercifully replaced with a floral-print shirt. The giant mustache is as robust as ever.
“There they are!” he crows, nodding to me and reaching out to shake Ethan’s hand. “Honey, this is Olive, the new team member I told you about, and her husband . . .”
“Ethan,” he supplies, and his dazzling smile punches me right in the vagina. “Ethan Thomas.”
“Good to meet you, Ethan. This is my wife, Molly.” Charles Hamilton motions to the brunette at his side, rosy cheeks and a deep dimple making her seem too young for a woman who’s celebrating three decades of marriage.
We all shake hands and Ethan holds out my chair. I smile and sit as carefully as I can. The rational part of my brain knows he won’t do it, but the lizard brain expects Ethan to pull it out from under me.
“Thank you so much for inviting us,” Ethan says, megawatt smile in place. He drapes an easy arm across the back of my chair, leaning in. “Olive is so excited to be working with you. It’s like she can’t shut up about it.”
I laugh a Ha-ha-ha oh, that rascal laugh and carefully step on his foot beneath the table.
“I’m just glad she hadn’t been snatched up yet,” Mr. Hamilton says. “We’re lucky to have her. And what a surprise to find out that you two just got married!”
“It happened sort of fast,” I say and lean into Ethan, trying to look natural.
“Snuck right up on us. Like an ambush!” He grunts when my heel digs farther into the top of his foot. “And what about you two? I hear congratulations are in order? Thirty years is just amazing.”
Molly beams up at her husband. “Thirty wonderful years, but even so there are moments I can’t believe we haven’t killed each other yet.”
Ethan laughs quietly, giving me an adoring look. “Aw, hon, can you imagine thirty years of this?”
“Sure can’t!” I say, and everyone laughs, thinking of course I’m joking. I reach up to brush my hair away from my forehead before remembering I’m not supposed to fidget. Then I fold my arms across my chest and recall the internet saying not to do that either.
God damn it.
“When Charlie told me that he ran into you,” Molly says, “well, I just couldn’t believe it. And on your honeymoon!”
I clap lamely. “Yay! It’s so—fun.”
The waitress appears, and Ethan pretends to lean in and kiss my neck. His breath is hot behind my ear. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “Relax.”
Straightening again, he smiles up to the waitress as she reads off the specials. After a few questions, we order a bottle of pinot noir for the table, and our dinners.
Any hope I had of navigating the conversation away from us is shot down as soon as the waitress leaves. “So how did you two meet?” Molly asks.
A pause. Keep it simple, Olive. “A friend introduced us.” I’m met with polite smiles as Molly and Charles wait for the actual story part of the story. I shift in my seat, recross my legs. “And, um, he asked me out . . .”
“We had mutual friends who had just started dating,” Ethan interjects, and their attention—thankfully—drifts over to him. “They planned a little party hoping everyone would get to know each other. I noticed her right away.”
Molly’s hands flutter around her collarbones. “Love at first sight.”
“Something like that.” The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “She was wearing a T-shirt that said Particle Collisions Give Me a Hadron, and I thought any woman who understands a physics pun is someone I need to know.”
Mr. Hamilton barks out a laugh and hits the table. Frankly, I can barely keep my jaw from hitting the floor. The story Ethan is telling isn’t the real first time we met, but maybe the third or fourth—in fact, it was the night I decided I was not going to put in a single bit of effort with him because every time I tried to be friendly, he’d weasel away and go into another room. And here he is, rattling off what I was wearing. I can barely recall what I wore yesterday, never mind what someone else wore two and a half years ago.
“And I guess the rest is history?” Mr. Hamilton says.
“Sort of. We didn’t really get along at first.” Ethan’s eyes make an adoring circuit of my face. “But here we are.” He blinks back to the Hamiltons. “What about you two?”
Charles and Molly tell us about how they met at a singles dance through neighboring churches, and when Charles didn’t ask her to dance, she walked right up to him and did it herself. I do my best to pay attention, I really do, but it’s nearly impossible with Ethan so close. His arm is still draped across my chair and if I lean back just enough, his fingers brush the curve of my shoulder, the back of my neck. It feels like tiny licks of fire each time he makes contact.
I definitely do not lean back more than twice.
Once our entrées arrive, we dig in. With the wine flowing and Ethan charming the pants off of everyone, it turns into not just a tolerable meal but a delightful one. I can’t decide if I want to thank him or strangle him.
“Did you know when Olive was a kid, she got stuck in one of those claw arcade machines?” Ethan says, retelling my least favorite—but, I’ll admit, funniest—story. “You can look it up on YouTube and watch the extraction. It’s comedy gold.”
Molly and Charlie look horrified for Little Olive, but I can guarantee they are going to watch the shit out of it later.
“How did you find out about that?” I ask him, genuinely curious. I certainly never told him, but I also can’t imagine him engaging in a conversation about me with anyone else, or—even more unbelievable—Googling me. The idea actually makes me have to push a laugh back down my throat.
Ethan reaches for my hand, twisting his fingers with mine. They’re warm, strong, and hold me tight. I hate how great it feels. “Your sister told me,” he says. “I believe her exact words were, ‘Worst prize ever.’ ”
The entire table bursts into hysterics. Mr. Hamilton is laughing so hard his face is a shocking shade of red, made worse by the silvery contrast of his giant mustache.
“Remind me to thank her when we get home,” I say, pulling my hand away and draining the last of my wine.
Still laughing, Molly carefully dabs at her eyes with a napkin. “How many brothers and sisters do you have, Olive?”
I take Ethan’s earlier advice and keep it simple. “Just the one.”
“She’s a twin, actually,” Ethan volunteers.
Molly is intrigued. “Are you identical?”
“We are.”
“They look exactly alike,” Ethan tells her, “but their personalities are polar opposites. Like night and day. One has it all together, and the other is my wife.”
Charlie and Molly lose it again, and I reach for Ethan’s hand, giving him a sweet Aw, I love you, ya goof smile while I attempt to break his fingers in my fist. He coughs, eyes watering.
Molly misinterprets his glassed-over expression and looks at us fondly. “Oh, this has been the most fun. Such a lovely way to end this trip.”
Quite clearly, she could not be more taken with my fake husband and leans forward, dimple in full force. “Ethan, did Olive mention that we have a spouses group at Hamilton?”
Spouses group? Continued contact?
“She sure didn’t,” he says.
She’s already rubbing her hands together. “We get together once a month. It’s mostly wives who manage to make it, but Ethan, you are just darling. I can already tell everyone is going to love you.”
“We’re a very close-knit group,” Mr. Hamilton says. “And more than coworkers, we like to think of everyone as family. You two are going to fit right in. Olive, Ethan, I’m just so thrilled to welcome you both to Hamilton.”
• • •
“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU TOLD the claw story,” I say as we walk along the outdoor path, headed back to the room. “You know they’re going to Google it, which means Mr. Hamilton will see me in my underwear.”
Thankfully, the personal space bubble is back. Being around an Ethan I don’t want to punch is disorienting enough. Being around an affectionate, charming Ethan is like suddenly being able to walk on the ceiling.
That said, dinner was an undeniable success, and as happy as I am that I didn’t blow it and still have a job, I’m irritated that Ethan is consistently so great at everything. I have no idea how he does it; he’s charm-free 99 percent of the time, but then, boom, he turns into Mr. Congeniality.
“It’s a funny story, Olive,” he says, walking faster and getting a few paces ahead of me. “Should I have told them about the time you gifted me that Last Will and Testament software at the family Christmas party? I mean, honestly—”
“I was only looking out for your loved ones.”
“—I was making conversation—” Ethan stops so suddenly that I collide with the brick wall of his back.
I catch my balance, horrified that I’ve just smashed my entire face into the splendor of his trapezius. “Are you having a stroke?”
He presses his hand to his forehead, head turning so he can frantically scope out the path behind us, back the way we came. “This can’t be happening.”
I move to follow his gaze, but he jerks me behind an enormous potted palm, where we huddle close.
“Ethan?” a voice calls, followed by the click of high heels on the stone path. She follows up with a breathy “I swear I just saw Ethan!”
He turns his face to me. “Big favor: I need you to go along with me.” We’re pressed so close I can feel his breath on my lips. I smell the chocolate he had for dessert, and a piney hint of his deodorant.
I try to hate it.
“You need my help?” I ask, and if it sounds a little breathy I’m sure it’s because I ate too much at dinner and am a little winded from the walk.
“Yes.”
My smile literally unfurls. Suddenly, I am the Grinch wearing a Santa hat. “It’s gonna cost you.”
He looks pissed for about two seconds before panic wipes it away. “The room is yours.”
The footsteps get closer, and then a blond head is invading my space. “Oh my God. It is you!” she says, bypassing me completely to wrap Ethan in a hug.
“Sophie?” he says, feigning surprise. “I . . . what are you doing here?”
Detangling from the embrace, Ethan glances over at me, eyes wide.
She turns to beckon to the man standing just off to the side, and I take the opportunity to mouth—because oh my God—This is Simba?!
He nods, clearly miserable.
Holy awkward! This is way worse than running into your new boss while naked under a robe!
“Billy,” Sophie says proudly, pulling the guy forward, and I gape because he looks exactly like Norman Reedus, but somehow greasier. “This is Ethan. The guy I told you about. Ethan, this is Billy. My fiancé.”
Even in the dark I see the way Ethan pales. “Fiancé,’ ” he repeats. The word lands with a heavy thud, and it’s infinitely more awkward with Ethan described only as the guy I told you about. Weren’t Ethan and Sophie together for a couple of years?
It doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together: Ethan’s reaction at seeing her across the path, the way he shut down when I asked about a girlfriend on the plane. A fresh breakup, and she’s already engaged? Ouch.
But it’s as if someone has pushed a button somewhere on his back, because robot Ethan is back and suddenly in motion, stepping forward to offer Billy a confident hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Moving to his side, I loop a casual arm through his. “Hi. I’m Olive.”
“Right, sorry,” he says. “Olive, this is Sophie Sharp. Sophie, this is Olive Torres.” He pauses and everything goes tight between us in anticipation of what comes next. I have the sense of being on the back of a motorcycle, staring over the lip of the canyon, not knowing if he’s going to rev the throttle and send us over the edge. He does: “My wife.”
Sophie’s nostrils flare and for a fraction of a second, she looks positively homicidal. But then the look is gone, and she gives him an easy smile. “Wow! Wife! Amazing!”
The problem with lying about relationships is that humans are fickle, fickle creatures. For all I know Sophie could be the one who ended things, but seeing that Ethan is no longer on the market will make him seem forbidden—and therefore more alluring. I have no idea what happened to end their relationship—nor do I know if he even wants her back—but if he does, I wonder if he realizes the irony that being married has just made it more likely she’ll want him back, too.
She glances at me and then him. “When did this happen?” I’m sure we can all hear how it’s an effort for her to keep her voice from being razor sharp, which just makes it that much more uncomfortable (and awesome).
“Yesterday!” I wiggle my ring finger, and the plain gold band winks in the torchlight.
She looks back at him. “I can’t believe I didn’t hear anything!”
“I mean,” Ethan says, laughing sharply, “we haven’t exactly spoken, Soph.”
And oh. Tension. This is so, so awkward (and juicy). My curiosity is officially piqued.
She gives a coy little pout. “Still! You didn’t tell me. Wow. Ethan—married.”
It’s impossible to miss the way his mouth hardens, his jaw flexes. “Thanks,” he says. “It happened pretty fast.”
“Feels like only moments ago we decided to really do this!” I agree with a hearty smile up at him.
He presses a hard, fast kiss to my cheek, and I force myself not to jerk away like I’ve been slapped with a dead lizard.
“And you’re engaged,” he says, giving the world’s stiffest thumbs-up. “Look at us . . . moving on.”
Sophie is small, thin, and wearing a pretty silk tank top, skinny jeans, and sky-high heels. Her tan comes from a bottle, and I’m guessing her hair color does, too, but that’s really all I can find wrong with her. I try to imagine her in twenty years—vaguely leathery, long red nails curled around a Diet Coke can—but for now she’s still beautiful in a semi-unattainable way that makes me feel dumpy in comparison. It’s easy to imagine her and Ethan side by side on a Christmas card, wrapped in J.Crew cardigans and leaning against their broad stone fireplace.
“Maybe we can go to dinner or something,” she says, and it’s so half-hearted that I actually bark out a laugh before Ethan reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
“Yes,” I say, trying to cover. “Dinner. We have it every day.”
Ethan looks down at me, and I realize he’s not glaring; he’s fighting a laugh.
Billy pipes up with a subject change, similarly cool on the dinner idea. “How long are you here?”
I absolutely cannot stomach another fake dinner, so I go for broke. When Ethan answers “Ten days,” I wrap my arms around his waist and gaze up at him with what I hope is a sexy frown.
“Actually, pumpkin, I’d feel terrible if we planned something and didn’t make it. You know we barely made it out of the room today.” I walk some flirty fingers up his chest, toying with the buttons on the front of his shirt. Wow, it is a veritable wall of muscle under there. “I already shared you tonight. I can’t make any promises for tomorrow.”
Ethan raises a single brow, and I’m wondering if the tension in his expression is because he cannot fathom having sex with me once, let alone continually for an entire afternoon. Pulling himself out of the mental hellscape, he presses a swift kiss to the tip of my nose. “You have a point.”
He turns to Sophie. “Maybe we can play it by ear?”
“Absolutely. You still have my number?”
“I’d imagine so,” he says with a bemused nod.
Sophie takes a couple of steps backward, and her gold heels click like kitten claws on the sidewalk. “Okay, well . . . congrats, and I hope we see you again!”
With a tug she pulls Billy, and they continue their way down the path.
“It was nice meeting you,” I call out before turning back to Ethan. “I might make a terrible wife one day, but at least we know now that I can fake it.”
“I guess everyone needs a goal.”
Pulling my hands off his body, I shake them out at my sides. “God, why did you kiss my nose? We did not discuss that.”
“I must have thought you were okay with it once you started feeling me up.”
I scoff at that, setting off again at an acceptable distance behind them toward the hotel. “I got us out of another dinner. If it weren’t for me you’d spend tomorrow night across from Malibu Barbie and Daryl Dixon. You’re welcome.”
“Your boss leaves and now my ex-girlfriend is here?” Ethan takes out his frustration in a series of long strides I have to jog to keep up with. “Have we earned a spot in the eighth circle of hell? Now we have to keep this stupid act up the entire time.”
“I have to admit to feeling partly responsible here. If something is going well and I’m around, look out. Win a free trip? Boss shows up. Boss goes home? Accomplice’s ex-girlfriend appears out of nowhere.”
He pulls open the door, and I am met with a blast of refrigerated air and the soothing gurgle-bubble of the lobby fountain.
“I’m a black cat,” I remind him. “A broken mirror.”
“Don’t be ludicrous.” He pulls out another penny—still not that one—and flicks it off his thumb into the splashing water. “Luck doesn’t work that way.”
“Please explain to me how luck really works, Ethan,” I drawl, following the trajectory of the coin.
He ignores this.
“Anyway,” I say, “this resort is huge. It’s like, forty acres and has nine swimming pools. I bet we don’t even see Simba and Daryl again.”
Ethan lets a reluctant half smile slip free. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am. But I’m also exhausted.” I walk across the lobby and press the button to call the elevator. “I say we turn in and start fresh in the morning.”
The doors open, and we step inside, side by side but so far apart.
I press the button for the top floor. “And thanks to Miss Sophie I have a giant bed waiting for me.”
His expression reflected in the glass doors is a lot less smug than it was a few hours ago.
