Page 14 of The Holiday Honeymoon Switch
“At our superior-value rate: four thousand dollars a night.”
“A…night?” There’s no chance she can afford to stay here—not even for a single night. Her heart sinks all the way to the toe straps of her gladiator sandals.
“Miss—I’m so sorry. You look a little ill. What an ordeal this is. Would you like some refreshing cucumber water?”
Gerald is being so nice, and his kind brown eyes are still wide with care and concern, and shelovescucumber water, but she sighs with despondence. “What I need is to get a taxi back to the airport and a flight out of here,” Ivy says, sadly taking in the gorgeous surroundings. But Gerald shakes his head.
“There are no more flights from this island until tomorrow.”
“Okay…then any good spots you can recommend to sleep on the beach? Or perhaps you have an empty broom closet I can curl up in?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “There are a lot of beach villas and houses for rent around here that are in a lower price range than this hotel. Why don’t you go down to the beach bar, enjoy something stronger than cucumber water if you like, get something to eat—all on the house, please—and use the hotel Wi-Fi to find somewhere nearby to stay.”
She feels almost overwhelmed by his kindness, and says so.
“I’m heartbroken for you,” he says. “And besides, ’tis the season,” he concludes.
“I have a feeling you’re nice all year round, Gerald.”
“Oliver at the beach bar makes a killer mai tai. It’s just beyond the pool—look for the beautiful kiawe tree that offers the perfect shade while having a drink.” He comes around the desk and wheels her suitcase away, saying over hisshoulder, “I’ll keep your luggage in my office, you just let me know when you need it. Good luck to you, Holly.”
Keeping her hat pulled low and her head bowed, just in case she runs into Matt and Abby, Ivy hustles through the pool area toward the beach. The sun is close to setting now, the western sky warming to a golden pink—rose ocher mixed with geranium lake light, to be precise, but knowing the exact colors of the spectacular scenery just makes her heart ache. She reaches a charming tiki-style bar sheltered behind the sprawling branches of what is indeed a very beautiful kiawe tree. Its many branches point skyward in what looks like a celebratory dance. Ivy takes off her sandals and stands in the sand in front of the tree for a long moment, trying to memorize it. Then she turns and walks toward the tiki bar.
A bartender is serving an older couple. He catches her eye as he flips a martini shaker in the air and catches it, like he’s Tom Cruise inCocktail. Despite the bleakness of her situation, Ivy finds herself momentarily mesmerized. Of course the bartender at this ravishing resort, on this exquisite beach, beside this majestic tree, is gorgeous, right down to the shirt unbuttoned just that little bit extra, revealing a smooth, toned chest. He shoots her a smile, revealing a dimple on his left cheek—just one, because of course he hasa dimple on one cheek only, turning his sexy smile crooked and disarming. He mouthsOne sec, and Ivy sits down, dragging her gaze away from him and sighing at the unfairness of it all. This place is absolutely lovely in every way. And she can’t stay.
As she waits to be served, she tries to breathe in a sense of calm along with the fragrant sea air. But instead, she feels indignation rising inside her again. How dare Matt do this to Holly? Howcouldhe? Ivy’s parents raised her to believe violence is never the answer, but right now she’s imagining finding Matt, tackling him, and holding his head under an ocean wavejust long enoughto scare the shit out of him but not do any permanent damage. She shakes her head from side to side, trying to dispel these dark, dark thoughts. She has never been so angry with someone in her entire life.
“Hey.” It’s Hot Bartender, and the dimple is gone. “You look like you’re having some dark, dark thoughts.”
“Oh.” Ivy is startled. She looks away from the ocean, and her distracted gaze collides with turquoise-blue eyes framed by the faintest of feathery smile lines. The bartender’s dimple keeps disappearing and reappearing. His eyes are an immersive experience. “I’m fine,” she manages.
“I can tell that’s not true.”
“I heard you make a good mai tai,” she says, trying to smile convincingly, wishing she, too, had an endearing dimple to distract him with.
He tilts his head. “Hmm,” he says.
“Hmm,what?”
He looks at her for a long moment, and Ivy feels her cheeks grow warm.
He rolls up his shirtsleeves now, revealing tanned, muscled forearms covered in a mist of golden hair. She tries not to look at his muscles, but lands back on his sea green eyes. No help. Lime, turquoise, and light blue blended gently with the tip of her finger would get them just right, if she were to draw him. Which, of course, she will not be doing.
He’s still sizing her up.
“I’ve got it.” He holds up a finger, turns, bends down—I will not look at his ass, I will not look at his ass—and rummages in a cupboard before bringing out a bottle with no paper label, and the words “Grand Rhum Hawaii” embossed on the glass. “This rum,” he says, lowering his voice, which she feels rumble all the way down to the base of her pelvis, “was bottled in 1925. Almost a hundred years ago. It has seen earthquakes and floods. Forest fires.” He sighs. “And it has survived. Which meansyoucan survive the bad day you’re having.” He lifts a hand and taps a cocktail glass down from a row of them hanging over his head, catching it just before it smashes on the bar top. She tries to keep her expression impassive. “Come on, that was impressive.”
She shrugs. “I’ve seen better.” She definitely has not. “How do you know I’m having a bad day?”
“Trick of the trade,” he says, filling the glass with ice, pouring in a generous shot of the rare dark rum, mixing it with white rum and fresh lime juice, pouring orange curaçao as the top layer. “Bartenders know things.” He puts the cocktail on a mat and slides it toward her. “Try that out. It just might heal your broken heart.”
Before she can reply, he moves off down the bar to serve two couples. Ivy takes a sip of the cocktail; it’s delicious. She puts it down and calls up the VRBO app on her phone. But every villa apartment she clicks on is booked. “Damn it,” she mutters. It’s the Christmas holidays. She’s never going to find a place to stay. She sips the drink again and puts down her phone to stare out to sea, feeling her heart sinking as low as the sun. The clouds on the horizon turn purple and orange as she watches, the sky around them darkening to dusky blue as the sun hits the water. “Fuck, it’s gorgeous here.”
“Isn’t it?”
Hot Bartender is back. She lets out a morose sigh. At this point, not even that one dimple of his can raise her spirits. “So, you said this drink could help mend a broken heart. What makes you think I have a broken heart?”
“Again, trick of the trade. Bartenders know things. And you look like…” He bites his lip, narrows his eyes, sizes her up. “Someone who has just been left at the altar.” She nearly spits out her drink.
