Troubles in Paradise (Paradise #3)(52)

He’s small, Cash tells himself. And he’s insecure, even though he probably makes millions and has a smoke-show girlfriend. “Yes,” Cash says. He grins because Bradley is so mired in his own pointless misery that this seems like the response that would irk him the most. “See you on the boat at one thirty sharp.”



Their last stop is White Bay on Jost Van Dyke. On the way over to Jost, Cash mans the bar and Gretchen comes in for two painkillers.

“I’m sorry about Bradley,” she says. “I made him come on this trip when he didn’t want to. He agreed just to make me happy.”

So is it making you happy? Cash wants to ask. He believes that if you agree to do something you’d rather not do for someone else’s sake, then you should do it graciously, with some enthusiasm, like a good sport.

“I told him I’d stay on the boat with him when we get to Jost,” Gretchen says. “He can’t get onto the beach without getting wet?”

“No,” Cash says. “We anchor about ten yards out and people wade ashore.” He laughs. “There’s a reason the bar is called the Soggy Dollar.”

“We’ll stay on the boat, then. I just wanted to tell you in advance.”

“You do you,” Cash says. “But I would be a terrible first mate if I didn’t warn you that you’re making a mistake. Leave your boyfriend on the boat and come ashore, just for a little while. White Bay is the most joyous place on earth. You have to experience it. I can’t let you be a bystander.”

“Aww,” Gretchen says. “You’re sweet to look out for me like that, but I’d better stay with Bradley.”

“Okay…” Cash says.

Gretchen comes over to Cash’s side of the bar, snakes an arm around his shoulders, and holds her phone up for a selfie. “Smile,” she says. “I’m going to make you famous.”



Late that night, Cash’s phone rings. He grapples around in the dark until he finds it on the nightstand. He is, once again, in Tilda’s wing.

The screen says NO CALLER ID.

Great, he thinks. Just what he needs, an anonymous call in the middle of the night. “Hello?”

“Cash?”

It’s Tilda. Now, on night four, she decides to call. At—he checks the bedside clock—2:17 a.m. Man, he would love to just hang up, but he’s been waiting a long time for this, and besides, he is living in her house. “Hey,” Cash says. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” She sounds…angry for some reason. She sounds angry. That’s rich, Cash thinks. She was supposed to call him days earlier, was supposed to call and text and FaceTime, and she said she’d send pictures of every cool detail so he would feel like he was right there with her. Has any of that happened? No, it has not.

“How’s your trip?” Cash asks. “You having fun?”

“My trip was great. My trip was the best four days of my life until just now, when I logged on to Instagram and saw a picture of you cozied up with Gretchen Gingerman!”

“Who?” Cash says, though he obviously knows who Gretchen Gingerman is. What he doesn’t know is how or why Tilda knows who Gretchen Gingerman is. Are they friends?

“Gretchen Gingerman, Cash, don’t play dumb. She was on Treasure Island today and she posted a selfie with you for her sixteen million followers.”

“What?” Cash says. Sixteen million followers? “Who is she?”

“An influencer,” Tilda says. “One of the biggest in the country. Literally every single person I know follows her, and hence, everyone saw you drooling over her in her Lisa Marie Fernandez bikini.”

“I wasn’t drooling,” Cash says. He can’t believe Gretchen Gingerman is an influencer with sixteen million followers. That’s…insane. He can’t quite wrap his mind around that. “She was just a guest on the boat, Til. Her boyfriend was a world-class jackass and I was nice to her. Not extra-nice, just regular nice.”

“Her boyfriend, Bradley?” Tilda says. “The one whose father invented Bitcoin?”

“Yeah, that was him.” Cash doesn’t care about Gretchen, and he cares about Bitcoin Bradley even less, though he’s unsurprised to hear Bradley is a spoiled rich kid without any identifiable talent or skills of his own. “So I’ve been wondering why you haven’t called,” Cash says. “I guess you were just waiting for me to turn up on some famous chick’s Instagram.” He tries to keep his voice light, but actually, he’s furious.

“This is a work trip,” Tilda says. “My parents laid out a lot of money for this and I’m trying to be mindful of that and do a good job here. You know how distracting the phone can be. It’s black magic that sucks you right out of the present moment.”

“All right.” Cash closes his eyes and tries to be mindful about enjoying the sound of Tilda’s voice. “How’s it going? Tell me everything.”

“Our first stop was Midi et Minuit on Anguilla. It was very chic, very French. Edith Piaf was playing over the speakers in the lobby; we were greeted with glasses of Taittinger—that’s their house champagne, hello—and these tiny, airy gougères. The place was so elegant and gracious, it was like we were visiting a fantastically wealthy French aunt with impeccable taste. The rooms were minimalist in the best way. The linens…don’t get me started on how divine the linens were. I sourced everything with their GM. And the lighting in the bathroom was so flattering—I will never look as beautiful as I did in the Midi et Minuit bathroom. The pool was huge and had different areas. It was the perfect temperature, twenty-six degrees—that’s Celsius, I have to convert that. It was cool enough to be refreshing but not chilly. But…the service…well, I thought it was fine, excellent even, but Dunk found it obsequious.”