How to Honeymoon Alone

There’s a light in his dark-blue eyes. “I’ll have to think about that if I go to court any time soon.”

My smile widens. “The judge would be so impressed.”

He runs a hand along his jaw. “Add some stickers to the evidence reports.”

“I’ve found that gold stars can be very motivating.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he says. The tightness around his eyes is gone, but the smile from yesterday isn’t quite back. He nods to the book lying beside my lounge chair. “Is that your infamous guidebook?”

“Yeah,” I say. He reaches to take it while a protest is born and dies on my tongue. I take my headphones out instead and watch in silence as he flips through the pages.

“Wow,” he finally says.

“I know how it looks.”

“There’s no glitter, at least.” He flips a heavily annotated page. “No gold stars, either. But look, you’ve used a highlighter. I didn’t know it worked on these sorts of pages.”

“You have to get a special kind,” I murmur.

He flips through another chapter. There are tiny Post-it flags that mark important parts. To the casual observer, I must look like a complete lunatic to have done so much research before a trip.

“So, are you actually scoping out the island for a future movie shoot or something?” he asks. “Was the honeymoon thing a ruse? Tell me the truth. You’re really undercover.”

I shake my head. “I wish that was it. I just got a bit obsessed.”

“I’ll say.” Phillip stops at a particularly annotated page. “There are asterisks here. See more in… no. You have more info?”

“Just some links in an online document.”

“You would make a great paralegal or assistant,” he says.

“Um, thanks?”

He looks up at me. “Oh, I don’t mean… just that you’re very thorough. It was a compliment. This kind of note-making is impressive.”

“Thanks.” I play with the edge of the beach towel I’m lying on. “This trip became my lifeline after the whole non-wedding, you know? It felt like it, at least. I wanted to be as prepared as I could be. Honestly, I probably went a bit overboard.”

He closes the guidebook. “Well, you’ve done ten times the research I have. No, a hundred times.”

I smile. “You didn’t plan your itinerary for two, then?”

“God, no.”

“So your ex did,” I say, gambling again.

He shakes his head. “No, we used a professional for that.”

My mouth forms a tiny o. I can’t imagine the life you live if you use someone else to plan your vacations. Our paths would never have crossed back in the States. Even if we’d lived in the same city, we would still be two countries apart.

“Wow,” I say. “Did they provide you with your own guidebook?”

He snorts. “No. Just eight pages of itinerary with the relevant booking details of each excursion.”

“Were the headings highlighted, at least?”

“No,” he says. “There was shockingly little glitter, too.”

I give him a look of mock outrage. “Sorry to say it, but I think you got taken for a ride. I wouldn’t hire them again.”

He chuckles, the first sound of joy I’ve gotten out of him. “Right,” he says and looks back down at his phone. Turns it over and then over again, like he can’t bear to see the screen. “Do you like to fish, Eden?”

“To fish?”

“Yes. Pole, line, bait.”

“I know how it’s done,” I say, and something sparks in his eyes. “But I’ve only tried it once or twice when I was a kid. My uncle had a cabin in the woods, next to a lake, and we’d go sometimes.”

“Did you like it?”

“I was eight,” I say. “I liked everything except broccoli. Why?”RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

“I’ve got another thing for two planned this afternoon. If you’re interested.” He inclines his head to my lounge chair, eyes briefly flitting from my bare legs to the bikini top. “Unless you’ve got an important date with the sun planned.”

“Where are you going fishing?”

“The ocean,” he says, voice deadpan.

I roll my eyes. “Phillip,” I say. His name feels intimate on my tongue.

“I’m being picked up from the Winter Resort pier.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“It’s a three-hour trip up the coast. The guide specializes in fishing mahi-mahi and swordfish.” He shrugs. “Someone told me that swordfish is a specialty in Barbados, but maybe she hadn’t done her research properly…”

I swing my legs over the side of the lounge chair. “I’ll go with you,” I say. “What time?”

“Three.” He grabs his phone and stands, forcing me to crane my neck. He looks stupidly tall from this angle. “Don’t burn yourself to a crisp before then.”

“Very funny,” I say. “We can’t all be olive-toned!”

He snorts and heads away, and I can hear him mutter the word olive-toned under his breath like it’s the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said.

The motorboat speeds along the endless blue waters, and I have to tug my cap down against the wind. Phillip is sitting across from me. He’s in shorts and another button-down, a thick watch on his tanned wrist. Sunglasses on. No smiles and all seriousness, just like he usually is, and there’s no open bar or a guidebook to help ease our conversation this time. I’d texted Becky earlier, telling her about my outings with him.

Have you lost your mind? He could be a serial killer! But didn’t you say he was attractive? Because if so, remember some risks are worth taking.

It was a typical Becky text. My response was a peak vacation me, which is apparently someone who embraces spontaneity.