Page 20 of The Holiday Honeymoon Switch
“So, it’s sorted?”
She hesitates, but only for a second. “I’m really grateful,” she says.
“Honestly, it’s what anyone would do. My shift is over in half an hour, and then I’ll walk you down the beach and show you your new accomodations, okay?”
He serves a pair of women as she turns to watch the final glimmers of her first Hawaiian sunset disappear over the lip of the horizon. The constellations begin to wink on, one by one, above the bar and the kiawe trees—like Christmas stars that have lost their way and found themselvessuspended above a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific. Ivy takes out her phone and snaps a few pictures, and feels her heart filling with joy. She doesn’t have to go home. She gets to stay here and draw this gorgeous scenery. At least one thing feels right in her world.
“Oliver, thisplace,” Ivy says. Even at night, she can see how charming her surroundings are: There are steps leading down from the villa’s deck into a grassy little garden bordered by palm trees, then a solar-light-lined path to a beach with sand lit up by moonlight, showing itself to be the color of fresh-cut straw. The beach house is tucked into a bay at the foot of gently hulking mountains, which are clad head to toe in green velvet, like they’re getting ready to go to a Christmas party. There’s a hammock on one side of the deck, a small wooden table and chairs on the other. The deck is the perfect size for her to sit and draw.
“And you haven’t even seen inside yet, come on,” Oliver says, beckoning her forward.
The apartment is airy and open-concept. Ivy spins slowly to take it all in: There’s a small kitchen at the back with a view of another tree-filled garden, and a trail that leads out to the road; the board-and-batten walls are painted sea-glass green; a slatted wooden bed covered in white linen sits invitingly beside the biggest window; there are a few simplerattan rugs on the floor; a small gallery of framed photographs, all striking water and ocean-wave close-ups, decorate one wall; a coral-patterned fan quilt hangs on another. Salty, tangy air flows in through the windows at the front, and a floral-scented breeze drifts in from the back. “This place is like a dream. This is really kind of you, Oliver. And Larry.”
“I’m glad you like it. But I feel bad—it’s Christmastime, and there are no decorations in here.”
Ivy shrugs. “Christmas is just okay,” she says. “No need to find me any decorations.”
He does a double take. “Justokay?”
“I’m kind of ambivalent about Christmas.” She shrugs, and he looks amused.
“What exactly is it you think is ‘just okay’ about Christmastime?” he asks, then starts listing items off on his fingers. “The heartwarming music? The atmosphere of giving? The great food? The surprise gifts? The look of wonder on children’s faces?”
“I think it’s pretty clear whereyoustand on Christmas,” she says with a laugh. “My parents are very anti-capitalist, to say the least. And say what you want about Christmas—itisa capitalist’s dream.”
“Well, bah, humbug, Ivy,” Oliver says, but he’s still smiling as if nothing can dampen his festive joy. Then he snaps his fingers. “I’ve got something that will get you into the spirit, guaranteed.” He tilts his head and his sea green eyestwinkle even more. “Hey, Alexa, please play ‘Mele Kalikimaka.’ ” The speaker at the side of the kitchen counter lights up, and the upbeat Bing Crosby and Andrews Sisters carol starts playing.
“Who doesn’t love this song? Come on!” He sings along, even hitting all the Andrews Sisters’ high notes as he dances, joyful and completely unselfconscious. His shirt lifts, and she catches a glimpse of his flat stomach, the golden trail of hair on his firm abdomen. There’s no question about it: Oliver is very hot. But she’s not here for a fling, she reminds herself. Her art trips areneverabout flings—and she especially cannot squander this one, which has been given to her by her heartbroken best friend.
She grits her teeth as he continues his silly dance, willing her attraction away.
“Okay, okay, I can tell by the expression on your face it’s not working for you. What musicdoyou like, then?”
“Hey, Alexa,” Ivy says. “Play…Leon Bridges.” As the funky opening beat of the song “Steam” flows from the speakers, Oliver nods along.
“Not exactly festive, not asstone-cold hipas Bing, and certainly not as hype as the Andrews Sisters, but pretty good background music for the rest of the tour of the apartment.”
“ ‘Hype’?” she says with a laugh. “Do people actually call things ‘hype’ anymore? ‘Stone-coldhip’?”
“Ido.” Their gazes snag and she feels caught for a moment, but then he turns to tell her about the cooling unit.
“Hello?” a female voice trills. “Knock, knock!” A tall, beautiful woman with long, honey-highlighted brown hair is standing by the sliding door.
“Larry!” Oliver calls out as she slides it open.
“Hi, honey.” She enters the space on a cloud of tantalizing floral musk, kisses his cheek, then turns to Ivy, beaming. “And you must be Ivy, our new tenant for two weeks.”
Aha. Of course.Hot Bartender Oliver is not single. He has a leggy, gorgeous, sparkly-eyed girlfriend, who is currently holding out a paper bag of groceries to Ivy.
“Some coffee, fruit, and buns for morning.”
Ivy takes the bag from her. “Thank you so much. For all this kindness, for letting me stay here. I appreciate it a lot.”
“Well, what else was I going to do?” Her hot-chocolate-colored eyes are wide. “Ollie told me about your situation. Left at the altar, and then your ex-fiancé shows up on your honeymoon with another woman?”
Ivy’s cheeks begin to color. “Oh, um, that’s not actually me—”
“I’mkidding. I’m sorry. He told me everything—how you’re not actually Holly, you’re her best friend. And she gave you her honeymoon, but her knobhead of an ex stole it out from under you.” Larry looks like Eva Mendes, right down to the sexy beauty mark on her cheek—making her the perfect match for Ryan Gosling–look-alike Oliver, of course. “What a story, though. You must be livid on behalf of your friend. I told Ollie he should put hot sauce in his drink next time.Or…ever hear of the melted-straw trick? I did that once to a bunch of rude frat boys in my bar. Rude frat boys arethe worst.”
