How to Honeymoon Alone, page 1
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Other books by Olivia
About Olivia
Copyright © 2023 Olivia Hayle
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be distributed or transmitted without the prior consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.
All characters and events depicted in this book are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and explicit scenes, and is intended for mature readers.
Edited by Andie Edwards of Beyond the Proof
Chapter art by Ginotage Sandaru
Cover art by Leni Kauffman
www.oliviahayle.com
To everyone whose favorite vacation is a really good book.
Some things are hard to do alone. Putting together large flatpack furniture, for one, or surviving high school. Ordering dinner alone in a restaurant is another one. But my best friend glares at me through my phone screen, unable to comprehend that simple fact.
“Just sit down,” she says. “Order and eat. Who cares what anyone else might think?”
I lie down on my hotel bed. “I do.”
“No, you don’t. They don’t matter.”
“True, and it’s not like I came to Barbados to hide in my hotel room.”
“Definitely not. You went to have the best two weeks of your life,” Becky says. She’s sitting on her familiar paisley couch, with a pregnancy pillow beside her. My future goddaughter is the only reason she couldn’t be here with me. “You’re going to get back at—no, scratch that. I won’t say his name, and you’re not even allowed to think it.”
I salute her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“No, you’re going to eat dinner at that luscious-looking hotel restaurant, you’re going to enjoy the warm weather, and afterward, you can reward yourself by watching old reruns in your room.”
“Pregnancy has made you bossy,” I say.
Her husband’s voice comes through the phone, unseen but close by. “You said it, not me!” he yells.
Becky hushes him. “I’m talking to Eden.”
“Hi, Patrick,” I say.
“Hey, Eden,” he calls back. “Enjoy some sunshine for me!”
“Will do!” I meet Becky’s gaze. “But you’re right, you know, bossy or not. So what if I’m the only person there eating alone?”
“Doesn’t matter at all,” she agrees. “It’s not like you’ll see a single person there again after you come home.”
“Exactly.” I sit up and look over at my suitcase, half-opened on the carpeted floor. It’s spilling colorful sundresses like a store on Black Friday. “I’ll wear my red dress.”
“That’s right,” she says. “And Eden? I want a picture of you with a colorful, tropical drink as proof.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
“Good,” she says and smiles at me through the screen. “I wish I was there with you.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. Now go have fun and come back with a tan for me to be jealous of.”
We hang up and I’m alone in my empty, quiet hotel room. My windows don’t give me a view of the ocean. That had been too expensive. Instead, they offer a view of the beautifully manicured garden of the Winter Resort. The newly opened luxury hotel is everything Caleb and I had hoped for when we booked it for our honeymoon.
And I’m going to make sure I enjoy it all. Even if I have to provide picture proof for Becky as I do it.
The first few weeks after I’d learned about Caleb’s extracurricular activities, even getting out of bed had been a struggle. Dragging myself to the coffee shop down the street had felt like running a marathon.
So, as I was speaking to Becky on the phone one day and mentioned what I wanted to cook for dinner, she’d said, send me a pic or it didn’t happen.
She’d known, even if I hadn’t told her, that more days than not it didn’t happen.
And so I’d sent her pictures of all of it, and in the three months since my engagement ended, the small, normal acts have stopped feeling like a sporting event. The hurt isn’t unbearable anymore. It’s not a weight on my shoulders crushing me down to earth. It’s a backpack instead, still heavy, but it doesn’t slow me down.
Maybe I’ll get to take it off entirely one day.
I pull on a red dress and chuck my phone, wallet, and guidebook into a crossbody purse. This is my trip. Mine. I had planned it, insisted on it and dreamed of it for years.
As a teenager, I’d kept a vision board over my desk. It had changed a lot over the years, but a few images had remained—steadfast pillars among an ever-changing sea of dreams.
One of them had been the turquoise-blue of the Caribbean Sea, softly lapping against a white-sand beach and framed by palm trees.
This trip is my first time out of the country, if one doesn’t count the road trips from my home in Washington State to Vancouver, Canada, and I don’t. Not really. No, this is it. I’m here. I’m doing it.
And the absolute last person I should be thinking about is Caleb.
I run a brush through my brown hair in too-aggressive strokes as if I can comb him out of my thoughts.
I feel calmer when I finally ride the elevator down to the lobby. My walk takes me through the resort’s garden, as the softly chirping insects serenade me as I stroll through the open colonnade.
The restaurant opens to the garden on one side and the sea on the other. No windows are needed in the perpetually warm climate.
The air is hot and humid, wrapping around me like another layer of clothing. But the breeze from the sea cools me down in gentle gusts. The Caribbean Sea, that is.
A wave of giddiness sweeps through me.
I’m abroad, I think, and no one can take that away from me. The magic is right here. It’s in the new experiences, the calm ocean, and the sandy beaches. I just need to reach out and grab it.
I stop by the maître d’s stand. The linen-clad tables beyond are filled with dining guests and the place looks packed. I rock back in my sandals and peer around. There’s no empty table in sight.
Maybe I can get away with room service and binging an old TV show after all.
“Good evening,” a smiling host says. “Do you have a reservation for tonight?”
“I don’t, no. I can see that you’re pretty busy. Is there a space for one?”
“Just one?”
“Yes.” I can feel myself shrink.
“Let me check…” He looks down at the screen and taps it a few times. “We do seem to have a table available. You’ll get our last one of the night!”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you.”
Next to me, a man clears his throat. “There you are,” he says to me. “Sorry, I’m late. Table for two, actually.”
I stare up at the stranger.
His head of dark-brown hair towers over me by a few inches, and he’s wearing a white button-down. He’s also watching me meaningfully.
“That’s not a problem,” the host says and grabs another menu. “Right this way.”
He turns and sets off through the packed restaurant. I remain locked in a staring contest with the intrusive stranger.
He raises an eyebrow. “Share the last table?” he asks and motions for us to start moving.
I’m too stunned to do anything but follow the host obediently through the restaurant. He leads us to a two-top right next to the boardwalk and the soft waves. There’s a single lit candle on the table, it’s flame flickering in the light breeze.
“Here you are,” the host says cheerfully and sets the menus down. “Your waiter will be over soon to take your drink orders.”
And just like that, I’m left staring at the tall stranger in front of me. He pulls out a chair and takes a seat as if he hasn’t just stolen it. There’s a hint of stubble along his sharp jaw. He looks closed-off and a bit predatory, like he spends a lot of time getting his way. Just as he is right now.
“Excuse me,” I say. “What was that?”
“Maybe I just wanted to get to know you,” he says.
Judging by his lack of accent, he’s American, too. I cast a meaningful look around the crowded restaurant. “No, you wanted a table in a full restaurant.”
“Nothing escapes you.” He nods to the chair in front of him. “Have a seat.”
“You know, I studied karate for seven years, and I always carry pepper spray. Not to mention we’re in public.”
“Consider me warned,” he says and opens his menu. “They do good fish here, I’ve heard.”
I finally sit down, my
He gives a low hum. I look down at my menu, but the words bleed together on the page. At least his sudden arrival means I don’t need to think twice about what the other guests may be thinking, seeing me here alone.
Across the table, he flips a page of his menu. “Dinner is on me as a thank you,” he says. “Choose whatever you want. And no need to worry about awkward small talk, either, if you’re not in the mood. I have some emails I need to take care of.”
I look at him. “You’re going to work?”
He keeps his eyes trained on the menu. “Would you rather we talk about nothing important just to fill the silence?”
“Wow. I… just wow.”
He looks up with a faint frown. “What?”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever spoken to me the way you just have.”
“Right. I can be direct.”
“No, really?” I ask. Sarcasm drips from my words.
He puts the menu down, and it looks like it pains him. “I’m sorry about crashing your evening. Is it okay with you? Say no and I’ll leave, no questions asked.”
“It’s okay,” I hear myself saying because, if nothing else, this is a story to tell Becky about. “I’m just… surprised.”
He nods like that’s that, and returns to his menu.
The silence stretches between us. I read my menu without really taking in the words and sneak looks at him. I haven’t spoken to a man who wasn’t my family member, a coworker, or a friend’s husband since Caleb and I ended our engagement.
He leans forward, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. A heavy watch on his wrist reflects the flickering candle on the table.
“What are you having?” I finally ask him.
He closes the menu with a snap. “The steak.”
“The steak,” I repeat. “At a restaurant famous for its fish? On an island in the middle of the sea? You do know that swordfish is famous in Barbados?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’m having the locally sourced marlin.”
He makes that low humming sound again and reaches into the pocket of his slacks. He pulls out a phone and puts it on the tabletop. “I don’t want to be rude,” he says, “but I really do need to answer a few emails.”
“You’re working on your vacation?”
His eyes are already on the screen. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you just order room service?” I ask.
He doesn’t look up at me, but he seems to tense up at my question. “My room wasn’t properly cleaned when I arrived. They’re fixing it now.”
“Oh.” That seems… odd at a five-star resort, but okay, then. I entertain myself by reading through the dessert menu, and then the wine list. My eyes graze over the impossible prices of the glass to the bottle. Between mine and Caleb’s salaries, this was a once-in-a-lifetime trip.
Staying at the Winter Resort was always going to be a stretch. When I sat down to cancel the honeymoon and learned about the cancellation fees we’d have to pay for the flights, and the deposit we’d lose on the standard double at the resort… well. Caleb already took the wedding from me, and I’ll be damned if he takes my lifelong dream vacation, too.
Past Eden wouldn’t have considered traveling to a foreign country on her own. But Eden of several months ago thought her maid of honor was one of her best friends, and her fiancé was the man she was going to spend a life with, so she wasn’t exactly all-knowing, either.
And apparently, present Eden is an adventurer, willing to dine with a complete stranger in paradise. I feel locked in place at the table. I’m not eating alone, at least, but I’m still nervous. Just for a different reason now.
I glance over at him. He hasn’t even told me his name. Judging by the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, I suspect he might be a few years older than me, but not much more. He’s frowning while he answers emails.
Work’s probably not going great, I think. I’m grateful my kindergarten students barely know how to write. No emails for me to stress over.
The waiter returns to our table. “Ready for drinks?”
“Red wine,” the man across from me says. “The Merlot.”
“Coming right up. And for you, ma’am?”
“I’d like a rum punch, please.”
The waiter’s smile stretches wide. “The house cocktail. Great choice. Is this your first time dining with us?”
“First night on the island, actually.”
“Really? Welcome!” he says, looking from me to the man opposite me. “You two will have a wonderful time here. It’s the most romantic of the islands, you know?”
The stranger puts down his phone. “It is?”
“Oh, yes,” the waiter says with a wink. “So you two enjoy yourself, all right? I’ll be back shortly to take your food order.”
He disappears amid the tables and leaves the mystery man and me to our own devices. Or rather, him to his device. His eyes are trained on the screen.
I put an arm on the railing. The ocean is shrouded in darkness, and I can just barely make out the softly lapping waves.
“You know, you never told me your name when you invited yourself to my table.”
He works on his phone for a solid minute before turning it facedown on the table. Dark-blue eyes meet mine. “Phillip Meyer,” he says, extending a large hand across the table. “It’s a pleasure.”
I take it. “Eden Richards.”
He shakes my hand twice, a firm grip, like we’re in a business meeting. “Thank you again, Eden, for not relegating me to a convenience store. I appreciate it.”
My hand is warm when I take it back. “Sure. I mean, I’m big on charity.”
His eyebrows rise, and there’s a spark of delight in his eyes. “Charity?”
I’m spared from answering by our waiter’s return. He has a rum punch in a tumbler and a glass of red wine, with one beverage looking decidedly more fun than the other. It has a sprig of mint in it and a frozen slice of lemon.
“For the beautiful lady,” the waiter says with a smile before turning to Phillip. “You’re a lucky man.”
I open my mouth to say—what, exactly?—but Phillip beats me to the punch. “Yes, and she sure likes to remind me.”
The waiter laughs, and I glare across the table. Phillip, however, looks back at me with unreadable eyes. “You did me a favor tonight. I’m the luckiest.”
I want to roll my eyes, but resist until the waiter’s taken our drink orders and left. “So now we’re a couple?”
“I was playing along,” Phillip says. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten your seven years of karate. Or your can of pepper spray. How did you get that through customs?”
“Not important,” I say. It’s easy to smuggle all kinds of things when they’re fictional. As long as this doesn’t give him any ideas.
But he’s already looking back down at his phone.
I take a sip of my rum punch, and it’s all spiced goodness. Closing my eyes, I listen to the waves in the distance.
I’m on vacation. I’m in the Caribbean. I’m the master of my fate now.
And I’m going to have the best time.
“Can I ask you for a favor?” I ask. “Since I did you a solid here tonight.”
He looks up. “Yes.”
I hand him my phone. “Can you take a photo of me?”
“A photo?”
“Yes.”
Judgment rolls off him in waves. I ignore it and pose happily, holding up my drink for the camera like I’m saying cheers.
He lowers my phone after a few seconds. “There. I took a few.”
“Awesome, thanks.”
His jaw works a few times. “You’re going to flood your social media with holiday pics, aren’t you?”
I shake my head, thinking of all the friends Caleb and I have in common. I’m not planning on humiliating myself further by sharing pics from the vacation they all know was meant for two. “No. And even if I was, is that so bad?”
