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  Which is what I wore when I crawled onto the massage table.

  “Declan?”

  Nothing.

  It’s not as if I’m suffering. Might as well make the best of it. I start picking up pieces of fruit in twos and threes, alternating bites between thick swallows of this delightful coffee. A strong breeze whips through the open wall, bringing a few flower blossoms, a palm frond dancing on the wind. The sun isn’t in my eyes now, but it’s illuminating everything, giving the powerful surf a strong glow.

  By now, I assumed I’d be sore from so much sex I’d be begging for a break. Instead, I’m drinking coffee and chewing my way through breakfast with a part of my body throbbing so hard it might as well have a beeping alarm attached to it whenever I step backwards.

  “Where the hell is my husband?” I mutter.

  A white and blue bird with a red head hops to the edge of our villa, making eye contact with me. I stare. It stares back. I sip my coffee.

  It leaves.

  I’ve had more intimate eye contact with that bird than I have with my husband.

  Smoothing the sheets around me, I sigh. Morning sex with Declan is the best. The best. Long before the busy brain kicks in with checklists and notes and hyper-prioritization and optimization, the versions of ourselves we encounter in that first reach-over run on pure instinct. Still deep in our bodies, we are arms and legs, abs and thighs, tongues and kisses, moving against each other without words, until a hoarse cry of ecstasy reminds us we can speak.

  Beg.

  Direct.

  I whimper, the sound lost to the wind, the bird on a tree branch now, which shimmers, palm fronds weaving like drunken soccer fans after a World Cup final. Sweet morning sex is lost already. It’s not the same if one of us comes back to bed.

  We only have six more mornings like this.

  Tomorrow, I’ll tie him to the bed so he can’t leave.

  Or, you know, maybe he’ll tie me up.

  It could go either way.

  I’m flexible.

  Surprisingly flexible.

  The door opens and in walks Declan, wearing a soaked t-shirt, a sweaty semi-circle ringing his neck. His lightweight soccer shorts barely cover the rippling muscles of his legs as he jumps on the bed, kicking his shoes off by the heels, giving me a hot, wet, sweat-soaked kiss that doesn’t quite make up for his absence, but it comes close.

  And so do I.

  Pulling him to me, I spread my legs so his thigh is between them, my hips grinding into him, the pressure against my core exactly what I need as his mouth slants against mine, tunneling through layers of existential knowing that can only be unlocked through touch.

  There you are, I think.

  And here I am.

  Tap tap tap.

  “What. The. Hell?” Declan murmurs, mouth still against mine. I have both hands under his sweat-soaked shirt, the hard lines of his muscled back coiled with exertion.

  “Ignore them.”

  “They’re like cockroaches!”

  I flinch, looking at the floor, curling my feet up against my ass involuntarily. “They don’t have those here, do they?” Dad and Mom took us to Florida once when I was a kid. The “palmetto bugs” were just enormous versions of cockroaches.

  “Not really. The only major invasive pests we have to worry about are fire ants, according to some of the resort reports I’ve read. And they spray regularly for those, so.” He frowns. “But this whole ‘going the extra mile’ in service is killing me.”

  “Tell them to stop.”

  “I have. I ordered them to stop. They don’t believe me. They’re convinced because you’re here, that we’re engaged in some covert mystery shopping thing.”

  “Me?”

  “Miyadori doesn’t seem to get that I mean it when I want them to back off.”

  Knock knock knock.

  “Mr. and Mrs. McCormick? I am here with your chocolate and lobster buffet.”

  I whimper again.

  For a different reason.

  “A portable chocolate and lobster buffet? Just for us? What are we—on a cruise ship?”

  “S.S. Shannon, prepare to be boarded,” I joke.

  He shoots me a vicious look. “The only thing boarding you is food and massage therapists.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We haven’t had sex since we got here!”

  “And that’s my fault?”

  “You fell asleep last night.”

  “You could have woken me up with morning sex!”

  “I couldn’t. The yoga instructor got here first. My head was under the covers, about to assume a porny position, when our personal asana tutor appeared.”

  “What?” I hiss. “Is that why you’re so sweaty?”

  “No. I got rid of her and went for a run.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?” I can’t keep the whine out of my voice.

  His eyes go shifty. Declan doesn’t do shifty.

  “You worked!”

  “Did not.”

  “You had a meeting!”

  “Did...okay, yes. Over coffee. More like a coffee gathering. I wouldn’t call it a meeting...”

  Knock knock knock.

  I jump up, grab a robe, and throw it on. Flinging open the door, I point to the kitchen area.

  Frank the staffer smiles at me. “Aloha, Mrs. McCormick!”

  “There better be some damn fine chocolate in there.”

  His eyes go round.

  “Let me get the burners started for the fondue.”

  I soften. “Fondue?”

  “And the homemade sea salt caramel marshmallows for the Mayan hot chocolate.”

  I give Declan a helpless look. His hands are planted on his hips, churning out testosterone at a healthy clip. Tongue rolling in his cheek, he looks like he has a wad of chew in there.

  “Okay,” I say slowly, frowning.

  “This is what the cheery yoga instructor was like,” Declan says through gritted teeth. “They’re all so damn nice.”

  “How dare they!”

  “It’s obscene.”

  Frank takes a series of decorated chocolates and stacks them, like Zen rocks, until there’s a perfect balance of color and rich cocoa that looks like a game of Jenga.

  Then he pulls out a camera.

  “Excuse me?” Declan coughs. “What’s this?”

  “Oh! We’re recording your personal culinary experience. At the end of your stay with us, the photos will be available in your personal cloud storage, and a print book of highlights—carefully curated by the resort’s Director of Photographic Authenticity—will be shipped to you, signed by each member of the staff and any transient guests with whom you shared a deep moment.”

  “The only deep moment I want involves your body,” Declan mutters to me. He said that a tad too loud.

  “Um, sir?” The look Frank gives him says he’s really not okay with sharing his body with Declan, but if the job requires it...

  “Nothing. Just talking to my bride.”

  “What’s the fondue for? The marshmallows?”

  “And the lobster.”

  “You dip lobster in chocolate?” Declan and I say in unison, my voice carrying a tone of marvel, his revulsion.

  “New trend. Our lead chef invented it.”

  “The Premenstrual Kitchen, coming soon, from Anthony Bourdain,” Declan whispers.

  Frank really looks disturbed. He gives Declan a look I’ve only ever seen used on my mom.

  “Is there anything else I can do, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick?”

  “Yeah. Leave.”

  I know I didn’t say that, because I’m dipping a lobster tail in the fondue before Frank’s hand is even on the doorknob.

  “Why are we getting a special buffet like this for breakfast?” I mumble around the gooey, stringy, tender perfection in my mouth.

  Declan gives me a sour look. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

  I would gag, but that would be a waste of
perfectly amazing lobster. “Oh,” I finally choke out.

  “You slept for a long time.” His anger starts to fade. “You needed it, after what happened yesterday. How are you?”

  “Filthy.”

  “Attagirl.” He kisses me, licking chocolate off my mouth. “Mmm. Good thing neither of us has a shellfish allergy.”

  “Bite your tongue!”

  “How about I bite yours?”

  He does. I giggle. He lets go, looking me up and down.

  “We’re both filthy.”

  “Mmmm.” I can’t talk over the second bite.

  “We need showers.”

  “Mmmph?”

  He’s in the bathroom, turning on the spray, before I can form words. I am coated in sweat and massage oil and melted chocolate minty mess. A shower would improve matters dramatically.

  So would sex.

  “Sex first, shower second?” I suggest, eyeing his jogging shorts, which currently look like he’s hiding a cricket bat in there.

  “How about shower sex first, bed sex second?”

  “Always the optimizer.”

  He’s naked and in the water, already lathering his hair with shampoo before I’ve even stripped off my socks.

  And then Declan’s phone buzzes from his shorts.

  He hears it, his wet-seal head turning toward the sound, and he cringes.

  “Your phone is on?”

  “We agreed to this before, Shannon. I wouldn’t work, but you’d let me leave the phone on.”

  Then Grace’s ringtone fills the air. It’s a Melissa Etheridge song I can’t place right now.

  He makes a strange grimace. “If she’s calling, there’s a glitch,” he hollers, quickly rinsing off. No! No! I want to scream.

  “Our entire honeymoon so far has been a glitch! A glitch you haven’t been able to scratch! A swollen, blue glitch! Please don’t answer that.”

  He grabs the phone as he walks into the bedroom naked and starts rifling through his clean shirts. I spot a white cloud of shampoo on his neck and wipe it off with my hand.

  He tenses at my touch. “I have to.”

  “Please, Declan.”

  We breathe, facing off, like two worthy generals in battle, at a crossroads where the only choice left is a poor one.

  He slowly lowers the phone. Victory!

  Knock knock knock.

  Defeat.

  “Mr. McCormick?” It’s Mr. Miyadori. “I know this is unusual, but we have a code red situation on site and could use your counsel. It is a convenient blessing that you’re present.”

  I start banging my head against the wall. “Convenient.”

  Declan closes his eyes, the gesture one of regret, the look someone in an action movie has on their face as they decide to be an astronaut on the assuredly-fatal mission to save Earth. The look my mother gets when she realizes the fifty-percent-off sale at the thrift shop only applies to yellow tags and she’s got a bunch of red-tag clothes in her arms.

  You know that look.

  And then he plucks a white business shirt from the closet and quickly buttons it up.

  “We need to leave,” I declare. “Go home.” I’m bitter. Too bitter, and dejected, and all the feelings you’re not supposed to experience on your honeymoon are rising up in me, vibrating at different speeds, making me shake.

  “No,” Declan rasps as he hurriedly jams his legs into underwear, then casual slacks. “I’m not giving up on our honeymoon. We’ve come too far. I just need one minute with Miyadori and Grace and —”

  “If you hold up your finger to get me to wait, I’ll break it off and shove it up your—”

  He kisses me before I can finish the threat.

  Then again, if I did that, he’d be getting more action than we’ve had since we arrived here.

  “Give me twenty minutes. Whatever’s going on can be solved that fast. They’re just taking advantage of my being here.” Now he’s putting on a jacket. A jacket! He throws on socks and dress shoes.

  If he adds a tie, I’m strangling him with it. Justifiable homicide, right?

  I pull out the nuclear option, saying the one threat that might make him change course. “If you’re not back here in twenty minutes, I’m masturbating.”

  Declan was already opening the door when I say that, so the words ring out as Mr. Miyadori’s in mid-bow. He remains in mid-bow, poised there, trapped in time.

  I wouldn’t want to look up and make eye contact with me right now, either.

  Declan’s eyebrows meet his hair line, tongue against the line of his upper teeth, mouth open in surprise. He gives my body a crawling look of appreciation.

  I sprint into the bathroom and turn on the shower.

  I do not masturbate, because I am an optimist.

  Clean and shampooed, groomed and shaved, I emerge from the bathroom thirty minutes later.

  To an empty room.

  And an endless supply of chocolate and lobster buffet.

  Declan

  Shannon is the Code Red situation here at the resort.

  And not because she has red garters. If Miyadori is here, that means her diamond earrings arrived. Did he really need to interrupt like that, though?

  Yes. My orders. I need to make it perfect for her. Make it up to her. Have a beautiful cruise on the ocean where I give her the earrings. Make love in the tiny bedroom berth on a private yacht, moving with the sea, in rhythm with the tides, the waves rocking us to nirvana.

  I follow Miyadori down a long hallway where he stops in front of an elevator, looks around, and waves an electronic card in front of a polished stainless steel panel.

  Elevator doors open. We get on.

  “Mr. McCormick, we have the dinner arranged as you wish, but we have a question about the earrings.”

  “And you need to take me to a different floor?”

  “The tray will be loaded onto a van to take to the pier, for the yacht. I thought it prudent to get some distance from Mrs. McCormick to maintain the element of surprise.”

  “Thank you.” My hair’s still wet from the impromptu shower and I comb it with my fingers, wondering why I dressed in business casual. Habit, I guess.

  “And also to demonstrate our excellent renovations we’re completing in the lobby, made with absolute care and focused on customer service, as always. While you’re here, of course.”

  “Efficient of you,” I say tightly.

  “Thank you.” He takes that as a compliment.

  The elevator stops four floors up and he winds me through a series of corridors, pointing out specific upgrades in a long, slow, deliberate description that is painstaking in its reverence for detail. The hotel is multi-level, with our room right on the beach, hills making the terrain like a giant Minecraft game. The lobby is far above the beach, on a floor with exterior hallways that give spectacular beach views.

  “You realize I have resigned from Anterdec,” I say when he’s done.

  He nods once. “Yes. Your father informed me.”

  “You’ve spoken with my father?”

  “Yes.”

  “About what?”

  “You and your wife.”

  “Be more specific.”

  “He asked me to find a monkey.”

  “And did you?”

  “No.” Miyadori gives me an even look with eyes the color of dark coffee. In two seconds we convey what we need to convey about his opinion of James McCormick.

  “I am more impressed that you didn’t cave to my father’s orders than I am about any resort renovations, Miyadori.”

  He bows slightly.

  “But,” I add, “I don’t understand why you feel the need to impress me with the resort renovations. I am exiting Anterdec over the next few months. I’ve purchased a new company and plan to expand that. The new business has nothing to do with hospitality and property management, or even traditional dining.”

  “I know this.” He places his hands behind his back, face solemn, and nods toward a railing that looks out o
ver a small courtyard. A series of winding deck paths criss-cross the courtyard below us, a garden lush with local plants, most of them flowering. I make a mental note not to walk there with Shannon.

  “I speak with you, Declan – may I call you Declan?”

  “Yes.”

  He nods. “Then you may call me Ken.”

  “Is that your real name? Or Americanized.”

  He smiles. “I’ll leave that to you to guess.”

  “Fine. Ken.”

  “I speak with you because the new CEO of Anterdec concerns us.”

  “My brother?”

  “Yes. We know he has plans to change Anterdec’s holdings. And we know that the resort has faced difficulties – short term difficulties connected directly to economic events out of our control.”

  “I see. You want me to put in a good word with my brother.”

  He nods. “If you would be so inclined.”

  “Leave my wife and I alone and I will help you.”

  He frowns, greying eyebrows forming a V between his eyes, like an aging seagull in flight. “That is all?”

  “That would be more than enough.”

  He nods slowly, then smiles. “Surely, there is more I can do. We could have our staff deliver -- ”

  “No! Your staff is the problem. Interrupting incessantly.”

  “We wanted to show superior service to you.”

  I look him square in the eyes, choosing my words carefully. “Your attention to superior service has left me with no time to service my wife on my honeymoon.”

  I can see the lightbulb turn on inside his mind. “I see. So no Kona coffee service in the morning with a ceramic grinder and beans from my cousin’s Kona plantation tomorrow morning? I shall cancel that order.”

  “Your – wait. Kona plantation?”

  “Yes. My esteemed cousin has agreed to part with a pound of his precious harvest so that I may present it to you tomorrow morning. I know Mrs. McCormick is a coffee aficionado.”

  “That is a tactful term for caffeine addict.”

  He just smiles.

  The connection isn’t possible. There’s no way this stroke of luck could happen.

  I have to ask.

  “Mr. Miya – I mean, Ken. By any chance is your cousin’s name Blanton Jean-Pierre Koshigiri?”

  A sly grin spreads his mouth wide in a genuine smile, making me realize how much of his sophisticated act is just that – an act.