My pulse skitters. How does she— Did she hear something—did she see something?
My panic must show in my expression, because Helene quickly adds, “He mentioned it to me, after he went to pick you up on your arrival.”
Oh. Right. My adventure with the demon chicken in the jungle. Not exactly my best moment.
“Yeah,” I say with an awkward wave of my hand that I hope conveys that nothing involving Will matters very much to me. “We went to school together.”
“Ah,” Helene says. A single syllable, and yet it could contain so much meaning. Was that a skeptical tone? I felt better when we were talking about her.
“So I guess you and Will must talk a lot, working so much on the resort,” I say. No, no, that’s not the direction I wanted to go in.
Helene shrugs. “He’s a good boss. He’s open to ideas, whoever they come from. Some of the men I’ve worked for aren’t quite so . . . encouraging.” She gives me a wry look. “They prefer to be the ones calling the shots. It’s rare to find a man willing to listen to a woman.”
Yes. It is.
A man who listens, and encourages, and looks excellent naked on the massage table . . .
“Look at the time! I think—” I blurt. I glance at my wrist. I’m not wearing a watch. Oh well. Onward I barrel. “I think I’d better get ready for dinner. It was nice talking with you.”
“Same to you,” Helene says smoothly as I turn away. She was absolutely, 100% nice, like Lulu said. So why can’t I shake the idea that she’s laughing at me inside as she watches me hurry off?
Chapter Twelve
“Is it just me or is it a little . . . weird having Hawaiian night in a Mexican resort?” I say to Brooke as we walk to the dinner buffet that night. Folksy ukulele music is tinkling through the room, the servers are wearing flowery leis, and half of the dishes in the spread involve some sort of pineapple.
Brooke shakes her head. “This one was my dad’s request. ‘You can’t have a tropical vacation without a Hawaiian theme night!’ We figured we’d indulge him.”
“As a good daughter should,” Mr. Tanner says in his usual expansive voice from behind us. He winks at me, and Mrs. Tanner, who’s coming along beside him, gives him a tolerant look. “Ruby, we’ve barely had a chance to catch up with you since we got here. What’s new down in Hollywood?”
“Oh, you know, chasing after clients, enjoying the warm weather, dodging film shoots.” I was over at the Tanners’ house at least a couple nights a week when Brooke and I were teens, but I don’t think they’ve ever quite understood why I—and then she—uprooted from unpretentious, down-to-earth Philly for LA’s superficial glitz. Neither of us has yet been able to convince them that you don’t have to scrape too much to find the earth underneath the glitter.
“And have you been seeing anyone special?” Mrs. Tanner asks. My least favorite question—and it only took her, hmmm, forty-two seconds. A new record.
“Oh, you know, I’m so busy with work I don’t have much time for dating,” I say.
“You don’t want to put off that side of things for too long,” Mr. Tanner says, waving the pineapple salad tongs at me. “You have your whole life to work.”
“And she’s got her whole life to find a guy,” Brooke puts in. “Come on, Dad.”
“That’s not true,” her mother says. She hops the line to grab some of the pineapple-glazed ham, so now I’m boxed in by Tanners on all sides, like a singledom hazing line. “Especially for women. We do have a limited time window on starting a family. Assuming you want children, Ruby?”
She peers at me sternly, in case I declare myself gleefully childfree for life.
“I think that’ll depend on how the rest of my life comes together,” I say tactfully.
“It is better to have them younger, you know,” Mrs. Tanner goes on. “At first I was worried about the loss of freedom, but you know raising Brooke and Lucille has been the greatest joy of my life.”
She pats Brooke’s cheek, and Brooke rolls her eyes—and Will appears by my shoulder, so suddenly I almost drop my plate. He reaches out to steady it, giving me a gracious smile I know not to trust because of the wicked glint in his eyes.
“Last I heard you were still playing the field, and now you’re making plans for motherhood, Ruby? You move fast.”
My face heats. “No plan-making,” I say quickly.
“Don’t you think it’s a shame Ruby hasn’t found herself a proper partner?” Mrs. Tanner says to him. “I mean, just look at her.”
They all turn to stare.
I cringe. Is there a transporter somewhere that can beam me out of this conversation?
“She is a lovely specimen of humanity,” Will says agreeably.
“A young woman like that needs more in her life than her job,” Mr. Tanner puts in.
“It does seem to take up a lot of time.” He agrees with a wicked smile. “Maybe I can talk her into a shift in priorities.” He fixes his dare of a gaze on me. “Sit with me?”
“Well, I—” I want to say no, but I’m afraid that will set off an even longer chain of concern and scolding from the Tanners, who are gazing at Will right now as if he’s their dream guy. I do a quick calculation. Will on his own is better than Will plus parental-ish concern. “Fine. Sure.”
I grab some of the ham and a skewer of grilled chicken, peppers, and, of course, pineapple. Will tips his head toward a nearby table. I follow him in step with the Imperial March of doom that’s playing in my head.
“You should just be glad they don’t know you well enough to lay the same treatment on you,” I mutter as I sit down.
“Don’t worry,” Will says. “I get plenty from my own parents, and my grandparents, and . . .” He waves his fork in a way that implies unending generations of unsolicited life counseling. “Although I’ll give you that no one seems to worry about ‘child-bearing windows’ on my behalf.” He pauses, studying my face. I devote my full attention to spearing a slice of the ham. His voice drops. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“What? I— No.” I’m pretty sure my flaming cheeks are declaring me a liar.
“If last night was—”
“These restaurants are starting to become a real threat to the possibility of my wedding dress fitting,” Brooke says cheerfully, setting her heaping plate down next to mine. I exhale in relief.
Will chuckles, thankfully distracted. “Should I tell the chef to take a holiday? We could scale back to self-catering PB&J tomorrow.”
“Oh, no,” Brooke says. “I complain because I love it. But thank you for the offer.”
Will’s gaze slides back to me, but then Maggie drops into the seat across from Brooke. I have a whole rescue squad, apparently.
“So what’s on the schedule for tomorrow?” Maggie asks Brooke.