Page 77 of Depths of Desire
The outdoor bar was a ten-minute walk down the main path, all rustic wood and string lights that would look magical later when the sun set. During the day, it had a different energy, younger, more casual. College guys and twenty-somethings nursing beers and taking Instagram photos of their avocado toast.
Perfect hunting ground for a guy looking to forget someone.
I ordered another mojito, a double this time, and leaned against the bar, letting my gaze wander over the crowd. The afternoon sun had brought out all the beautiful people. Shirtless guys playing volleyball on the sand court. A group of what looked like grad students sharing a pitcher of margaritas. A lone guy at the far end of the bar with dark hair and swimmer’s shoulders, scrolling through his phone.
Stop it.
But I couldn’t help myself. My eyes kept drifting back to him, cataloging the differences. His hair was too short, too neat. His shoulders were broad but not quite broad enough. He washandsome in a generic, magazine-model way that would have caught my attention six months ago.
Now, he just looked like a pale imitation of something better.
A group of guys at a corner table kept glancing my way, and one of them, blond, bright smile, probably a business major, finally worked up the courage to approach.
“Hey,” he said, sliding up next to me at the bar. “I’m Tyler. My friends and I were wondering if you wanted to join us for a drink.”
He was cute. Really cute. The kind of effortless, golden-boy attractive that usually made my brain go offline. Six months ago, I would have said yes without hesitation. I would have flirted shamelessly, bought rounds for his friends, maybe ended up skinny-dipping in the lake after dark.
“That’s really sweet,” I heard myself saying. “But I’m good here.”
Tyler’s smile faltered. “You sure? We’re pretty fun company.”
I looked past him at his table of friends, all of them young and eager and uncomplicated. They looked like they laughed easily, like they’d never had their hearts broken by someone who chose ambition over love. They looked like they’d be perfectly happy with a vacation hookup that didn’t mean anything beyond a few hours of fun.
They looked nothing like Oliver.
“I’m sure,” I said and turned back to my drink.
Tyler lingered for another moment, clearly confused by the rejection, then shrugged and rejoined his friends. I caught them glancing over a few more times, probably trying to figure out what was wrong with me.
Good question.
The swimmer at the end of the bar had looked up from his phone and was watching me with obvious interest. When our eyes met, he smiled. It was a slow, confident smile that promisedhe knew exactly what to do with his hands. Under normal circumstances, that smile would have been irresistible.
But all I could think about was another smile, softer and more hesitant, the way Oliver had looked at me that first morning in this very place when he was trying to figure out if what had happened between us was real.
The swimmer raised his beer in a silent toast. I lifted my mojito in response but didn’t move closer. After a moment, he shrugged and went back to his phone.
Strike two.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I was in paradise, single, reasonably attractive, and surrounded by equally attractive people who seemed interested in getting to know me better in all the uncomplicated ways. This should have been easy. This should have been fun. This should have been exactly what I needed to prove to myself that I could move on, that one intense relationship hadn’t ruined me for everyone else.
But every potential connection felt like putting on clothes that didn’t fit. Nothing looked right. Nothing felt right. Every smile was too bright or not bright enough. Every laugh was too loud or too forced. Every pair of eyes was the wrong shade of brown.
I finished my second mojito and immediately wanted a third, which seemed like a sign that I should probably stop drinking and go back to my cabin. Maybe take a nap, or go for a hike, or call Rhett and pretend everything was fine.
Instead, I ordered that third drink.
The bartender, a guy about my age with impressive forearms and a knowing smirk, slid it across the bar with practiced ease. “Rough day in paradise?”
“Something like that.” I took a sip and winced. Either he’d made this one stronger, or my tolerance was lower than I thought.
“Vacation’s supposed to be relaxing, man. You look like you’re working pretty hard at not having fun.”
He wasn’t wrong. I was working hard at this, treating my attempt at moving on like another training drill, another goal to achieve through pure determination.
Just like Oliver would.
