TURKS AND CAICOS

"The idea of spending the rest of your life with one person seems pretty unrealistic and, uh, also pretty boring. That's probably why I've had so many busted engagements . . ."
Dinah Drake, S06E09

I didn't drink.

Or, rarely.

A self-imposed standard; I'd learned that it was in my best interest to never impair my judgment – but there was something powerful, and affirming, in my head so full of the taste of the wine on my tongue. In the choice to surrender that decision.

I could breathe, here.

Turks and Caicos was an archipelago just south of the Bahamas. A nine hour flight from Starling City to the small, private airport on the island where a town car had been waiting to chauffer us to our equally private villa.

We arrived to find an expensive Italian wine waiting; the heavy black bottle cradled on a bed of tropical fruits and rich dark chocolates.

A gift, from the resort.

Reclining of a white wicker lounge chair, skin clean, still smelling of the herbal soap from my shower, I cradled my wine. The glass nestled in the palm of my hand, its delicate stem passing between my fingers.

An aromatic red with earthy notes of truffle, spice, cedar and, faintly, tobacco.

I was on my honeymoon . . .

. . . that was not why I was drinking.

Over the sighing of the sea, I was listening to the hiss from the shower inside our villa. Trying very hard not to imagine Oliver, naked, a body I hadn't even seen, yet, all hard and tight muscle slicked with suds. Strong hands roaming. Wandering.

Lower.

Touching.

My skin pimpled on a sudden rush of heat. With a body like that, shouldn't be too hard keeping the wedding sheets warm. I gulped at my wine, and vowed to murder my sister when we got home.

I was attracted to him.

Because he was attractive. There was no denying it and to my mind, that was a good start. Love would happen in its own time; attraction made for a fair foundation when coupled with the realization that I did, in fact, like him.

My phone dinged.

The setting sun seemed to melt into the sea; color eddying in the crystal waters of a tropical ocean. Indigo sky like a shroud being drawn over the world, chasing the light . . . It was stunningly beautiful, and very quiet.

I curled my feet up on the chair, reclining more comfortably on the padded cushion.

My phone dinged again. The musical chime too loud, jarring, in the peaceful twilight. Like someone poking me with the sharp end of a stick: Hey! I'm talking to you. I blew out a sigh and set my wineglass down on the floor of the veranda.

I'd left my phone on the pretty wicker nightstand, in the bedroom.

I slipped inside as a third hard ding! had me hurrying to answer it. People knew where I was, and what I was doing, so infrequently that it felt strange to me to realize that most wouldn't have had the nerve to bug me tonight exactly because they knew not to.

Well . . . Liz, maybe, but Owen would have shut her down before she could send encouragement via text. She would. Hell. If it was my sister, I was going to pull a fourteen-year-old me and call mom . . .

As if it knew it had my attention, there were no more dings and I looked quickly around; out through the wall of windows at the ocean and the oil paint hazy blotches of other islands further out. No way to know if I was being watched.

It made my skin crawl.

My most recent text, right there, right at the top, was blank as an error. Just a white strip. I thumbed it and the text opened to an equally empty screen. Nothing. No prompt, no link. No clue as to what I was expected to do. If anything.

I pressed my index finger to the screen, and my heart thudded when I heard the hiss from the shower switch off. This took a few seconds, and I felt every one of them as I expected Oliver to come strolling out of the bathroom.

But the program built into my phone wasn't only scanning my print; it was measuring my body temp. So. Yeah. It took a sec. And if this were a movie, there would have been a chirp, maybe a blinking light, to show when my identity was confirmed.

Instead, my phone just coughed up the message –

0700SRR201

I committed the instructions to memory, mindful of the time clock in the upper portion of the screen. It had started at sixty seconds, and was quickly down to thirty, and when the three digits separated by a colon read 0:00, the message would self-delete.

Cyberdust.

Humid heat wafted, plastering my shirt to my spine; I turned around and – oh.

Blue jeans, unbuttoned, riding low on sculpted hips.

If he'd come out in a towel, or worse, naked, arm up while toweling his hair, I might have actually combusted. But Oliver strolled out of the bathroom with steam billowing dramatically around his legs, catching like fingers in his dark hair, having gotten dressed already.

Sorta.

I dragged my gaze from that zipper, that tease of bronzed skin between twin flaps of denim folded open, to the soft cotton of a modest t-shirt, baring muscled arms peppered with scars. Was I breathing? No. I clutched my phone to my chest.

"You ordered dinner."

Hm? Oh. I hauled my attention to the covered trays stacked in our open kitchen, actually rather proud of the display. There was . . . a lot . . .

"I wasn't sure what you liked. So I thought I'd order one of everything."

Oliver eased into a slow smile.

"What, only one of everything?"

"Feel free," I said, lightly teasing "to order. More."

The landline next to our bed – a king-sized island of cool white and blue sheets, surrounded by dramatically billowing sheer curtains and glass. So, so much glass – had a direct line to the resort and it's multitude of restaurants.

Hell, it surprised me to learn I could have requested a woman dressed as a mermaid to come and sit with us while we ate for only a couple thousand extra. I didn't . . . but it was worth mentioning that the option . . . was there . . .

Abruptly, I wondered what he would have made of that; coming out to find a woman in clamshells and a sparkly green tail reclining on our sofa.

Was I blushing?

Why was I still blushing?

Because Oliver's fly was still down, that's why, and judging by the way he was keeping his hands by his sides, fingers curling, he was waiting for me to either turn around or look away so that he could take care of that.

I obliged and my cheeks burned hotter at the sound of a zipper being drawn. This was embarrassing. I wasn't some delicate flower, flushing prettily and all a-flutter on my wedding night. Nervous? Sure. This was a little weird.

But I expected to see a lot more of him tonight then a slip of skin.

Oliver moved toward the trays and started lifting lids, one after another, carefully replacing the domes after sneaking a peek. I crossed my arms loosely over my belly, still clutching my cell, and edged closer.

"See anything you like?"

His lip twitched. "You're the one with a Bachelors in food."

That I was. And if I planned to have more wine, I should probably put something in my stomach.

"Well," I said, setting my phone down by the stove "since you're asking, then might I recommend the mushroom and goat cheese strudel? Its here," I scanned the selection, a sea of stainless steel domes ". . . somewhere . . . and I know it is because I saw it when they dropped all this off."

Oliver plucked another dome, revealing a plate of battered conch fritters. Their dipping sauces in little ceramic cups, tucked in close to fit them all under one dome.

"This it?"

I couldn't tell if he was joking. "Those aren't strudels."

"Nope," he agreed, and replaced the dome.

I shook my head, laughing a little. Working together we found them quickly. Not on the island counter where the bulk of the entrees had been set down but over on the dining room table; a length of green glass and white cushion chairs . . .

We did bother to put everything away, stacking trays in the fridge so that the food wouldn't spoil before setting a strudel each on dinner plates and bringing our supper out to eat on the veranda.

My wine was exactly where I'd left it.

He must have been hungry. Oliver cleaved through the flaking pastry, carving out a forkful while I reclined on my chair. Holding my plate in my lap. Watching the last lingering wisps of sunlight bleeding off the horizon . . .

"A thought for a thought," Oliver ventured.

I hadn't been thinking anything, honestly.

"I'm thinking you surprise me," I said, mildly. "I wouldn't have pegged you as fine honeymooning on an island." Even knowing that our plane was still here, parked in a hanger not ten minutes away. We weren't stuck. But of course, a trauma wouldn't care.

There was as much a question there, as observation. I knew he heard it. Knew he weighed the answer and I saw a decision being made. He would evade –

"I have three words for you," Oliver forked up another bite. Held it, "Five. Shower. Heads."

"Technically, that's two words." I stuck out my tongue. "It's a good thing you're cute."

Cute? The man's hot . . .

. . . drop a bead of water on him and watch it sizzle, Ames.

"Is this weird?" I asked, driving straight past the attempt at casual. "You and me, I mean."

"Weird." Oliver ticked a brow, a lazy smile curling his mouth. "What's weird is letting your mom choose your wife for you."

Fair. I'd had similar thoughts, on and off, ever since the proposal had first come in on his behalf. And my parents were there to receive it, on mine.

"Did you know?"

"Know what?" Oliver ate the bite on his fork.

"Before I accepted the proposal. Did you know it'd been sent?"

A pause, then, "I was . . . aware that my mom was visiting the registry. But I have no idea how many dossiers she combed through, before finding yours." He studied me. "Did you know you were on it?"

No. Not until my dad sat me down in his office, at home, and explained to me that I had a choice to make, and what I should expect. I licked my lips, remembering that morning and the bolt of unease that'd coiled in my stomach.

His eyes narrowed. "You didn't."

"No one made my choices for me," I said, quick to defend my family. "Really, it sounds worse than it was."

I turned my fork over in my hand, studying the way the light caught on the tines. Stainless steel, not heavy silver like the fancy cutlery they'd given me at the chaperoned dinner last night.

Last night . . . literally, just yesterday.

"So. Why'd you learn to cook?"

I blinked. "Beeee-cause I eat sometimes, Oliver."

"Funny. So do I," he said, and forked up another bite.

Uh-huh. "So, why Verdant?" Oliver ticked a brow, and I smiled, blandly. "I'm just saying, it's a weird name for a nightclub. Verdant means rich, flourishing. Very green, like . . . lush green."

"Answer mine, and I'll tell you."

I hesitated. Noticeably. There was no reason not to answer. The question relevant; we were still learning each other, though my kneejerk response was to evade, confuse, distract . . . Even when I didn't have to.

So I said "Control," surrendering this part of myself. A kernel of trust, "A kitchen, a real kitchen, is all controlled chaos. A constant communication. Nobody's an island in a kitchen and it's the one place where I feel . . ." what did I feel? Safe, "quiet."

"You enjoy it."

"Oh, I love it. Now you. Why a lush, verdant green?"

Oliver poured himself wine from the black bottle, its paper label like ancient parchment. The year printed in flaking gold wasn't quite old enough for parchment, but the effect was nice.

"Honestly, because it sounded cool," he said, with a grin, "and you're the first person who's known what that word means."

"That's it?" I was more amused by this then I felt it deserved, but it made me smile. "You just plucked the first word out of the dictionary you thought sounded cool?"

Oliver offered to pour me wine and I shook my head, moving my glass up from the ground and setting it on the low concrete table we were eating on. He said, "Not exactly like that, but . . . yeah. Pretty much," and carefully re-corked the bottle.

Slicing into my strudel, the pastry didn't flake the way it should but that was my own fault for letting it sit. Moisture from the filling having absorbed into the folded pastry. Still, it tasted okay – the goat cheese creamy, herby.

"You surprise me too, you know," Oliver said quietly, watching me eat, "you don't strike me as the sort of person who would let her parents choose her . . . – husband for her." He stumbled on it. He actually tripped over the word, earning a totally unintended snort from me and I got a mild glower in return.

"Like I said. It sounds worse than it was."

"How was it?"

I shoveled in another bite. Chewed slowly, savoring.

Oliver waited.

Fine. "My family could have told me what to do, and it would have pissed me off but I'm not sure they could have made me marry you." I scraped my fork over the top of my strudel. "So giving me the choice – you were an option, not a command – was either very smart of them . . . or they lucked out."

"Do you see it that way?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I don't believe in luck."

"What do you believe in?"

In whether or not you could live with the consequences of your decisions.

I studied my wine, very deliberately letting what should have been a pause, a moment to consider my answer, to lengthen far past what was appropriate for thought.

I blew out a sigh and stood up, taking my wine with me. Oliver held still, only his eyes following my ascent without even a flicker of surprise at the abruptness of it. I left him to guard our plates, and wandered toward the edge of the veranda.

The wind coming off the sea chill, but not cold.

He gave me a minute before joining me on the railing and I used that minute down to the second; refocusing. I didn't want to lie to him. Tomorrow, the day after, once a day like a morning multi-vitamin for the rest of our lives if I had to.

But not tonight.

"You alright?"

"Long day," I muttered.

It was dark enough now that the pool lights had come on, bathing the outside in a clean turquoise shine. Ambient. Romantic.

Oliver's gaze drifted to me, then out across the vast expanse of sky and ocean. Eyes almost too blue to be real absorbing the color of the water, black under the stars. Oliver didn't lean on the rail; rather he stood straight, large hands only just touching the white-painted wood.

If we'd been closer, friends, actually in love, I might have leaned into him. His body was like a furnace, and the breeze just cool enough that I was starting to feel it.

"Good thing we're not on a date," I said "because I think we've used up our allotted minutes of awkwardly-not-saying-anything."

Oliver smiled a little, quiet humor.

I sipped at my wine, marveling at the layers of flavor and aroma that would have paired spectacularly with steak. Angus beef, over a charcoal barbeque. Not propane. Smoke to flavor the meat. Wine, to elevate.

What else paired with red wine, the color like a fist full of garnets? Lamb.

Nothing too fancy. Kabobs; assuming I was sticking with the barbeque theme. Allspice, nutmeg and cardamom were a trio of warm spices for a bolder Middle Eastern flavor. Garlic, lemon zest, fresh parsley and olive oil for a more Mediterranean taste.

Did I order lamb? No. I didn't even think they served it, at the resort restaurant I chose. They had shrimp. In pasta. And oysters on slush. But anything coming out of the ocean would need a sparkling white or . . . rosé.

I breathed deeply, drinking in the night.

Oliver was watching me. His eyes so, so blue in the shine of the pool lights.

"What are you thinking about?"

I tipped my own small, quiet smile. And said, "Food."

Cue the weary blink. To be fair it sounded stupid to me too and I laughed lightly. "Did you know that every summer my family holds a barbeque? Well . . . multiple. But the first of the season is the one matters."

"Family."

"Yes. The others are all business. Important people milling around our backyard, drinking my dad's beer. Deals are made over the grill –" I didn't disapprove, necessarily; any excuse to get out of those air conditioned boardrooms. To change out of the suit and tie. I got it. "My presence at those ones are never mandatory. I mean . . . I'll show, sometimes. Whenever I'm in the mood. Hm. Liz does, a lot."

"It makes sense if your sister plans to take your father's place." Oliver set his forearms on the railing. Trusting his weight to the wood, "She needs to know these people."

"She's not planning his assassination, Oliver," I teased, and laughed again, grateful for, actually happy at, the sound of my own laughter on my wedding night. And his; not a laugh but a broad, open smile. His expression as unguarded as I'd seen it.

We stared at each other, close enough to share a breath and maybe it was the wine but the air felt suddenly too tight, too close, between our bodies.

I was interested.

And that was at least half the problem. Tonight would have been so much simpler without the attraction; I could have made a job of him – the flush of heat tingling beneath my skin familiar. Arousal. Stoked by the immediacy of getting laid . . .

Kiss him. Mercifully, not my sister's voice this time but my own and as if he'd heard it, too, Oliver's gaze dropped to my mouth. And I thought, Say something. His fingers grazed mine, his touch warm, strong. Enticing.

I kissed him.