The thing about Paige is that, yes, she’s obviously beautiful. There’s not a soul alive who wouldn’t notice that immediately upon meeting her. She has this vitality about her, like she’s the physical embodiment of a sun goddess. Bright-blonde hair, warm tan skin, expressive blue eyes, and a smile that she shares equally with everyone (present company excluded). But her beauty isn’t her personality or her persona. She doesn’t stare in the mirror and admire herself because of the way she looks; she appreciates her body for what it can do for her: hiking, biking, singing, dancing, acting totally insane for the sake of entertaining hotel guests.

  She intrigued me right from the start, if only because we’re so different. I can’t imagine taking her home to Ohio. I mean, I have imagined it plenty of times, and I know my parents would sit in shocked silence, staring at her like she was some rare exotic bird they had no idea how to tame. Picturing her perched in my parents’ monochromatic living room is almost painfully funny. Paige would charm them, though, the same way she charms everyone.

  I remember standing in the lobby waiting for her the first day she arrived at Siesta Playa. It wasn’t shaking out to be the best morning. I was annoyed because one of the golf pros just quit on us, and we were expecting a VIP guest who’d specifically requested private lessons with that golf pro. It was a shit show, and we were working around the clock trying to find a replacement, and fast. I didn’t have time to wait on new hires, but it’s hotel policy. So there I was, checking my watch, clearing my throat, adjusting my tie, ticking seconds off in my head, when Paige stumbled out of the turnstile door and graced me with her presence for the very first time.

  I don’t remember our conversation from that day; I was so flustered by her.

  I still am, unfortunately.

  Growing up with ol’ Sue and Pat didn’t equip me with stellar people skills. I’m good with numbers, computers, inanimate objects. Sometimes I worry I have robot DNA, too, but then I look at Paige and I know for certain I’m flesh and blood, capable of feeling everything all at once whenever she walks into a room.

  I see how effortlessly other people flirt and carry on, and I’m envious. It just doesn’t come naturally to me. I want to be that way with Paige, but I know I’d make a mockery of myself. If I tried a pickup line on her, she’d burst out laughing and ask me if I’m feeling okay. Maybe at the beginning, before we tangled ourselves into this complicated mess, I could have been honest with her. I could have put myself out there and asked her on a date, plain and simple. Now, it just seems too late for simple. I can’t get out of my own way. I have every intention of befriending her, of trying a smile on for size, but the biting banter is our autopilot. The barbs are all we know.

  We’re stuck.

  It’s the day after bingo night. Things are going well this week with the Nifty after Sixty crowd. The water-aerobics classes have been a big hit; last night, the late-night karaoke extended an hour later than usual to accommodate the line out the door (“Do you guys happen to have anything by the Who?”); and Dr. Missick has only had to send for an emergency medical helicopter once, and that was because of a fluke shrimp-cocktail choking incident. It could have happened to anyone at any age.

  I’ve already been at work for hours. I’ve cleared my email inbox, checked in on reception, gone through the excursion schedule for the day, inspected the lobby and the lobby bathrooms to ensure they’re clean and orderly.

  The next item on my to-do list: check in on the lunch buffet. Walk through the tables; hold up stemware to the light to inspect it for fingerprints; make sure the French pastries are arranged in sharp lines, each croissant tilted exactly forty-five degrees left from center. I have exacting taste. I’m aware of that.

  “Looks great,” I tell Marcus, the head chef of our resort’s main restaurant, the Bistro.

  He nods in appreciation. He and I understand each other. I might be two decades younger than him, a novice for certain, but we share the same principles and values. We want the same thing. Unlike Todd. Todd spends most of his time holed up in his office, gambling online. He only ever bothers to observe the daily operations of the resort—to do his job—when Scott Durliat is on site. I once heard Marcus refer to Todd as “that obscene blob,” and now I call him that in my head too.

  After I leave the restaurant, I walk through the main lobby, en route to the grotto under the guise of checking inventory, when really I want to size up Blaze, get a feel for the guy Paige seems so interested in. I get sidetracked, though.

  Near the excursion desk, Paige stands chatting with an older male guest in a cowboy hat. He’s sloshing around a half-finished piña colada. From Paige’s tight smile, I have no doubt he’s already been chatting her ear off for long minutes, and I could save her . . . it would be the nice thing to do.

  “Paige, aren’t you supposed to be at your yoga class right now? Run along, you!”

  Paige sees me, and her eyes widen with a plea. Get me out of here!

  I give her a smile and two hearty thumbs up. “You’re doing a great job,” I mouth.

  Her expression says she has murder on her mind.

  During this exchange, I make the mistake of veering too close to them. Mr. Cowboy Hat sees me and jumps at the opportunity to get another employee on his hook.

  “Ah, just the man I was hoping to see!” He stops me by grabbing ahold of my biceps and tugging me even closer. I don’t have to comply. He’s not that strong, but I have every reason to ingratiate myself to our guests. “I need to put in a good word for this little lady right here. Whatever you’re paying her, double it! She really goes above and beyond. I tell you, the missus and I had our heart set on snorkeling, but the hotel’s preplanned excursion was a little above our skill level. We’re novices here, and Ms. Young, she didn’t mind one bit. Told us to meet her back down at the beach an hour later, and she took us on a little trip of our own, just like that. Best experience of my vacation so far. Saw myself a barracuda!”

  Paige has been watching me through this entire speech with a little gloating smile in place. Her blue eyes spark with mischief.

  “You keep your hotel staffed with people like Ms. Young and we’ll be coming back here year after year,” he promises in a thunderous voice. “She’s great, isn’t she?”

  I’m looking at Paige now, smiling for the guest’s benefit.

  “Absolutely. We really value staff members like Paige here at Siesta Playa.”

  The guy gives Paige a wink, and then he has to peel off quick when he sees his wife is beelining for the hotel gift shop. “Now, Bernice, I know you had your eye on that pot warmer, but I told you we’ve already bought enough souvenirs this trip . . .”

  Now that we’re alone, we could both back away slowly. Instead, Paige and I each take a step toward each other. Somewhere over our heads, a dangling race car light blinks red . . . red . . . green. She tilts her head back and looks at me like she wants to play.

  “Say it again. Say I’m great.”

  “You’re great,” I repeat blandly.

  “C’mon, where’s the conviction? I want to feel it.”

  “You’re one of a kind,” I say, just as dry.

  She snaps her fingers like she’s just had a brilliant idea. “You know what? Maybe you should nominate me for employee of the month?!” She says it like she’s a total genius for thinking of it.

  My stomach plummets as reality sinks in.

  If only she knew the truth of what’s really happening behind the scenes. She’s nowhere near getting awarded employee of the month. In fact, if Todd had it his way, she’d be packing her bags at this very moment. It makes me sick thinking about it. This problem with Todd consumes me day and night. Ever since our meeting earlier this week, I’ve been checking numbers, doing my due diligence, formulating a plan, a way that gets me, us, everything we want.

  But the clock’s ticking, and I’m still waiting on those damn expense reports. Worse, Todd fired the clown today. Which, honestly, big whoop, but now I know he’s serious about what he told me. He’s really going through with this shitty plan. Fine, whatever, he can get rid of a few employees—the ones who deserve the boot, anyway—but he’s not firing Paige. Over my dead body.

  “You’re being quiet.” Her eyes narrow. “Are you sick?”

  “I don’t get sick.”

  She thunks her forehead. “Of course not, duh. How could I forget that you’re not susceptible to things like the common cold? No getting sick like the rest of us schmucks. Be honest, have you ever taken a day off in all the time you’ve worked here?”

  Sure. “Once a year, I go to all my doctor’s appointments on the same day.”

  She shakes her head like she can’t believe it. “Wild. I have so many questions about the way you live. Are you a side sleeper?”

  “Back.”

  “How do you take your coffee?” She slashes her hand through the air and steps closer. “Wait, I already know that. What’s your favorite meal?” She starts talking faster, excited. “No! Wait, it’s steak. I know that too. Damn it! I change my question! Where do you take girls on first dates?! That’s what I want to know.”

  She’s nearly panting with exertion by the time she finally pauses long enough for me to answer.

  “You are so weird.”

  I say it like it’s a compliment because it is.

  She laces her fingers together in desperation. “Please tell me. The morgue!” she guesses. “The cemetery. A sad modern-art exhibit . . . a long-winded lecture on actuarial science . . .”

  I’m already cutting past her to continue with my day. “Bye, Paige.”

  “A crumbling war memorial!” she calls out after me.

  Because my back’s to her, she doesn’t see my smile.

  Chapter Seven

  PAIGE

  On our days off, staff members at Siesta Playa are allowed to enjoy resort amenities so long as we follow two rules. The first is that we can play tennis or basketball on the sports courts, lie out on the private beaches, swim in any of the resort pools—all of the above—as long as we don’t get in the way of any guests. If they want the tennis court, it’s theirs. If they need the lounger I’ve claimed, oh well. The second rule is that we can’t cost the resort money. No free food or drinks are allowed outside the staff cafeteria. It’s why I’m guzzling water instead of some fruity cocktail adorned with a frilly umbrella straw. I can’t afford a fifteen-dollar margarita on a regular Wednesday! Are you insane? In this economy?

  There are three pools total at Siesta Playa. One is for adults only and, thus, pretty boring. Picture crusty old dudes with sunburns layered over fading upper-back tattoos. Another pool is geared toward children, replete with a ginormous play structure and eight water slides and, thus, a little too crazy. Then there’s this one, the perfect Goldilocks compromise. It’s large and centrally located and accepting of everyone. There’s always fun dance music streaming through the speakers, and there’s usually enough of a crowd that it provides a good backdrop for people watching. Lara and I have been here since the late morning. We scoped out the best lounge chairs and set up shop as close as we could get to the grotto. This was no coincidence, of course. Blaze is working today. I wore a bikini I borrowed from Lara. It’s pink and made of mere scraps. It should be illegal. I have to stay in the water because I’m scared of walking the short distance from here to my lounge chair; there’s no telling what will pop out.

  The bikini seemed like a good idea this morning. Now, I just feel Naked and AfraidTM.

  I have a clear view of Blaze while he works behind the bar counter. He smiles easily at a customer, and I’m reminded of his easygoing nature. Guests and hotel staff all like him. I like him. While he might be chiseled steel on the outside, inside he’s made of soft plush. More than that, I don’t have to prepare myself for battle when we speak, unlike with Cole. Not to mention, he’s so cute in his uniform. It’s the same standard-issue short-sleeved black button-down tucked into black shorts that everyone else wears, too, but he’s made it his own. For example: he has a little gold necklace hanging around his neck. A pen tucked behind his right ear. Okay, really that’s it, just those two things, but I feel like he’s so unique and different.

  “Don’t you think he’s so unique and different?”

  “Please stop.”

  Lara can’t do it anymore. She’s been here with me for hours. She wants to drown herself to get away from my incessant chatter about Blaze. But I’m sorry, it’s called friendship. Suffer, bitch.

  Lara’s leaning over the side of the pool, occupying herself by scrolling on her phone while I keep a not-so-surreptitious eye on Blaze behind the bar.

  “We’ve been pretty lucky so far this hurricane season,” Lara muses out loud. She must be on her weather app. She checks it a lot. She’s a constant worrier when it comes to tropical storms. If there’s so much as a rain cloud in the sky, she’s going to duck for cover. “But storm watchers are tracking—”

  . . . gibberish . . . boring . . . don’t care . . .

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It could be really bad. Winds at really high speeds. A ton of rain.”

  “Oh no,” I say with absolutely no inflection.

  Then, as if someone just personally insulted me and my entire family, I explode with “Are you kidding me?!”

  Some huge dude just plopped himself down on a barstool directly in front of me, blocking my view of Blaze. The guy has to be at least six foot five, built like a horse. His shoulders could span the width of the Grand Canyon. Is this a joke?

  “Sit somewhere else, guy!”

  Fortunately, (a) he can’t hear me over the music, and (b) my view isn’t blocked for long. Blaze moves to grab a bottle opener so he can pop the cap off a beer. Then he looks over and spots us. It’s the first time he’s looked this way all morning, and unfortunately, I’m still wearing the scowl I was aiming at the big guy. Ah! I quickly relax my features into a flirty smile. Then I wave.

  He holds up his finger as if he wants us to wait; then he goes back to making drinks.

  “Oh my god. Oh my god. He’s going to come over here!”

  I look down to confirm my breasts are still somewhat contained in the bikini top. I blanch at how much skin is showing. A lot. Holy hell. I shift material to the right, but then my nipple almost pops out, so yeah, we’ll just leave it as it is.

  A few minutes later, Blaze leaves his station carrying what look to be two innocuous water cups. I know because when guests order at the bar, their drinks come in fancy resort-branded cocktail glasses. These are boring clear plastic. When Blaze reaches us, he leans down and explains in a hushed conspiratorial tone, “Vodka sodas with a splash of lime.”

  “Yes!” Lara says, taking hers greedily. “You’re the best.”

  I give him a big smile. “Awesome. Thanks, Blaze.”

  “No problem, Paula.”

  Wait.

  Hold the phone.

  Paula?

  Lara snorts and nearly chokes on her drink.

  Okay, so this isn’t exactly great, but it’s totally understandable! Blaze has only worked here for what? Two months? And we’ve only met a dozen or so times. It could happen to anyone. It’s cute, actually. We’ll be laughing about this moment next year when we’re celebrating our one-year anniversary. Remember when you didn’t even know my name?! Ha ha ha.

  I’m about to clarify—sweetly, of course!—that my name is actually Paige, not Paula, but Blaze’s attention cuts to something over our heads on the opposite side of the pool. His easygoing expression is wiped clean in an instant. The color starts to drain from his face.

  Obviously, I turn to see what could possibly have him looking so worried.

  It’s Cole.

  Of course.

  He’s standing on the pool’s edge in a suit and tie. A menace in navy blue.

  He’s not scowling, not firing off uncouth threats. But all the same, he sends Blaze packing, running back to his spot at the grotto bar like his life depends on it.

  Wonderful.

  Cole doesn’t look at me. He watches Blaze with his astute glare until he’s working again, faster than ever.

  Cole is far enough away that he wouldn’t hear me unless I shouted, so I’m forced to use telepathy.

  Good going, jerk.

  His gaze finally flits to me, then down to my vodka soda.

  What’s in the cup, Paula?

  I hate you.

  During this heated standoff, a resort guest walks up to Cole to ask him a question, and Cole’s entire demeanor changes, that smile, those eyes. He can be so charming if only he wants to be. With me, he never wants to be.

  Lara lets out a slow, steadying breath. “Jesus, that man can wear a suit. God, look at his butt.”

  “I would rather permanently lose my vision.”

  “You’re missing out. It’s perfect.”

  “Perfect. Pfft. Hardly.”

  “Oh, look who’s coming . . .”

  Just as the hotel guest walks away, a pretty blonde with red-stained lips strolls up to Cole and touches his arm.

  Bold, beautiful Tamara.

  I haven’t seen her in weeks. We work in different areas of the resort, after all, so that’s to be expected. I sweat through hikes in the jungle; meanwhile, she earns big tips working in the Bistro, likely in no small part because of the way she looks. She’s manicured and polished. Primping clearly comes easily to her. We’re outside by the pool, the humidity in the air is at an all-time high, but her blonde hair looks sleek and shiny, completely untroubled by the natural elements.

  It must be her off day too. She’s wearing a bathing suit and a barely there cover-up that clings to her body. Her entire demeanor screams effortless confidence. When Cole turns his body to fully face her, something akin to jealousy wraps its talons around my throat.