“You’re just now starting your laundry?”
“You said you’d keep it tropical.” I heave the basket into the laundry room, open the washing machine, and proceed to dump the entire contents of the hamper into the bowl. I don’t sort. Who has time to sort their laundry? Not me.
“I did,” he says.
“Then I only need swimming suits,” I say. “I’ve got those laid out already.”
“Of course you do.” He sounds perfectly amused, which makes me smile.
“I still need other things,” I say.
“No heels,” he says. “No blouses. No skirts.”
“Some of my cover-ups are skirts.”
“I’ll allow it.” Murph knows how much I work, and how hard I put myself together. This trip is all about the opposite of that. I can fall apart. I can do nothing. I can relax and rest and reset for another year.
“So tell me where we’re going. And what happened with the resort in the Keys?”
“It flooded,” he says. “I went down far too many rabbit holes today, until I finally landed on…Belize!”
“Bless you.” I drop the washing machine lid and start the cycle.
“It’s great,” he says, ignoring my tease. “Tropical rain forests with cenotes, the beach with all the snorkeling you love, and the resort is amazing. No cars. Only golf carts. Very quiet. Upscale.”
I frown as I leave my laundry room. “Upscale? How much more is this than that place in Florida?”
“I mean, it’s Belize,” he says. “Not the US. So it’s more. You said you could do more.”
“I can.” I re-enter my bedroom and head over to the side of the bed where I don’t sleep. If I didn’t work fifteen-hour days, I might have a little white dog. Or a cat. Nope. A dog for sure.
Murph’s barks in the background, and he makes me smile.
“It’s not that much more,” he says. “I called the airline and got our tickets switched. I booked the resort online. Apparently, Belize is pretty full in late January, thus the need for a more…less cheap place.”
“Is it adults-only?” It’s not that I don’t like children. I do. In fact, since my thirty-first birthday last spring, I’ve really felt this urge to get back into the boxing ring. The dating boxing ring. It’s like a match out there for me. But I should. Find someone to date, that is. Maybe someone to share my life with. Maybe we could have a couple of kids.
“Yes,” Murph says, and I snap back to reality. A scoff works its way free from my throat.
I am never getting married. I don’t want to do all the work it takes to find someone who can love me. It’s too hard, and I don’t think I have all the pieces of my heart back yet anyway.
Just when I think I do, my mom takes me to lunch and says my dad told her he’s never really loved her. In thirty-three years.
How does someone live a lie for that long?
In truth, I was simultaneously sad for my mom, furious at my father, and relieved I’m not living in a five-year-old marriage that would’ve ended in the same way. Leon Burgiss didn’t love me; that’s why he didn’t show up on our wedding day.
“It’s all set,” Murph says. “You like nice things, Sloany, and this is nice-nice.”
“Thank you,” I murmur as I take in my swimwear choices waiting on my bed. “Now, help me with the bathing suit options.”
“Put me on video.”
I tap to do that, and I aim the phone at the bed. “I’ve got the classic black one-piece, of course.”
“Of course,” Murph says, his smile in his voice.
I don’t have the opportunity to wear a lot of swimming suits in Pittsburgh, so the fact that I have so many is kind of ridiculous. I reason that I only wear one pair of shoes at a time, but I own many pairs of those too. This is no different.
Plus, I was going to get a hot tub last year. I have the cement pad and everything. Then I realized how much more I needed to do—wiring for the plug, all the pH chemically stuff, and the fact that it snows in Pittsburgh for half the year, I swear.
“That bikini is hot,” he says.
“It’s not a bikini,” I say. I have a fair amount of curves, and I prefer a tankini and some bottoms to the stringed type of swimwear.
“It’s clearly two pieces,” he argues. “The top is pink, and the bottoms are black.”
“It’s a sports bra and a pair of panties.” The bra-top is cute, though. It has a subtle, cream-colored tropical leaf pattern running through the hot pink. The bottoms are almost shorts to contain my booty, with a thick waistband that makes me look sexy and feminine.
But not hot. I love my body, one-hundred percent, how it is. I simply know how to make her feel and look good at the same time.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat and hums in that way Murph has. I can’t quite describe it, but he does it when he’s thinking about something, when he’s not sure what to say, and when he’s trying to irritate me. I half-expect him to burst out laughing any second now, but he doesn’t.
“There are nine,” I say as I move the phone down the line without further comment from my best friend.
“Shocking.” I flip the phone around and see his brilliant smile. “I’d expect you to have double digits when it comes to your beach clothes.”
“Some of them are two pieces.”
“Yeah.” His thumb covers the camera, and then he disappears. A blip of disappointment cuts through me, but Murph hates doing video calls on his phone. He’s already a little self-conscious about the size of his nose, and the close-up and angle of a phone camera doesn’t help.
I don’t know what he’s talking about. He’s rugged, with a square jaw and the perfect amount of scruff no matter what time of day it is. He’s got eyes that sparkle like the Atlantic Ocean on a clear, gorgeous day, and just because I’m not dating and will never marry doesn’t mean I don’t know how devastatingly good-looking Murph is.
“I have at least three cover-ups too,” I say as the call switches back to talking only. “Maybe four.” I focus on the settee, where no less than half a dozen cover-ups lay, waiting for me to deem some of them Chosen Ones and take them to Belize with me.
I sink onto the bed. “Belize, huh?”
“I’ve never been,” he says. “Dinner with your mom, huh?”
I try not to think about the hour’s worth of paperwork that still needs to be done before I can actually go to sleep. “I’m closing my eyes,” I whisper, a game Murph and I have played before. “Paint me a picture, Murph.”
He starts to talk about what’s happening in Superior, Wisconsin, where he lives. “The snowflakes fall down like angel kisses from heaven, lighting on the ship as it eases into the dock…”
Yes, I fall asleep to the deep, sexy, bass timbre of his voice, my head filled with dreams of my upcoming tropical vacation with my gorgeous-inside-and-out best friend.
Chapter Two
Sloane
I round the corner for the baggage claim in Atlanta, the first four or five carousels to my left, and the remaining ones to my right. I have no idea where my bag will be spit out, but I’m willing to bet Murph does.