Page 42 of The Holiday Honeymoon Switch
“It’s just, I may never get invited to a school dance again—so I want to do it right. Any clothing shops in town?”
“There’s Viola’s Dress Barn, which is my grandma’s favorite shop, if that tells you anything.” He grins. “She’s stylish, but still…she’s also in her eighties.”
“Okay, so no to Viola’s.”
“And there’s a thrift shop, Bebe’s Bargains. It’s the last store before Main Street ends.”
“I love thrifting,” Holly says. “It’ll be fun to see what I can find.”
His answering smile causes a flutter in the pit of her stomach, and she thinks of how it felt when he held her hand as they skated down the river. Rebound or not, bad timing or not, shelikeshim. He makes her forget about who she is now, all she’s been through, and remember who she used to be—and right now, that’s the best feeling in the world.
11
Ivy
December 22
Kauai, Hawaii
The rooster’s crow at dawn feels like an aural ice pick in Ivy’s temple. She grabs a pillow and holds it over her head, but the shrill crowing continues. Memories from the night before swirl in her head like she’s hit the start button on a blender.Janis Joplin. Bobby McGee. Spicy pineapple juice. Mezcal. Manapua Man. Oliver. Larry. Trying to forget. Bing Crosby. A mop in my hand.
Had she…danced on the bar at one point the night before? She remembers a delighted Oliver finally getting his wish and Larry putting on a Bing Crosby album. Larry had whispered to Ivy that she always let him do this when she wanted the bar to clear out a little so she could go homeearly, but they had ended up staying late, hanging out and drinking a few more of those strong, spicy cocktails. Eventually, Ivy remembers telling Larry that she likes to clean while drunk—which is patently not true; she just needed something to occupy herself so she didn’t stand staring at Oliver, besotted and googly-eyed in her drunken state, despite her promise to herself to keep this trip focused on art only.
She has a dim memory of stumbling back home with Oliver and Larry, laughing as she stumbled up the stairs to her apartment. She sees that her clothes are strewn from one end of the apartment to the other. A glass of water, half empty, sits beside the bed—good intentions, at least. The blinds are wide open and the early-morning sun streams through. But, she tells herself, she’s not going to close the blinds and go back to sleep, because that is not why she’s here. She’s here towork—and that’s what she’s going to do, regardless of her hangover, or her confused emotions for a guy named Oliver.
Ivy stands, and the room spins for a second, but she makes it to the bathroom, where she brushes the taste of the spicy pineapple bonfires away with minty toothpaste. In the shower, she lets the water run icy cold at the end, and emerges feeling much better.
In the kitchen, she brews her coffee as strong as possible, and—after two cups, gulped straight—the hangover releases some of its grip on her. But she’s still feeling too rough to attempt an ambitious day trip, so she packs her art supplieswith some water and fruit, thinking she’ll simply wander down the beach until she finds scenery that inspires her.
She’s halfway down the steps to the beach when she hears a male voice.
“Morning, sunshine.”
She looks down and sees Oliver through the slats in the steps. He’s sitting on the terrace of the apartment below at a small table covered in breakfast remnants: a coffee carafe, an orange juice jug, pastry crumbs, a butter dish, a pot of jam. Larry, wearing a short black silk kimono robe, steps out onto the terrace holding a water jug and two glasses. Her bed-mussed black curls tumble down her shoulders; her tanned legs go on for days.
“Ivy!” She flashes a delighted, toothy smile. “You look gorgeous. This is not fair. You do not look like someone who consumed several of my bonfires last nightanddanced on my bar top.”
“Oh, boy. I was kind of hoping that was just a dream,” Ivy says.
“Meanwhile, I—” Larry shakes her head and laughs, swiping her hands up and down her gorgeous self. “I’m a disaster.”
She is decidedlynota disaster. She looks like she’s just stepped off the runway of a Victoria’s Secret show, and Oliver, in his white T-shirt and rumpled beige linen shorts, looks like her extremely sexy consort. But he’s not. They are not a couple, just two very attractive best friends. And nowthat Ivy doesn’t have the Hawaiian bonfires as armor, thinking about Oliver and the night before causes a flood of nerves to wash over her. She forces a smile she hopes doesn’t betray her way-too-complicated attraction to Oliver. “Cold shower, strong coffee, tons of water. That’s my hangover cure. And I’m sorry, I hope I wasn’t too much last night.”
“You werethe mostfun,” Larry says. “Also, you insisted you love to clean while drunk, and so I had the bar closed in a fraction of the time I usually do. I appreciate it. Gave me more time to hang out with you.” Another smile. “Now, come, sit. Let me show my gratitude by sharing some of our malasada pastries. I promise, all the sugar, butter, and cream will be the final nail in the coffin of your hangover.”
Ivy glances at Oliver, whom she notices is being very quiet, just sitting still, smiling at her weakly from behind his Ray-Bans. “I don’t want to interrupt…I was planning to go down the beach and do some drawing.”
“Please, Ivy. We’re stuffed, and the cream filling means these are never as good day-old.”
Ivy sits opposite Oliver, and Larry pours her water and offers her juice or coffee.
“Larry, we’re not at your bar,” Oliver says. “You’re at home. You don’t have to serve everyone.”
“I know that, Ollie,” Larry says. “But I like Ivy, and I want her to be happy.”
Meanwhile, Ivy notices that after he speaks, Oliver rubshis temples. Larry follows her gaze. “He’s regretting his nightcap last night. Or perhaps I should say night-caps. You were wise enough to say no to one and take yourself to bed.”
“I barely remember doing it, so I’m not sure ‘wise’ is the right word, but you’re right that I seem to have fewer regrets today than you do, Oliver.”
