Not that I’m normally a dick. Current circumstances happen to be extenuating.
I enjoy the hell out of justice being served, and the opportunity presented itself at the exact moment when I needed something to land on the right side of karma but couldn’t get justice anywhere else.
And now I’m debating if I want to finish my flight with this woman next to me, or if I want to give up on trying to figure out the mystery flavor in this lemon ginger kombucha and find a better place to attempt to enjoy my limited time in Hawaii.
Plenty of places to choose from.
Can’t beat paradise, even if I didn’t get to enjoy my long-coming revenge.
Yet.
I still own Chandler Sullivan’s café. Signed the papers this morning before boarding the flight that was supposed to get me here just in time to destroy his life the same way he once destroyed mine.
Not the exact same.
But close enough.
And I still get to watch everyone in his hometown realize what he’s done and what will ultimately happen to his family’s business.
Just not at his wedding.
“Not that I’m asking you to share.” The woman giggles a high-pitched giggle that threatens to split my eardrums while she tries to lean even closer. “That would be too much, wouldn’t it? Or would it? Wow. Your hands are really big. Look at your thumb. That’s…a really big thumb.”
I suck in a breath through my nose, twist on my stool to block her with my body, and pretend I can hear the ocean surf over the sound of this woman’s chatter and the ’80s music playing on the bar’s speaker system.
“Really big thumb,” the woman repeats.
I take another swig of my lemon ginger kombucha and close my eyes while I swirl it around my mouth.
What is that aftertaste?
It’s different. Reminds me of the holidays, but fir tree isn’t right, and also doesn’t make any sense.
I love a good puzzle, especially after a long day of not much going right.
“Are your…feet…as big?” the woman next to me asks.
And this kombucha is a mystery I won’t be solving.
Today’s a wash.
I start to move, leaving most of my flight still intact in front of me, when a whirlwind arrives on my other side. “Hi, honey,” a short redhead says. To me. “Sorry I’m late. Parking the car took forever. Did you order dinner yet?”
Is she—is she talking to me?
She subtly moves her green eyes to the woman on the other side of me, then adds an equally subtle eye roll.
“Honey?” she repeats.
My brain kicks in, and so does my mouth right as my phone vibrates on the bar again. “No.”
“Silly. You’re so good at ordering for me. You didn’t have to wait. I know you were starving after…” She winks.
It’s a massive, exaggerated wink that’s so unexpected and legitimately goofy that it startles a small laugh out of me.
That hasn’t happened in weeks. Months?
Laughing at a stranger is uncomfortable enough that I almost reach for my phone to see what half-truth message my sister or my former business partner has sent now.
Instead, I make myself nod at the woman. “I was hungrier than a whale,” I agree.
“And so mellow you forgot to save me a seat.” She laughs and pats my hand like touching me is the most natural thing in the world, her fingertips soft and light as a butterfly’s wings, then pulls away before I can process that she invaded my personal space.
A wave of goosebumps spreads up my wrist and forearm.
Do I know her?
I don’t know her. I’m positive I don’t know her.
Not that it’s likely I’d run into someone I know at a random bar in Hawaii. To the best of my knowledge, Chandler was the only person I anticipated seeing here that I would’ve known before.
Any of his old friends from college would not have been friends of mine.
And this curvy redhead in a shimmery green halter top, flowery skirt, and high-heeled ankle boots wasn’t one of his friends in college. I’m positive I’ve never seen her before.
She has an air.
A sparkle that almost reminds me of my grandmother.
I’d recognize that sparkle if I’d seen this woman before.
“Excuse me,” she says to the kombucha flirt who’s been falling all over me. “Do you mind moving down a seat so I can sit with my husband?”
It should be the most ball-shriveling statement a woman could make.
Especially given the subject of one of the conversations still making my phone vibrate on the bar.