The Unhoneymooners(23)

“For someone who claims to be unlucky, you’re putting an awful lot of faith into your lucky streak.” He does a small double take when he registers that this has hit me like a truth slap. We stop in front of a shimmering fountain, and Ethan pulls a penny—but not that penny—from his pocket and tosses it inside, “Seriously, calm down. We’ll be fine.”

I try. We follow the path to a Polynesian-style thatched-roof building and step up to the hostess stand. “I believe the reservation is under Hamilton,” Ethan says.

Dressed in all white save for a large gardenia pinned in her hair, the hostess scans a screen in front of her and looks up with a bright smile. “Right this way.”

I move to step around the podium, and that’s when it happens. Ethan moves into my side, his palm pressed against the small of my back, and just like that, our carefully preserved bubble of personal space is gone.

He looks down at me with a sweet smile and soft, adoring blue eyes and motions for me to lead the way with the hand not currently straying south. The transformation is . . . amazing. Debilitating. My stomach is in knots, my heart is lodged in my windpipe, and there’s something very aware happening along every inch of my skin.

The restaurant is on stilts above a lagoon, and our table is near a railing that overlooks the water. The interior is elegant but cozy, with leaded glass candle holders and wicker lanterns that make the space glow.

Mr. Hamilton stands when he sees us, fluffy white robe mercifully replaced with a floral-print shirt. The giant mustache is as robust as ever.

“There they are!” he crows, nodding to me and reaching out to shake Ethan’s hand. “Honey, this is Olive, the new team member I told you about, and her husband . . .”

“Ethan,” he supplies, and his dazzling smile punches me right in the vagina. “Ethan Thomas.”

“Good to meet you, Ethan. This is my wife, Molly.” Charles Hamilton motions to the brunette at his side, rosy cheeks and a deep dimple making her seem too young for a woman who’s celebrating three decades of marriage.

We all shake hands and Ethan holds out my chair. I smile and sit as carefully as I can. The rational part of my brain knows he won’t do it, but the lizard brain expects Ethan to pull it out from under me.

“Thank you so much for inviting us,” Ethan says, megawatt smile in place. He drapes an easy arm across the back of my chair, leaning in. “Olive is so excited to be working with you. It’s like she can’t shut up about it.”

I laugh a Ha-ha-ha oh, that rascal laugh and carefully step on his foot beneath the table.

“I’m just glad she hadn’t been snatched up yet,” Mr. Hamilton says. “We’re lucky to have her. And what a surprise to find out that you two just got married!”

“It happened sort of fast,” I say and lean into Ethan, trying to look natural.

“Snuck right up on us. Like an ambush!” He grunts when my heel digs farther into the top of his foot. “And what about you two? I hear congratulations are in order? Thirty years is just amazing.”

Molly beams up at her husband. “Thirty wonderful years, but even so there are moments I can’t believe we haven’t killed each other yet.”

Ethan laughs quietly, giving me an adoring look. “Aw, hon, can you imagine thirty years of this?”

“Sure can’t!” I say, and everyone laughs, thinking of course I’m joking. I reach up to brush my hair away from my forehead before remembering I’m not supposed to fidget. Then I fold my arms across my chest and recall the internet saying not to do that either.

God damn it.

“When Charlie told me that he ran into you,” Molly says, “well, I just couldn’t believe it. And on your honeymoon!”

I clap lamely. “Yay! It’s so—fun.”

The waitress appears, and Ethan pretends to lean in and kiss my neck. His breath is hot behind my ear. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “Relax.”

Straightening again, he smiles up to the waitress as she reads off the specials. After a few questions, we order a bottle of pinot noir for the table, and our dinners.

Any hope I had of navigating the conversation away from us is shot down as soon as the waitress leaves. “So how did you two meet?” Molly asks.

A pause. Keep it simple, Olive. “A friend introduced us.” I’m met with polite smiles as Molly and Charles wait for the actual story part of the story. I shift in my seat, recross my legs. “And, um, he asked me out . . .”

“We had mutual friends who had just started dating,” Ethan interjects, and their attention—thankfully—drifts over to him. “They planned a little party hoping everyone would get to know each other. I noticed her right away.”

Molly’s hands flutter around her collarbones. “Love at first sight.”

“Something like that.” The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “She was wearing a T-shirt that said Particle Collisions Give Me a Hadron, and I thought any woman who understands a physics pun is someone I need to know.”

Mr. Hamilton barks out a laugh and hits the table. Frankly, I can barely keep my jaw from hitting the floor. The story Ethan is telling isn’t the real first time we met, but maybe the third or fourth—in fact, it was the night I decided I was not going to put in a single bit of effort with him because every time I tried to be friendly, he’d weasel away and go into another room. And here he is, rattling off what I was wearing. I can barely recall what I wore yesterday, never mind what someone else wore two and a half years ago.