Page 49 of The Paradise Problem

I clear my throat, but it doesn’t matter. My voice comes out like the mewl of a cat in heat anyway: “You look very nice.”

He laughs, pulling on a sport coat. “Thank you. Eyes up here, Green.”

I drag my gaze away from his crotch. “Right.”

“Ready?” He holds out his arm for me.

“Ready.”

Fourteen

ANNA

Let me tell you something about rich people. They can be on a tropical island, smack-dab in literal paradise, where nothing more is needed but a few tables and some chairs, and they will still find a way to spend gobs of money.

Case in point, according to the itinerary, tonight’s party is being held at the island’s other restaurant, the Boathouse. On any ordinary night, I imagine it’s magnificent exactly how it is. To the naked eye it looks like a large driftwood structure, with no real walls to detract from the stunning beach just yards away. Intricately carved ceiling fans oscillate from wooden beams stretched overhead, and beautiful iridescent shell-covered chandeliers glow above long tables set in pristine white sand. See? Gorgeous. Perfect. Expensive.

But because this is a Weston Party™, it doesn’t end there. Clustered down the center of each table are vases bursting with white orchids and sprays of spiky green palms. The plates are bone china, and they look old, rich old, vintage, with about seventeen matching smaller plates and crystal champagne flutes at each place setting. I wonder idly if Janet had these brought over from her own collection, and then I realize she’d be more likely to just buy an entirely new set of priceless china.

Candles flicker in mercury glass votives. Each chair is topped with a creamy linen pillow. More flowers are arranged in boughs over the bar, and fresh tropical greenery encircles every wooden beam and column. It’s like being in a terrarium on the beach. The air is warm and smells like sea salt and sugar, and I feel slightly drunk before we’ve even stepped inside.

“Why does this still surprise me?” I say, looking at the splendor in front of us. There are so many people here, swarming the bar while ignoring the buffet. You won’t see me making that mistake. Thanks to Vivi’s crash course in being fancy, I spot Valentino and Chanel, Dior and Bottega Veneta. Hermès bags and red-soled Christian Louboutin sandals. Brands I can barely pronounce, let alone spell. It’s a safe bet Janet isn’t the only one in attendance who takes her trash out in a pair of Gucci slides.

“I know what you mean,” he says, and there’s a hint of sadness there. Disappointment? He’s also hesitating, his feet planted in the sand like he’s being led to an audit.

With a hand on his elbow, I coax him to turn toward me. “Hey.”

He smiles and I wonder for the hundredth time why he doesn’t do it more often. “Hey.”

“I forgot to tell you something awesome.”

He tilts his head, the stars reflecting in his eyes. “I love awesome.”

“My manager emailed while you were being accosted by your sister-in-law, and three of my pieces will be at a showing in Laguna!”

His smile grows and I screech as he wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me from the ground. “That’s amazing,” he says, peering up at me. “Congratulations, Green.”

“Thank you.”

After an awkward amount of what now? eye contact, West sets me down and I’m glad to see that his expression is lighter, his shoulders looser. Mission accomplished. “See? No virgin sacrifice required,” he says.

“Oh, good to know,” I say, grinning. “You were gone so long, I wanted to ask if thanks were due, but it felt like that sort of gift is best left unmentioned.”

“Just your talent, absolutely zero blood spill.”

Music drifts from the restaurant as a band begins to play. “Okay,” I say. “So we are madly in love, are the types to have sex before and after this party, and these suckers can only dream of being this happy.” I reach up, smoothing the front of his shirt. “You ready, Dr. Weston?”

“No, but let’s do it anyway.” He winks. “Champagne’s on me.”

As we enter, we are greeted by a beautiful young woman wearing a Weston’s name tag. “Welcome to the Weston-McKellan welcome reception.” She hands me a heavy white bag.

“What’s this?” I say, peeking inside.

West leans in. “Probably a swag bag.”

I blink up at him. “Like at the Oscars?”

He laughs. “Something like that. Stuff from my parents but probably things from other guests, too.”

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