Page 2 of The Weekend Getaway

When Mia saw Phil Richart standing by the pool, holding a champagne flute, her gut twisted.

“What is he doing here?” Mia seethed through clenched teeth.

“Relax,” whispered Alex, resting a hand against the small of her back. “And smile.”

“The invitation said to arrive between four and six,” Mia said, recalling the guest instructions on the small notes, which she’d had no choice but to handwrite herself and then tuck into matching envelopes.

As she and Alex approached Phil, Mia took a deep breath, already regretting the moment when Phil would turn to greet them with some magnanimous gesture, as though the weekend getaway was his idea. As though he was the host, welcoming them to a three-day stay at the lush, luxuriousproperty. Seven acres of verdant rainforest, majestic palm trees, and sugary white sand surrounded by tranquil turquoise waters. In addition to the ten-bedroom colonial villa, the property featured a boat dock, hiking trails, and a waterfall.

Alex had rented the island, but Phil looked as though he owned it.

Despite his average looks, he appeared commanding and dapper, dressed in linen that billowed around his limbs in the gentle ocean breeze. The late afternoon Caribbean sun cast a rosy-golden glow over him, highlighting the coppery flecks in his reddish-blonde hair, giving him the appearance of a sugar plantation scion or maybe some B-list actor in a Ralph Lauren ad.

Phil looked like what he was. What he’d always been. What he would forever be.

Someone she didn’t understand. A man born into astounding wealth, whose position in society intimidated and irritated her. A man with unlimited, unfathomable access to money and power. He didn’t have to worry about negative online reviews and social media backlash from dissatisfied clients and former employees, losing too many high-profile cases, clients losing confidence in the firm’s ability to litigate cases successfully, or allegations of misconduct and fraud.

Phil Richart didn’t have to worry about losing everything he’d worked for …

But that was because he’d never worked for anything.

He’d had everything handed to him.

Luck of the womb had saved Phil from the secret shame Mia carried, having been born to an unwed teen who gavebirth to her in a gas station bathroom. Phil had never suffered the indignity of marginalization or the curse of disenfranchisement.

With each step, Mia’s pulse raced faster.

Alex’s hand on her back provided some comfort, a bit of reassurance, but her husband’s presence was not enough support. Why was Phil here at … what time was it? Mia glanced at her watch. Three forty-one p.m. Was he trying to pull some sort of weird power move? Being late was often seen as passive aggressive. Could being early be viewed the same? Was showing up ahead of time Phil’s way of letting them know that they couldn’t control him? Couldn’t dictate his life? Couldn’t tell him what to do? Or was she reading too much into it? Maybe he’d given himself more time than he’d needed. Maybe his private plane had benefitted from a tailwind.

Mia winced inwardly, recalling the commercial airliner she and Alex had been forced to take. Five hours cramped in coach, lamenting the clothes she’d had to stuff in her carry-on. The getaway was only for the weekend, but she’d wanted the option of different outfits. Instead, she’d had to leave behind several sundresses and bikinis so she could take advantage of not paying to check a bag.

After a slight delay due to some issue which hadn’t been explained, they’d taken off, then landed on the main island. Melting in the broiling tropical heat, they waited almost twenty minutes for a taxi to the marina. Instead of chartering a speed boat, which they would have done if things had been different, she and Alex had to take the local island ferry.Dragging her carry-on behind her, the wheels rolling over the wooden deck leading to the island ferry, Mia boarded the large vessel. Caught in the crush of dozens of passengers, she and Alex managed to push and shove their way onto the boat.

Sick to her stomach, Mia stood above deck, near the bow, eyes closed, trying to focus on the gusty sea breeze, praying she wouldn’t suffer the mortification of getting sick. How long did twenty-five minutes take, she’d wondered desperately, hands wrapped around the railing in a death grip as the ferry bobbed up and down over the choppy waves.

“Did he tell you he was arriving early?” Mia whispered to Alex.

“No, but it’s fine,” Alex said. “No big deal.”

Mia took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down as the distance between them and Phil decreased, but her pulse still raced, her heart still pounded. She hated the nauseating, fluttery feeling in her stomach. Why was she so nervous? So anxious? Because she hadn’t seen Phil Richart in years? Fifteen to be exact. The last time had been?—

“Alex! Hey!” Phil’s voice was like a sudden, sonic boom, loud and preposterous, with an infusion of upper-crust entitlement blunted by frat boy charm.

Caught off guard, Mia expelled a small gasp as she stumbled slightly on the terracotta stone tiles, then pivoted toward Alex, reaching for him, but he was walking ahead of her, striding purposefully toward Phil.

Mia hurried after Alex, who had grabbed Phil and seemed to be trying to pin him in a choke hold while Phil laughed out loud, enjoying the sophomoric horseplay that began tosubside into a bear hug with hearty pats on the back, an unabashed embrace of friends whose lives had diverted long ago for far too long.

Or maybe not long enough, Mia thought, instantly scolding herself as she smiled, trying to think of something funny. She wanted her grin to appear genuine, reflecting happiness in her gaze, and not the apprehension brewing within her.

“Alexander the Great!” Phil exclaimed, smiling at Alex, a look of astonished wonderment on his face—which upon closer inspection, Mia realized, was not golden and tan, but ruddy and leathery, baked by a harsh, unrelenting sun.

“Great to see you, Phillip!” Alex said, extra excited, full of fake charm.

“How the hell long has it been?” Phil asked, draping an arm over Alex’s shoulders. Mia frowned slightly at Phil’s forearm, slightly damp from the heat, resting against the fabric of Alex’s lightweight sports jacket. Alex had purchased it with the intention of making an impression on Phil, who would recognize the quality, but he also planned to return it. That wouldn’t be possible if the jacket was stained with Phil’s sweat.

“Too damn long,” Alex said.

Again, Mia thought, not long enough. Never wouldn’t be long enough.

---