“Would you live here?”

I glanced up and shot Brant a quizzical look.

He shrugged. Sat back in his chair, the Hawaiian coastline painting an impressive backdrop behind him. “I was just thinking, maybe we should spend a few months here. Maybe half the year, spend the winters here.”

“What about the company?”

He shrugged. “I could work from here. Convert the garage into a workshop. Maybe hire a few locals to help during project times.”

I grinned. “A few locals? It took you five years to find Frank.” Frank, the only BSX tech who had survived Brant’s idiosyncrasies long enough to learn how to not piss him off.

“Then we could bring Frank.” He smirked, reached over and grabbed my hand. “I like vacation Layana.”

I rolled my eyes. Let him pull my hand to his lips. “What is vacation Layana like?”

He pursed his lips. Tilted his head as if to think. “Carefree.”

“Carefree? What am I, a Teletubby?” I threw the remaining piece of my muffin in his direction.

“Fine. Not carefree. Less uptight.” He raised his eyebrows at me.

“Everyone’s less uptight on an island. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m a thousand miles from Jillian.” I stuck out my tongue at him.

“Oooh… easy now. She’s probably got this place wired.” He looked at the closest plant as if it might harbor a bomb.

I stood, wiping my hand on a napkin and tossed it down. Sauntered over and pushed at the arms of his chair, separating him from the table. Straddled his body and ran my hands through his hair. “In that case,” I whispered, nipping his ear playfully. “We should put on a show.”

“I’m in,” he growled, peeling off my robe and taking any more words out of my mouth with his kiss.

There, under the glow of the morning sun, we thoroughly ruined the moral compass of anyone who might be listening in.

The jet takeoff was smooth, a thousand parts of machinery working in perfect synchronization to bring us back home. I moved to the back of the plane, to the bedroom, and pulled back the sheets. Fluffed pillows and called Brant back.

“What do you want to watch?” I flipped through the options on the touch screen, jumping when Brant’s hand snaked through the open door and pulled me back, dragging us both toward the bed, his foot kicking the door somewhat closed.

“I want to watch you come,” he whispered, grabbing the tablet and tossing it aside, his fingers pulling at my pants and dragging the material over my hips.

“Fine,” I scoffed, pushing at his shoulders, until his mouth skimmed the line of my hip, my head dropping back when hot wet heat closed over my skin. “Go do what you do best.”

A half hour later, we turned down the lights, Brant’s fingers rolling my lazy body over until we both laid sideways, his body cupped around mine, and watched Gene Hackman and John Cusack battle it out on the big screen. By the time the end credits rolled, Brant was asleep, heavy breathing regular against my neck.

I reached up. Fumbled around the bedside table until my hand hit my cell. I turned it on and sent a short email to Don:

ON WAY BACK FROM HAWAII. PLEASE MAKE SURE FINAL COPY IS READY FOR PICKUP.

Then I rolled over, into his body, and closed my eyes. Tried to sleep. Tried to appreciate this moment with him. I lay there, my eyes closed, breath matching rhythm with his, but sleep wouldn’t come.

In a few hours, I’d be home. Would swing by the printers, pick up the papers and make sure they were perfect. Then hit the sack and catch up on sleep. Tomorrow would be a big day. A relationship-ending one.

Chapter 34

I was a person of plans. Always had been. I liked order. Refinement. Intellectual thought that put objects into motion. Controlled their outcome.

Molly had been my problem.

This paper, this setup: my solution.

Carefully crafted steps to ensure a positive outcome.

Lose Molly. Gain Lee. Carry on.

Winning would give me a sense of accomplishment. A righting of one wrong. But still, a bigger problem loomed. Once I had both of them, then what?

How would this story end?

The best-laid plans still deserved a purpose. I needed to find mine.

For now, this one seemed foolproof. I swiped a hand over the newspaper. Our false cover wrapped around thirty-two pages of legitimacy. I couldn’t tell the difference. They floated seamlessly. Our articles matched the inside pages, the paper weight, color, and consistency the same, the phone numbers and emails listed all sending Molly directly to Don. It was a work of art. I flipped through, flipped back. Ran my hands over the glaring photos that screamed sex. They made an impression all right. I took out a red Sharpie. Wrote WHORE in big red angry letters across the front. Set it down and looked at it from the angle Lee would. Perfect. He wouldn’t miss it. Then I grabbed my cell, snapping a picture of the writing and texting it to Don with instructions. Then I called him.

“It’s perfect. I just sent you a text with a touch to add.”

Don wasn’t confused. Knew what I was referring to. “Okay. You approve the copy?”

“It looks great. You got a guy to sit at her place?”

“Yep. And I’m on your boy. As soon as he heads her way I’ll have him put a paper in place.”

“I don’t know when he’ll go there. It might take a few days. Or even weeks. Just print a fresh paper each day with the correct date.”

“I know, you told me. We’ll stay on top of it.” His voice was calm, competent.