Page 92 of The Paradise Problem

“I know.” I nod, even if it’s not entirely true. “Let’s just take it one day at a time.”

Anna leans in, kissing me. “One day at a time. That’s all I’ve ever really been able to afford anyway.” She grins, but then her smile turns mischievous as she rolls me over onto her, saying, “Let’s see how it all feels in a few months.”

I tilt my head, looking down at her, knowing I will never tire of this view. “Why in a few months?”

“I’ve heard divorce sex is hot,” she says, and cackles in delight as I dive for her neck.

Twenty-Eight

ANNA

Of all the sounds I dislike in this world, the blare of the alarm at seven this morning takes the top spot. (We set it on the off chance that our all-night bangfest would prevent us from waking in time for the wedding day family breakfast at eight.) (And yes. It absolutely would have). But second only to that noise is the cracking squelch of an incredibly hungover Blaire Weston breaking raw eggs into her coconut water.

“Blaire,” Janet says without looking away from where she’s primly cutting a slice of mango into tiny, Barbie-sized bites, “you really shouldn’t eat raw eggs.” She’s in her standard Janet Weston finery: a soft pink linen lounge set with the word Dior stitched into the breast pocket, and matching Dior sandals.

“Well,” Alex says, and his eyes flicker to me, “correct me if I’m wrong, soon-to-be-Dr. Anna, but I believe eggs contain high amounts of cysteine, an amino acid that helps break down acetaldehyde, which causes hangovers.”

I lift my coffee to him. “Well done.” Apparently while Liam and I were re-creating most of the Kama Sutra, our big brother was studying medical texts.

“Yes, thank you, dear,” Janet drawls. “I’m less concerned about her well-earned hangover and more concerned that she’ll get salmonella and vomit all over Charlie’s couture wedding gown.”

Reagan gags and gets up from the table, GW giggles and begins mimicking the sound, and Alex takes an aggressive slurp of his coffee.

And across the table from me, Liam looks up, already smiling. His hair is a little wild—there was no hope in taming it after last night—and I’m not sure if he’s noticed there’s another small bruise under his ear. Our eyes lock, and I hope he’s thinking the same thing I am, which is that the thing I did with my mouth very, very early this morning was born from pure, divine inspiration and given the sound he made when he came, he really owes me that perfect bite of pineapple on his plate.

With a laugh, he spears the fruit with his fork and drops it on my plate.

“How did you know?” I ask, amazed.

He rests an elbow on the table, setting his chin on his fist. “Because you’ve been staring at it for about five minutes and only just looked up with pleading in your eyes.”

I pop it into my mouth and smile as I chew. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

I was right. He’s definitely thinking about the blow job.

Blaire groans. “The pheromones are so strong at this table, it’s like living in a Teen Wolf fanfic.” She turns a head that looks like it weighs twenty pounds to glare at Alex, who in turn is watching Liam with narrowed beady eyes.

“Liam, darling, no elbows on the table,” Janet murmurs.

Unfazed, Liam straightens, pulling his elbow away and going back to smiling at his breakfast.

Charlie and Kellan arrive, their “we’re six hours away from being newlyweds” glow firmly in place, but the moment Charlie sits, Janet leans over and launches into Defcon One Wedding Day Preparedness mode. A warm ocean breeze flutters the gauzy sleeves of my sundress. Blaire sips miserably at her hell juice; even her hair looks hungover. Jake helps Nixon cut his pancakes while also schooling him on the superiority of coconut syrup over maple, and Alex resentfully cleans up some milk little GW spills across the table. It’s chaos, and stress blankets the air like a haze of bug spray, but there’s something… sort of wonderful about it? I always imagined what it would be like to be part of a big family, and here I am in the thick of it, warts and all. Even with the looming threat of the loophole, Liam and I are optimistic that everything will be okay. We’re falling for each other; we’re not faking a thing.

It’s my turn to rest my chin on a fist and gaze in adoration at him.

“I don’t have any more pineapple,” he murmurs, peeking up at me through his lashes.

I grin back, about to open my mouth and let some drippy, infatuated words fall out, but my phone buzzes on the table with the first call I’ve received in days.

It’s Mel.

My manager never calls just to check in.

And I realize with a jolt that the art exhibit must have opened, and not only had I not been obsessing about it, I hadn’t even remembered.

I throw Liam a nervous smile and stand without excusing myself, answering the call before I’ve even made it past the hostess stand near the entrance.

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