Wife in Name Only

chapter Four


Hot sex with the ex yesterday had forced Zoe’s head on the pillow at nine last night. She’d slept until Cinderella whined at the door at five with an I really gotta go look on her face. Just as she’d managed to unbolt the last of the seven locks, her dog had raced out the door.

Cotton candy clouds smudged the powder blue sky. She breathed in the salty, mango-stained air. Fishermen chugged out toward the reef in boats filled with nets. The ripples radiated outward, disturbing the sleepy waves. Insects and birds yawned into life. Palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze that kissed the leaves on the path and pulled them into a gentle sway. She gave herself a squeeze and thanked every star in every universe that she’d found this place. She glanced at the office. There was Rory with the phone attached to his ear. He was prowling like a caged tiger that was unable to see the beauty of his surroundings.

She shook her head. Even at this hour of the morning, he was barking at some poor soul. She could hear the anger in his low growl.

Still the same old Rory.

She went inside and changed from an oversized t-shirt into her running gear. She cleaned her teeth, and pulled her hair back. She walked back outside and pulled up her big-girl pants.

No my hair hurts or I need to count the cans in the pantry excuse was stopping her today. She was going for a run. If she were being totally honest with herself, a pounding run would ease the tightness in her muscles and help her forget the six-foot-two hunk of stress inhabiting her island.

Yep, she would run him out of her system.

After forty minutes of skidding down paths and jumping over potholes, she was on the last leg of the path back to the resort.

“Come on, Cinders, we’re nearly there.” She glanced down to where her dog normally paced her, but Cinderella wasn’t there. Panting, Zoe stopped, turned, and walked to where her dog sat frozen. She whimpered when Zoe reached out and touched her head. “It’s okay, baby. What is it?” She stared down, horrified at the small puddle spreading from her dog.

Her head snapped up. Her legs jelly and her throat dry, she turned in a slow circle, unable to see what had caused her dog such distress.

“Anyone there?”

Nothing. No sound or movement caught her eye.

She slowly exhaled a nervous breath. “It’s just the boogey man, Cinderella. The Beast will go if you wish him away.”

The breeze shifted, and she sniffed an unfamiliar smell. Stale cigarettes. Like the inside of a down-and-out bar on a Friday night.

“Yuck.” She followed the odor to a leafy hibiscus with a direct view of her bungalow.

A pile of cigarettes was ground into the dirt. The smoke from one drifted upwards.

She froze, unable to move a muscle as the edges of her mind started to fray.

“Oh, my God. It’s him,” she whispered.

Her whole body shook, and she knew she was breathing like a drowning person.

Breathe, Zo, breathe. You know what to do.

The Beast that she mostly kept at bay had escaped the kennel, sat on her chest, and started howling.

She clenched her eyes shut, fighting for control that was slipping out of her hands.

I am real. This is real. I am Zoe Hughes and I am standing on an island in Tonga.

She slumped to the ground, her legs unable to hold her, and waited either for the wall to slam into her or for it to sit on the sidelines and wait. She forced herself to breathe. In through her nose, out through her mouth. It still quivered in and out of her lungs like cement dust.

After what felt like an eternity, she lifted her head. Shaking, her body covered in cold sweat, she hauled herself to a standing position. She desperately needed the bathroom, but she stood stooped, her hands on her knees, and sucked in oxygen.

Cinderella nudged her leg.

“I won’t let that man touch you again, Cinders. Ever.” She rubbed her dog’s ears. “I promise.”

She cast another look at the pile of cigarettes and moved with purpose toward her bungalow. She’d be having a conversation with Simi later on today.

…

Later on that morning, Zoe licked batter from a whisk. “Lovely,” she murmured to the empty room.

She started cleaning up her baking mess. The smell of the cake reminded her stomach it wanted feeding. She made a list of things she needed to do. Anything to keep her mind occupied and away from the very large elephant in the room: one Rory Hughes. She cleaned out cupboards and did general tidying before the ping of the oven timer pulled her out of her thoughts in order to get the cake cooling on the windowsill. She clicked on her remote and was soon swaying to the beat of “Money, Money, Money.” She punched her hand in the air at the last line. It’s a rich man’s––.

The song died mid-note. She turned to find Rory fiddling with her speakers. He played with the screen of his iPhone, and then music she’d never heard before blasted out of the speakers.

“Rory, what are you doing?”

“Playing something from this century.”

She went to open her mouth in protest but stopped. She cocked her head. “What’s that?” It was good.

“Mumford and Sons.”

She leaned back and listened to the lyrics.

“Pretty. They rock a banjo.”

That song finished and morphed into another banjo rocking song.

Lost in thought and in the lyrics, she startled when Rory came to stand in front of her, an amused grin turning his eyes the color of a blue highlighter. It looked like he’d just stepped out of the pages of a Greek mythology book, all piercing-blue eyes and messy black hair. His skin, lightly tanned from jogging in sunny California, was getting darker everyday, and it was pulled tight over killer cheekbones.

A wrinkled tee shirt hugged his wide shoulders and molded to his washboard abs. A pair of dark blue board shorts sat low on his hips. The same board shorts he’d ripped off…

Her body heated at the memory, and a slow thread of desire wrapped around her limbs, making them heavy like syrup.

She straightened and pushed her hair behind her ears, conscious of the low throb of energy pulsing between them. “Um. How’d you sleep?” she asked, looking for conversation.

His body tightened beside her. His hands went stiff at his sides. “I don’t like the bungalow. I’ve shifted.”

Confused, she stared at him. “They’re all the same.”

Nothing moved on his face. “Scratchy towels.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll bring you fluffy ones.”

“Too late. I shifted my stuff to number one.”

“The one closest to me?”

The next few moments of silence were palpable.

He frowned and studied her as if she was a badly assembled presentation he didn’t quite know how to fix.

She eyed the cooling cake on the bench. “I have a ton of things to do, starting with icing this banana cake.”

She bent and took out a container of powdered sugar, ignoring his spicy, just-showered smell that called to all her estrogen-fueled parts.

“You used to make me banana cakes.”

She leaned back against the countertop, smiling at the warm memory. “Yeah, I did.”

“You used to draw hearts all over the parchment paper. I was the envy of every man on the construction crew.”

She stilled at his smile. She’d forgotten that smile, the pure beam that shone out of his eyes. It started somewhere deep within him and radiated out. People would stop in their tracks and stare when Rory unleashed that smile. She couldn’t help but feel lighter, more energized. More loved. A bubble in her chest expanded.

“So what’s the occasion for a famous Zoe banana cake?”

She blinked. “There’s a festival at the local school this afternoon. The whole village will be there.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Ah, sure.”

She tried to hide her surprise. The last thing she would ever imagine was Rory taking in a traditional Polynesian children’s ceremony.

She opened a cupboard and stretched up high to get the sieve for the powdered sugar. On her tiptoes, she could barely swallow when Rory came behind her due to the heat from his body burning through her t-shirt. He reached up and ever so slightly pressed his long frame into hers. Her breath seized. He pulled down the sieve and turned his amused eyes to hers. She retreated to the other side of the room to dig through the drawer for the measuring spoons. Again, he came up to stand directly behind her, so close his breath puffed against her ear. Goosebumps spread down her neck, hardened her chest, and carried southward.

“What are you looking for, Zo?”

She turned and inched closer to him until they stood toe to toe. So close that she put a hand against his chest. The same crazy electricity they’d always had surged up her arm. Her other hand gripped the top of the countertop.

“I’ve found what I’m looking for, Rory. Have you?” she whispered.

“I know what I want right now.”

His eyes darkened. His eyes traveled from her chest, and a knowing smile curled his lips before his gaze landed on her mouth and stayed there. She squirmed at the warmth traveling between her legs.

“What do you want?” She licked her lips.

“I want your mouth on mine. Your legs wrapped around my hips, your shorts off, and your sweet body pulsing around me.”

The warmth between her legs turned into a torrent.

She barely held herself upright and battled the need to do exactly what he wanted. What she wanted. Something held her back.

“Is that all you want—my body?”

“There’s nothing else for us, babe. I thought we agreed on that.”

She flinched. “I’m not your babe.”

They had agreed. They were done. She wasn’t his babe. Unexpected and very stupid tears pricked her eyes though they shouldn’t. She didn’t want a false declaration of undying love, but she wanted to be more than a vessel for putting part A into part B.

She bit her lip and walked over to the sieve and bowl, the measuring spoons swinging in her shaking fingers.

He cupped her jaw in his hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you. Just calling it as I see it. Mind if I still tag along?”

“You didn’t hurt me. I’d forgotten how direct you could be. You’re right.” She pulled her chin from his warmth and busied her hands. “You can come if you want. I didn’t think you’d be into a children’s ceremony. Don’t you have worlds to conquer and companies to take over?” She pushed her hair behind her ears.

“World-conquering plans are in place. The satellite phone is charging. I should achieve global domination by this evening.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “Okay. I’ll be leaving at two.”

She watched him walk out the door, her dog rushing to meet him. Rory bent down and ruffled her ears. Zoe’s eyes followed him until she lost sight of his shadow disappearing into the office, and her heart did a weird clench. It was the strangest thing. She wanted to show him a part of her world.

At two-fifteen Zoe shook her head.

She picked up the container carrying the cake and told Cinderella to stay and guard the place against killer chickens.

Rory could have his deals. She was going to have some fun and food. Probably her body-weight in food.

…

“Joe, that’s f*cking awesome.” Rory clutched the phone tighter. This was it. The deal he’d been chasing for years. His deal of the century. The buyout of his major competitor, Andrew Industries, would give him connections on the east coast, connections he wanted very, very much.

He rubbed at the pain in his jaw. His molars were clenched tight. He should be sitting in his office surrounded by Joe and the rest of his legal team, ironing out the negotiations.

F*ck.

“We’ve got it, Rory.” Joe’s calm voice didn’t fill him with Zen.

Why now? Why not last week? Or in two weeks? Blood pounded in his skull. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I should be there, Joe.” He paced around the office to keep from kicking the chair. “Keep me posted on developments. I don’t care if they want us to count their f*cking paperclips, I want to know everything.”

“Of course. We’ll keep you apprised.” He listened to Joe’s assurances and glared at the happy little palm trees framing the happy f*cking beach.

“I don’t care how small the question is, call me. If I’m not here, leave a message, and I’ll call you back. I don’t want this on an e-mail just yet. Not until the deal is tight.”

He signed off and looked at his watch.

Shit.

Zoe. He’d completely forgotten.

He dropped the phone and dashed out the office doors. He’d forgotten about Zoe. He sprinted to his bungalow and ripped off his shorts and t-shirt, swapping them for a short-sleeved shirt that hung off the back of a chair and a pair of dark cotton shorts.

He jogged to the kitchen and found empty space, then ran outside. He stood in the middle of the resort, but it was quiet, and only a half-dozen chickens near a wire pen moved about. Where was she? On an island only slightly larger than his apartment, it couldn’t be too hard to find her. Two options: toward the jungle or down a path covered in sleeping chickens. He chose the chickens, jogged around them, and continued down the road. Could this place be any more different than downtown L.A? This island was all dirt and sand and thickets of jungle, and L.A was an organized cement maze decorated with palm trees that represented man’s dominance over the desert that had once stood there. They were worlds apart.

Up ahead, he caught a flash of a white dress, Jack Daniels-colored hair, and a glimpse of trim, brown calves.

“Zo. Wait up.”

The figure on the trail stopped and turned.

Rory could do nothing but stare. A plain, loose-fitting white cotton sundress draped across her hips and dropped to just below her knees. Flat, brown strappy-sandals encased her feet.

Her hair shimmered with spears of bronze on her shoulders. As he approached, he caught her musky jasmine scent, which had his little head trying to overrule his big head.

“You look beautiful. Kind of sexy schoolmarm.”

A shy smile lit her face. “Thanks. It’s conservative here. Walking around half-dressed is totally frowned on.”

“Sexy schoolmarm suits you. But you can always walk around half-naked at the resort.”

The image of Zoe walking around in lacy underwear and killer heels had blood heading south fast.

She stopped. “Yeah, really,” she said, throwing around the Zoe sass he’d missed. She rolled her eyes at him and cocked her head to one side. “Will you strut around in backless chaps living all my cowboy fantasies?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Hell, yeah! You can yee haw me from dusk til dawn.”

Her teeth worried her bottom lip. Her face flushed, and her eyes darkened. The lower half of his body clenched. She was thinking about him in backless chaps. Damn.

“I can see that look in your eyes. If you want to, we can find a spot.”

Her body stilled. “No, I don’t want to find a spot.” Color flooded her face.

He stepped closer and wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger. “You can’t deny you wanted me this morning as much as I wanted you. When I said I wanted your legs wrapped around me and me filling your sweet body, you got so hot.”

Her eyes darkened, her lips parted, and he had to fight every muscle in his body in order to not drag her behind a tree.

He dropped his hand to her waist and pulled her in tight. “Your heat. It’s burning me now,” he whispered into her ear.

She threw back her head and jerked away. “Yeah, I wanted you. There’ll always be a connection between us. A physical connection. But that’s it.”

“Isn’t that enough?” He advanced until he could feel her breath against his cheek. Feel the connection she was talking about. Damn it, he could feel her. All of her.

Her eyes narrowed. “A woman wants to feel she’s more than Slot A to your Tab B.”

He sucked in a breath. “Yeah, not my finest moment.”

“Clearly.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and continued walking.

He followed her down a dirt path shaped by the footsteps of time. They walked close without touching. The path was wide enough for two to fit comfortably. Old men sitting in groups on the front steps of houses raised hands in greeting as they passed. A woman with a baby wrapped in a sling hung her laundry. Light from the jungle threw shadows onto the rich earth. The jungle, nature’s air conditioner, kept the air cool under the thick leafy branches. When the jungle thinned, the full force of the sun pierced his retina. Pigs grazed noisily by the side of the road, and chickens made rustling sounds as they pecked in the long grass. The pounding of the Pacific sounded against the outer atoll—the island’s heartbeat.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” she said.

“Got caught up. Deal of a lifetime going down. It was a call I had to take. A call I’ve wanted to take for years.” He could read nothing on her face. “You’re not mad?” There’d been a time when he would’ve expected something to come whizzing past his head.

“Congratulations. I hope it goes through. And no, I’m not mad. We’re both where we want to be.”

He dragged his hand through his hair. Well, if that thought didn’t perturb him on a level he didn’t quite understand…

She stepped over a pothole, and damn it if he didn’t enjoy her reaching for him to steady herself.

He pressed his fingers against the hard knot of muscle in his neck. “We’re walking in the middle of the road,” he said, glancing around, steering her toward the sandy shoulder. “That’s if you can call it a road. You’d be better off in a tank.” His Aston Martin would cringe at the craters dotting the earth.

“There are only three cars on the island, and believe me, you’ll hear them coming.” She spoke without looking at him, rolling her neck. “Reverend John has a nineteen-sixties mustard-colored Ford Anglia. The gearstick falls off pretty frequently, so depending on what gear he’s in or speed he’s going at the time depends on where you scatter. Father Mathias has a lime green Ford Escort you’ll only see on his birthday, when he rips around the island like he’s in a rally. Brother Luther has a tractor, but I haven’t seen that in a while.” She paused. “I don’t know the last time I heard any of the old clunkers. Everyone walks here.”

He glanced at Zoe, who stared straight ahead. He’d go a week without Starbucks to know what she was thinking.

He was going a week without Starbucks.

As if sensing his mental probe, she glanced at him then looked away.

“It’s like stepping back into a bygone era,” Rory said. He glanced around at the vines hanging down from the trees. The sun shone through the jungle, a kaleidoscope of every color green in a spill across the dark brown path. He inhaled wild mint, and the tension bled out of his weary muscles.

He blinked, clearing his thoughts.

Simple, small concrete houses—some half-painted, most just gray concrete—were dotted haphazardly around the fields, as if scattered like a game of childhood knucklebones.

“Do they ever finish the houses?” He frowned at the structures which, despite having only three walls, appeared to house families.

“It’s tough. Whenever I do a bulk order from Auckland via sea I add in timber, tar paper, and stud guns.” He turned at the worry in her voice.

“Why Auckland?”

“It’s the closest major city. There’s a lot of trade between Tonga and New Zealand.”

He stopped walking.

Wait.

“Tar paper? Stud guns?”

“What? You don’t think I listened when we first arrived in L.A., and you were working for Bob Henderson?”

He ignored the painful twinge in his side at the mention of Bob’s name. With a practiced eye, he looked over what would be needed to finish the simple structures. Treated plywood, pressure treated nails, timber for floors, shatter resistant glass.

His hand brushed hers as they walked deeper into the jungle. The sun shone directly through her dress, accentuating her long, graceful legs, the soft curve of her hip, and the gentle dip of her waist. He ripped his eyes away but not before he saw something on her face.

She pulled her hand away too quickly when their fingers brushed, the snap of electricity making the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention.

…

“We’re nearly there,” Zoe said, struggling to shrug off the sexual tension that threatened to eat her alive. Her body begged her to drag him behind the nearest tree and do him. Every time Rory’s hand brushed hers, desire fired into her pelvis and made clear thinking difficult.

God, where was Rudy when she needed him?

I am not going to think of Rory in backless chaps. I am not going to think of him in backless chaps, no shirt, and a smile that will have me gnawing on his belt buckle.

She squirmed. Great. Damp underwear.

Dear Lord, she had to stop her body from going all slutty when he was near.

She stopped and pretended to adjust her shoe, giving her heart a chance to steady itself and giving her an excuse to adjust her bra, since it had apparently shrunk a size in the last half an hour.

“Doing okay there, babe?”

She looked up into his darkened eyes and sucked in a breath.

“Yeah.” She stood, her chin jutted. “You?”

“Doing well.”

She read his sexy grin and banked it for lonely nights of just her and Rudy.

She rounded the corner and saw her village family.

Men in crisp white cotton shirts wore long sarongs in the colors of the rainbow, the cloth wrapped tightly around their waists and dropping to their shins. Women in long, brightly colored dresses wore their hair pulled back from their face, glistening with coconut oil, the scent filling the air. People rushed forward to greet her, and her heart soared at the love on their faces.

Zoe hugged them back, her laughter easy and filled with joy. It felt so right to be amongst this group of people who treated her as their daughter, their sister.

Home. A place she truly belonged.

Who wouldn’t want to live here?

Without turning, she knew where in the crowd Rory stood. She could feel his eyes on her.

Sudden silence rippled across the group as the school’s sole teacher popped her head out of the door.

Children marched from the building holding hands, all dressed in white, with flax skirts around their waists and necklaces of white and golden shells around their necks. Their faces beamed as they took in the assembled crowd and smiled at their relatives. The children made their way to where Simi stood, his leathery face creased with a huge smile. The teacher calmed her excited charges by holding up her hand. The children sat, after some shuffling, with their right legs crossed over their left.

“They’re performing a Ma’ulu’ulu,” she whispered to Rory as he appeared at her side.

To the left and the right of the children, teenagers and people from the village stood poised with hands behind their backs, looking toward an old man standing in front of a metal drum painted green and covered with tight leather. The drummer brought a stick down against the drum, slowly at first, teasing the crowd, his body swaying to the rhythm. As the beat got faster, the crowd responded, their feet tapping and their hands clasped together. The children’s huge eyes darted between Simi and the drum master as the beat got faster. Zoe swayed to the primal beat. The rhythm pulsed through her, dark and exciting.

Her body pulled toward Rory’s.

As the tempo increased, she saw out the corner of her eye Rory’s body responding to the primitive sound, and his foot found the rhythm, his body moving to the beat pulsing through the air. They were only inches apart. Rory’s hand brushed against hers, sending sparks of awareness up her arm and into her belly. Rory stared straight ahead, a dark flush creeping up his neck. As the pace reached fever pitch and people became borderline delirious, the drummer slowed the beat until he hit the drum in a slow, continuous rhythm.

The children started weaving their fingers through the air. Their eyes were glued to their hands.

“They’re using their hands to tell legends of feasts and gods. Poetry with hands,” she whispered. With trembling fingertips, Zoe pressed wads of red bank notes into Rory’s hand.

“Give one to each of the children,” she said in a low voice.

She walked the line, pressing the banknotes into the children’s hands and grinning at their shining eyes and coy grins. She glanced at Rory, and her heart stilled at the happy and free look on his face.

She retreated to the shade of a tree on slightly unsteady legs. The singers on either side of the children broke into song, their faces alive as they sang in Tongan. Low male voices wove through the high voices of the women, a rich tapestry of song.

Children’s eyes sparkled. Proud parents rushed over and hugged their children.

Children and families.

A bubble rose in her chest.

With misty eyes, she joined a long line of people heading toward a table groaning with food just pulled from huge underground ovens. The smells of roast chicken, corned beef, steamed lobster, and fresh bread filled the air. By the time she got to the front of the line, she had her bubbling emotions under control. She took a sample from everything on the table and made her way toward the shade of a nearby mango tree. The rich scent of fruit filtered through the warm breeze.

Rory sat down beside her. She scanned the crowd and her eyes fell on Simi, who raised a hand in greeting. A snowy-haired woman sat next to him, beaming at the assembled group.

“Simi and Mrs. Simi?” Rory asked.

She nodded, finishing her mouthful of steamed lobster before continuing. “Married sixty years. Simi says she’s more beautiful now than when he first met her.”

Words died in her throat, and she gazed out at the sea of happy, laughing faces, blinking away a silly film from her eyes.

I am one wrong bubble of hormones today.

“Simi’s parents were opposed to the marriage,” she continued, trying to decide between crispy coconut and mango pudding or bread so hot it burnt her fingers. Well, since I’m so hormonal, I’ll have it all. “They thought he was marrying down. But he insisted he’d die a bachelor if he couldn’t marry the woman he loved. Children, grand-children, and great-great grandchildren later, they’re still in love.”

The weight of her words pressed down on them.

“Sounds like us,” he said, echoing her thoughts. “Your father never did think I was good enough for you.”

“Different ending,” she murmured. “Daddy still hasn’t spoken to me.” She shrugged, deflecting the barb of pain when she thought of her only blood relative. “And he never will.” She picked at the grass. “What about your parents?”

“Still propping up a bar somewhere, living off social security, and getting bumped from one trailer park to another.”

She nodded. He’d lived with his deadbeat parents until the day they’d graduated high school, leaving Greenville, California, population seven hundred ten, on all-you-can-eat harvest day, heading toward the bright lights of L.A. and community college. He’d loved L.A. on sight. She’d hated the intensity, the pressure to be bigger and better, the air kisses, and the pretend friends. But she’d loved Rory enough to live with it…until she couldn’t survive in their fake world, living in a pretend marriage and slowly dying.

A woman approached with a shy smile on her lips. She offered Rory a piece of cake, the smell of banana mingling with the sharp smell of coffee icing.

He bit into the triangle wedge. She held her breath.

His eyes glowed with delight, and his full lips tugged into a grin that was just too good-looking on a man.

“This is really good. Just as I remember.”

Her lungs went back to functioning. “Thanks.”

She lay down on the grass and patted the space beside her. “Come, lie down. Chase the clouds.”

He stared at her for a moment too long, his lust-filled eyes asking, can I do you?

She grimaced at him. No, you can’t.

“I’ve got to leave pretend world and get back to the real world.” His eyes raced down the length of her before scanning her face as if she were a hidden clue to a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

She arched a brow. “This is the real world. Look around you, Roars. This is people enjoying life. Having friendships that last a lifetime. Taking the time to really live and love.”

“No, Zoe. It’s a fantasy that people visit for ten days. It’s too remote, too quiet, too inconvenient. It’s not real.”

She shielded her hand across her eyes and stared up at him, unable to read a single thing on his face. “So you won’t lie down, take a load off, just relax, and hang out?”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked down at her. “What’s the point?”

She came and stood within inches of him. “I’m real.” She held his stare and tilted her chin.

“How many times did we go to galas where we’d see the same people who couldn’t bother to remember our names? Don’t you remember the fake air kisses? The pretend friends until you lost a foot on some social ladder you didn’t know existed, and then you were twelfth on the list of invites? The tailored shorts and ironed tees? How many pissing contests against fire hydrants? Pretend handshakes while the other hand was getting the knife out?” She let out her breath. This island, these people were more authentic than most of the people she’d left back in California. “How many of those people were real, Rory?”

He stared at her without a flicker of emotion. “I’ve got to go back to my world. That deal cannot get done without me.”

“Then go. No one’s stopping you.”

He ripped his gaze away and without a word walked away.

She stared after him, swallowing hard against a lump in her throat. This fake love thing was going to be hard. Really hard. Could she convince Rory to pretend to be more in love? To look through a camera lens and radiate authentic-looking love? To help her get the photos she needed for the magazine and the brochure?

More importantly, could she convince herself?

Yes, I can. I have to.

She’d lie, cheat, and steal every emotion available, because she wasn’t leaving this island.