making out. There are, like, eight other people in this van. I can see their tongues. It’s . . . gross.”
“I bet Ethan Thomas has never been inappropriate like that.”
“I mean,” he says, frowning, “I like to think I can be affectionate, but some things are infinitely better when they happen behind closed doors.”
Heat engulfs whatever words remain in my head, and I nod in agreement. The idea of Ethan doing unknown, hot things behind closed doors makes everything inside my body turn to goo.
I clear my throat, relieved when I look away, take a deep breath, and the goo dissolves away. Dear Olive Torres: This is Ethan. He is not swoony.
Ethan leans in a little, catching my eye. “You think you can bring it today?”
“ ‘Bring it’?”
“The fake-wife game.”
“What’s in it for me?” I ask.
“Hm.” Ethan taps his chin. “How about I don’t tell your boss you’re a liar?”
“Okay. Fair.” Brainstorming what I can do to help him win the nebulous Best New Partner war I suspect we’re fighting with Sophie and Billy, I lean in, meeting him halfway. “I don’t want to get your hopes up or anything, but I look really great in this bikini. There’s no revenge like being with someone new who has a great rack.”
His lip curls. “What an empowering, feminist statement.”
“I can appreciate my body in a bikini and still want to set fire to the patriarchy.” I look down at my chest. “Who knew what a little meat on my bones would do?”
“Is that what you meant at check-in? About losing your job and baking?”
“Yeah. I’m a stress-baker.” I pause. “And eater. I mean, obviously you know that.”
He stares at me for a couple of loaded seconds before he says, “You’ve got a job now. Your baking days can be behind you, if you want.” When I look up, he glances quickly away from my boobs. If I didn’t definitively know better, I might think he was hoping I’d keep up the baking just a little while longer.
“Yes, I have a job, assuming I can keep it.”
“We got through last night, didn’t we?” he says. “You’ll keep the job.”
“And maybe the rack, too.”
He reddens a little, and the sign of his discomfort gives me life. But then his eyes do another tiny dip over the front of my cover-up, almost like he can’t help himself.
“You had no problem looking in the Skittle dress.”
“To be fair, it was a bit like you were wearing a fluorescent light bulb. It drew the eyes.”
“After all this, I’m going to have something made for you out of that dress,” I promise him. “A tie, maybe. Some sexy briefs.”
He chokes a little, shaking his head. After a few beats of silence, he confides, “I had actually just been remembering that Sophie almost got implants when we were together. She always wanted bigger . . .” He mimes cupping boobs.
“You can say it,” I tell him.
“Say what?”
“Breasts. Boobs. Jugs. Knockers.”
Ethan wipes a hand down his face. “Jesus, Oliver.”
I stare at him, daring him to look at me. Finally, he does, and he looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin.
“So she wanted implants,” I prompt.
He nods. “I bet she regrets not getting them back when she was enjoying my paychecks.”
“Well, there you go. Your fake new wife has great boobs. Be proud.”
Hesitating, he says, “But it has to be more than that.”
“What do you mean, ‘more than that’? I’m not going to wear a thong.”
“No, just—” He runs an exasperated hand through his hair. “It’s not only about me being with someone hot now.”
Wait, what? Hot?
He rolls on like he hasn’t said anything completely shocking. “You have to pretend to like me, too.”
A curl falls over his eye just after he’s said this, turning the moment into a Hollywood shot that completely mocks me. A small set of fireworks—only a sparkler, I swear—goes off beneath my breastbone, because he is so goddamn pretty. And seeing him vulnerable, even for a second, is so disorienting it makes me imagine a time when I can look at his face and not hate it.
“I can pretend to like you.” I pause, adding out of the self-preservation instinct, “Probably.”
Something softens in his demeanor. His hand moves closer, curling around mine, warm and encompassing. My reflex is to jerk away, but he holds me steady, gently, and says, “Good. Because we’re going to have to be a lot more convincing on that boat.”
chapter eight
The boat in question is enormous, with