Page 59 of Champagne Fizz

KENDALL

Ichoose a secluded restaurant on the far side of Oahu, away from the crowds of Waikiki. The small family-owned spot is beach side, and the whole vibe is to sit in the sand on pillows under low Zen-like tables. I’ve picked the most private spot in the restaurant. I sit cross legged under a grove of tall palm trees that create shade, and leaning against the table, I dig my bare feet into the sand as a cool breeze licks my neck with salt.

Can I get these words out when Simon comes?

I’ve been here half an hour nursing my coffee, not because he’s late, but because I could barely sleep. I’ve been playing out all the different ways to say this to him: different versions, different phrases.

I’m a virgin and …

Would you be interested in …

People enjoy casual sex all the time …

Honestly, I’m just trying to keep from chickening out.

“Good almost-afternoon,” Simon announces, walking up in khaki shorts and a white V-neck t-shirt. It’s the most casual outfit I’ve seen him wear since we’ve met, and the hint of skin his t-shirt shows off makes my stomach warm and my feet burrow into the sand in search of colder ground. Lady Lada is already happy to take over, commanding I touch him, or stare at his strong legs, or demand he kiss me until I’m whimpering again.

“Morning,” I say, sucking in a lung-full of crisp air and trying to keep my cool as Simon takes a seat opposite of me. He fumbles with the pillows and looks truly confused by the whole hippie layout of things. “I could’ve chosen one of the swing tables on the patio,” I jest, pointing to the porch swing and corresponding table that hangs from cables.

“I’m not interested in losing my brunch,” Simon admits, laughing at the ridiculous set-up.

“You’re not going to install one of those at Flambé?” I tease.

“Definitely not,” he affirms, still trying to get adjusted under the low table and kicking sand across my bare legs. He’s a good distance away. He should definitely stay over there, even when the brush of sand makes me shiver.

“What’s good here?” Simon asks, picking up the menu and glancing tentatively at me. Only, he lifts an eyebrow when he takes in my outfit. I’m wearing a flowy low-cut tank top and matching shorts, both bubblegum pink and covered in tiny white hearts. It’s classic Weddings with Hart branding. I even have a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses in my hair to bring the whole outfit home. Cheesy? Yes. But cheesy makes me feel like myself … because everything else about this meeting is out of my comfort zone.

I also happen to be showing off quite a bit of skin: shoulders, arms, legs, cleavage.

Am I tempting fate?

I hope so. I need to tempt everything, so my desire will win out and be stronger than all my instincts to bail on this conversation.

“Yellow, pink, hearts, stripes,” I say, calling attention to my attire and addressing the smile at the edge of Simon’s mouth that’s about to make fun of me. “This is who I am, Simon. I know I’m three steps away from owning a Hello Kitty bedspread and neon 80s everything, but I like it. So, sue me.”

“Does Sue Blade wear outfits like that?”

“Sue Blade says to be yourself,” I correct.

“I bet she does. Along with every cliché inspirational poster and Hallmark card.”

“Weddings by Hart,” I say, leaning in to the corniness of my own branding and lifting the heart-shaped sunglasses off my head to wave them at him. “Clearly you missed the memo where I invited you to my twelve-step pyramid scheme that ends in drinking all the Hallmark Kool-aid.”

He gives me that boyish smile. “You pull it off,” he admits, nodding to the sunglasses and matchy-matchy combination, before pushing his own sexy-librarian glasses further up his nose and returning to the menu.

“The omelets are good,” I offer, returning my sunglasses atop my head.

I’m definitely not noticing how perfect his hair is right now, or that it’s freshly washed and styled. How can he wake up looking so beautiful? Everything about him is in place, with the bright mid-morning sun making him glow elegantly. He tilts forward to look at part of the menu, and I can’t take my eyes off the way his t-shirt stretches over his arms—bronze, tan arms that were wrapped around me last night. Arms that are usually hidden under his button up shirt. Arms with muscles on display and the soft brawn of arm hair ruffling in the breeze.

I’m definitely not noticing.

“I took the liberty of ordering us mimosas,” I say, and Simon’s eyes flick up in surprise.

“Um … ?” A suspicious frown creases his beautiful face. “You don’t drink.”

“I do today,” I announce dramatically, making him look around like he’s about to get punked.

“Is it your birthday or something?” he asks awkwardly. “A special occasion?”

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