I’m the only person in the world who doesn’t adore Kai. On Wednesday, he retweets Lottie’s Ernest Goes to Summer Camp post, winning her thousands of new followers, and she can’t stop gushing about him while we prep dinner for Ozzie’s troop. On Thursday, he treats the entire zoo staff to Donatos pizza, and I hate myself for eating four slices of Serious Cheese. On Friday, two Aquatics keepers in front of me in the Starbucks line argue about whether he has twelve or thirteen Emmys, and when I lean toward them and say, “I think it’s only three,” they glare at me like I sneezed on them.
But I have bigger things to focus on—or one smaller thing, to be precise. Keeva’s arrival is set for Saturday, and between nursery prep and managing my usual workload, I’m too busy to worry about Kai’s self-satisfied smirk.
Unfortunately, I’m also too busy to remember that I promised Sam and Elle I’d meet them for drinks. Sam learned on Wednesday that a piece she wrote for her women in the workplace blog, Leaders in Lipstick, was picked up by HuffPost, and she chose a nearby tiki bar for her celebration.
Lucy! Elle texts me just after seven on Friday, when I’m blinking at yet another journal article on gorilla surrogacy. Where are you? You’re late!
I’m about to reply with My office! Where else would I be? when I remember I was supposed to meet my friends fifteen minutes ago.
Got stuck at work, I text back. On my way!
I’m as close to being on my way to the bar as I am to being the next Lisa Ling, but Elle, who undoubtedly knows I forgot, only sends back a thumbs-up. She’s too sweet to call me out, and a pang of guilt overwhelms me as I shut my laptop and scramble to change out of my work boots. I know Sam and Elle wish I spent less time in my office and more time hanging out with them, but the fact that I can’t join their upcoming girls’ trip or make it to Sam’s wine and The Bachelorette nights doesn’t make me a bad friend. It just makes me busy.
Right?
I push away the creeping doubt and grab my car keys. The sooner I get to Huli Huli, the sooner I can buy Sam a drink before heading home to rest up for tomorrow. When I park and hurry toward the bar’s entrance, where baby potted palm trees set a tropical vibe, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a car window and regret not packing a change of clothes. A long morning shoveling hay in the outdoor Gorilla Villa left sweat wrinkles on my polo, and a layer of dirt from the red river hog exhibit cakes my shorts. I look like I got my ass handed to me in a mud-wrestling fight, but I trudge forward anyway.
“I didn’t forget,” I tell Sam when I find her sipping a cocktail next to the stone replica of an ancient Mayan temple guard. Stacks of bamboo shoots and a papier-mâché parrot lend the lounge a surf shack feel, and Sam tucks a purple tropical flower behind her ear and looks at me skeptically.
“I know you, Luce. You totally forgot. But thank you for showing up.” She grins and fingers the festive leis looped around her neck. “I’ll accept your apology in the form of a Shipwreck Shirley.”
By the time I find my way back to her, clutching her drink and a Blue Hawaii for me, Elle’s returned from the bathroom sporting two pink leis, and she peels one off and slides it over my head.
“To Sam!” I say, passing her a drink. “For writing a blog post so kickass that even Arianna Huffington took note.”
“To be fair, I’m not sure Arianna’s involved in the day-to-day HuffPo operations,” Sam says. “But I did get tons of new hits on my blog this week, and that’s huge.”
Pride radiates off her, and as she launches into an analysis of how she’ll use her newfound notoriety to woo blog sponsors, I realize I haven’t even read her article yet. In fact, I’m a month or two behind on her posts, and I sip my drink and make a mental note to catch up as soon as I have time.
“Oh, shit,” Sam says, abandoning her description of cost-per-click ads. “She came.”
“Who came?” I turn toward the door, glancing around for one of Sam’s exes. If it’s Bananagrams cheater Magdalene, I’m going to be a very unhappy camper.
“Quick, how do I look?” Sam takes a swig of her drink and runs a hand over her hair, smoothing her side part.
“Are you serious?” I ask. It always stuns me when obviously hot people doubt their own hotness. “You look like the prettiest member of the Pretty Little Liars if she grew up and raided a Banana Republic. You look great.”
“Don’t look now, but Freya’s here,” she whispers.
“Kai’s co-producer?” I ask, like I know any other Freyas.
Sam nods. “I met with her and Marketing yesterday about branding ideas, and she’s, like, a genius. Do you know she grew up really poor in some tiny town in Wyoming? Now she has a bachelor’s in environmental science and an MBA and runs a whole TV show. Plus, she looks like that.”
I glance toward the entrance, where Freya, looking like a dime piece in a sage green jumpsuit and laced sandal booties, is being chatted up by a T-shirt-wearing bro with numerous chins and a blatant disregard for personal space.
“I mentioned I’d be here to celebrate, but I didn’t think she’d show up,” Sam says. “I’m freaking out.”
“Get a grip,” I say, giving her the same tough love she gives me when I’m the one panicking. “Why don’t you go say hi? Rescue her from that dude before he asks what her sign is.”
Nodding, Sam adjusts her leis. “Right. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck!” Elle calls after her.
Once we’re alone, Elle raises an eyebrow at me. “I want you to know that I see your outfit and am choosing not to comment.”
I can’t even blame her this time. “Wanna be distracted with lobster rolls? My treat.”
Before Elle can answer, her phone buzzes, and she bites her lip when she glances at the screen. “Shoot, Nadeem’s stuck at work. I’ve gotta run home and let Trixie out.”
“Oh, let me!” I dog-sit for Elle and Nadeem sometimes, and their nine-year-old Jack Russell mix is a total sweetheart. Plus, letting Trixie out is the perfect excuse to dip out early and head home to get more work done.
Elle shakes her head. “Nice try, missy, but no way. Social outings are good for you. Like vegetables and fresh air.”
I hardly think attending happy hour is equivalent to eating my daily dose of greens, but I don’t protest.
“Stay,” she insists. “Order a drink and chat up a handsome guy and forget about work for twenty minutes. It’s been a while since your breakup, and it wouldn’t kill you to talk to other men.”
“Chat up a handsome guy?” I repeat. “Elle, you’ve seen my outfit! Plus, there are only two handsome guys at the bar, and one just kissed the other on the neck.” I take a sip of my drink. “Also, I’ve talked to plenty of guys since Nick dumped me. I talk to Phil every day. I talk to Nadeem. And last week I spent half an hour listening to Trudy’s boyfriend complain about Rachel Maddow and the mainstream media.”
Elle looks like she wants to strangle me with a lei, but she just shakes her head and tries, unsuccessfully, to smooth out my collar. “At least stay awhile in case Sam needs a wing woman, okay? You owe her that.”
Waving, she trounces off in her striped romper, and I contemplate sneaking back to my office. But when Sam catches my eye behind Freya’s back and gives me a stealthy thumbs-up, I sigh and take a seat at the bar. I might not be a social butterfly, but I can stick around for Sam’s sake. I order lobster rolls from the bartender, but as I wait for my food, I peer over my shoulder and see the aforementioned Nick standing at the entrance to the bar. Margo from Guest Relations follows him inside, her hand snaked around his waist.
Dammit. This is what I get for leaving the safe confines of my office, and I can act like an adult and say hello, or I can run for cover.
I run for cover. Sprinting around the left side of the bar, I seek refuge behind a potted plant with blessedly thick leaves. It’s not that I hate Nick or Margo, even if they did wait all of twenty-one days after he dumped me to start appearing in each other’s Snapchat stories. It’s that nobody wants to run into her ex while sporting dirt-streaked khaki shorts, and certainly not while stuffing her face with lobster rolls alone.
As the happy couple heads toward the bar, I wedge farther behind the plant. So much for Elle’s advice to go forth and make small talk with eligible bachelors; this little palm tree’s getting closer to my naughty bits than any man has in months.
I hear footsteps approach, and I hold my breath in case they’re Nick’s. But it’s a pair of Nikes walking toward me, and Nick, in all his nerdiness, prefers New Balances.
Yes, I’m embarrassed for myself.
“I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m not sure how to make myself clearer.” The Nikes are only four feet from the plant now, and I can’t peek out to see their owner without exposing my hiding place. But I don’t need to, because I’d know that accent anywhere.
It’s Kai Bridges, and he’s in the middle of an argument.
“So we let the chips fall where they may, then,” Kai says. He’s either talking to himself or he’s on the phone with someone, and I give equal weight to both possibilities.
I glance through the leaves to see Nick speaking to the red-haired bartender. He’s probably ordering something exciting to go with his New Balances, like a Coors Light.
“Of course people will talk. Let them. I can handle the fallout,” Kai says tersely, and I’m not trying to eavesdrop, but it’s not like I can just shut my ears off.
Am I listening to him break up with a girlfriend? Or maybe someone discovered a dark secret about him—like the fact that he can’t read—and is threatening an exposé. Maybe he paid for his Maserati by selling bonobos on the black market, and he’s finally about to get his due.
“I know that, but—” Kai pauses, but even though I’m straining to listen, I can’t make out anything from the other end of the line. “I know,” he repeats after a moment. “Yes. It’s just . . . I want things to be different.”
What in God’s sweet creation could Kai Bridges, who has the world in the palm of his hand, want to be different?
“No, I understand,” he says, and I get the feeling that he’s starting to lose the argument. “Yes, I know that, too.”
This is some juicy stuff, and it’s clear that Kai walked around this side of the bar because he wanted privacy. Guilt creeps over me, and I’m about to cover my ears with my hands when his blue Nikes, pacing back and forth across the floor, take a step too far in my direction.
“Ow!” I cry as he accidentally kicks me. Realizing my mistake, I cower lower under the plant, praying my cry didn’t grab Nick’s attention.
When I glance up, I find Kai staring at me in shock.
“Cheerio,” I whisper, wishing I could sink into the floor. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Kai narrows his eyes at me. “I’m gonna have to call you back,” he says into the phone before slipping it in his pocket. Then he crouches down until he’s eye level with me, his jaw set in a tight line.
“Lucy Rourke, are you spying on me?”