The Blonde Identity (28)

Chapter Twenty-Three





Him


Thirty minutes, three dances, and one more tiny pink drink later, Zoe was holding on to Sawyer’s arm and waving goodbye to her best friends in the world.

“I’m gonna text you and get that recipe, Anthony!” (It turns out, Mrs. Michaelson liked to cook.) “Gute nacht, Petra!” (She also spoke German.) “Ciao, Lorenzo!” (And a little bit of Italian.) “Ooh, the boat is moving.” She stopped and planted her feet wide as if to feel the sway. (There was no sway.)

“Boats tend to do that. Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

He would have picked her up and carried her if he hadn’t thought her fan club would burst into applause at his “manly vigor.” Because, seriously, at some point she had actually used the words manly vigor in conversation. It was enough to make him miss the cave again.

But as they reached the elevator the ship really did sway, and so did Zoe, right into Sawyer’s arms, which wasn’t nearly as romantic as it sounded.

“Now this is just a theory,” she said clumsily, “but I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’m not much of a drinker?” It was a valid question, he thought, right up until she belched. Loudly. After, it was a certainty.

“Yeah. That’s my theory too,” he said as she stood on one foot, leaning against him as she took off her shoes.

“You’re a grouchy bear.” She was listing a little to the right.

“You have a head injury.” He was mad at himself for letting her have even one tiny pink drink, even if he had told the waiter to water them down.

“I know,” she whined. “And it’s soooooooo annoying.”

“So your judgment is off. Obviously. I am not grouch—”

“And you keep getting grouchier. And grouchier.”

“I’m not grouchy. I’m just tired.”

She seemed like the soberest person in the world as she stopped and looked at him—a hint of understanding in her eyes—and he hated that this woman could see him so clearly.

“You know who never has to say that? Nongrouchy people.” She pushed the button, leaning more and more of her weight against him.

But there was a mirror in the elevator and when he looked up at the man beside her, he was smiling.





Her


Twenty minutes later, Zoe was standing in the bathroom, hydrated and showered and feeling a bit more like herself. Or the person she wanted to be. Someone who was fun but together, cautious but playful, friendly but subdued. But what she looked like was a stranger.

She’d scrubbed off Mrs. Michaelson’s makeup and brushed out Mrs. Michaelson’s curls. She’d washed away the cover—the lie—she had built for herself and she wasn’t sure she liked the woman who was left.

“What were you doing in Paris?” she asked the reflection.

The reflection didn’t answer back.

So she had no choice but to put on Mrs. Michaelson’s nightgown . . . Which Mrs. Michaelson had planned to wear on her wedding night . . . Which meant it wasn’t much of a nightgown. But surely it wouldn’t be that bad, would it?

She was wrong.

It was worse.

So, so, so much worse.

Because the nightie was very short and very sheer. Too sheer, really. So sheer it might as well have not existed at all. At least it came with a robe, she told herself. But the robe was . . . yup . . . also incredibly sheer, so she stood there, fully clothed and extremely naked and told herself not to panic.

She’d just crack open the door and ask Sawyer for a T-shirt or something. But when she peeked into the room, it was empty.

The only light came from the tiny sconces by the bed, but thanks to the nine million mirrors, it looked like the room was full of fireflies. And it was gorgeous.

“Hi.” She heard his voice at the same time she felt a gust of cold wind and saw the curtains billow out.

Sawyer. Balcony. Doors. Nightie. Nipples! So many words filled her (admittedly empty) brain at the same time that she thought she might black out from the overload.

“I . . . What were you doing out there?” she asked, but he wasn’t listening—she was pretty sure because he wasn’t looking at her eyes, or her lips. And her brain shouted nipples again. “Honeymoon!” she said a little too sharply then dove for the big, fluffy robe that had been hung on a hook by the bed.

The bed that was currently covered in . . .

“Are those . . .”

“Rose petals?” He smacked his lips and nodded. “Yes, yes they are. Because . . . honeymoon.”

“Yes, honeymoon. Very, um, romantic.”

“Yes.”

“Except no,” she said for reasons she couldn’t start to name. And then she named them. “What if you’re allergic?”

“Right?” he exclaimed. “And they just get everywhere . . .”

“And won’t they stain the sheets? And . . .” She trailed off as she looked between the bed half covered with rose petals and the sliding door . . . and him. “Wait. Were you tossing rose petals overboard?”

“No. Yes.” He had that little boy look on his hot guy face again. “I panicked, okay?”

“You panicked?”