Page 52 of The Paradise Problem

I manage an even “Nice to meet you.” He’s tall, but I’m taller, and God I know it’s childish, but I straighten my spine, emphasizing it. He’s also extremely good-looking, with the same kind of easygoing smile that makes it possible to imagine them together.

“You, too,” Jamie says, and turns back to her. “Married? And to a Weston! Anna, I swear I never would have called this.”

“I’m not sure I’d have called it either back then,” she says, laughing. “That and running into you on a private island.” To me, she adds, “Jamie and I met in a pottery class.”

“She was a virtuoso with her hands,” he says, and I know he means it playfully, but the innuendo lingers like a sneering echo. I imagine landing an uppercut that sends him through the ceiling.

“Meanwhile, Jamie finished his project. Pretty much all I can say about that,” Anna teases.

“Hey,” he protests, laughing. “My grandmother still uses that coffee mug.”

“She would have to,” Anna says. “That thing was so huge, I’m sure it’s still full from the first time she poured coffee into it.”

I am not here for this flirting. I step closer, sending my hand around her waist, pulling her into my side. Redirecting, I ask, “Jamie, what brings you to the island for the wedding?”

“My father is the US head of operations for Bimbo, but he’s under the weather, so I’m here in his place.”

Beside me, Anna startles, delighted. “Did you say ‘Bimbo’?”

He nods, laughing, but I cut in. Jamie has had enough screen time. “Grupo Bimbo,” I explain. “It’s a global food company. They have some American brands now, like Oroweat, Thomas’ English muffins, Entenmann’s… a few others.”

Leave it to my father to invite business contacts to his daughter’s tropical wedding and use it as a tax write-off.

“I had no idea you’d even gotten married,” he says to Anna. “And five years ago, too, wow. I must have been living in a cave.”

Some unspoken communication passes between them, some disappointment on his end that he’s run into her too late, and I can’t read in her silence whether she’s sharing his regret. I look down at her, drawing her attention to my gaze.

Fuck, I hope she wasn’t dating him when we were roommates.

“When did the two of you…?” I begin.

“Sophomore year,” she says quickly, understanding, I guess, the tension in my eyes. “For about six months from, what was it? October to March? Something like that.” Anna puts her hand on my stomach in that way I’m starting to like too much, stretching to kiss my cheek. Warmth spreads down my neck. “You and I met that summer and had our whirlwind romance.”

I’m relieved that she wasn’t dating this guy at any point since she and I got married, but for the first time the broader idea feels sour: of course Anna has been with other men while she’s been legally mine.

I can’t look away, even when the wake of this thought leaves me feeling both ashamed and increasingly possessive. I want to take her away from this party and find a dark place to kiss her until she’s gasping for more.

I realize we’ve been staring at each other too long only when Jamie leans in, chastely air-kissing her opposite cheek. “Good to see you, Anna. Nice to meet you, Liam. I’m sure I’ll see you more this week.”

We shake hands and he walks away, but I don’t take my arm from where it circles her waist. Instead, I pull her closer.

“You had a little bit of a vibe there,” she says, grinning up at me.

“A vibe? I did?”

“A little…” She curls her fingers into claws, pretending to growl at me, but my eyes are drawn to the tan line again. “Like you were on the verge of kicking his ass. That was some good acting.”

“Well.” I look around the room, grateful that Jamie has fully disappeared into the crowd. “He didn’t need to comment on your skill with your hands.”

“Maybe he just meant I made good coffee mugs in pottery class.”

“Do you think that’s what he meant?”

She laughs, lifting her drink to her lips. Her voice echoes a little when she says, “No, probably not. I do make a great clay mug, though.”

“Liam!” my mother crows, approaching with two glasses of champagne. “I have been trying to make my way across the room for ages!” She hands me a flute and I expect her to hand the other to Anna, but instead she lifts it to toast only me. “To your anniversary!”

Pointedly, I hand the flute to Anna, who I realize is unfortunately now double-fisting it with her mostly full vodka tonic. With an annoyed glance at me, Mom passes me her flute, and snags one off the tray of a passing caterer.

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