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"Everly," he says, like it’s a diagnosis.
More like his excuse not to talk to me.
"What does she want?"
He turns the phone toward me.
The photographer will be in position by 10. I need you both by the pool looking like you actually like each other. Everett, take your shirt off. Aria, wear something that looks like you’re on a hot honeymoon with your husband. I'll be sending positioning notes throughout. Do NOT make this difficult.
I stare at the screen, then back up to him.
"She hired a paparazzi photographer," he says flatly. "For the trustees."
"She told you this days ago. Why am I just hearing this now?"
"I was hoping she'd been joking."
I roll my eyes. "Has Everly ever joked about photo proof?"
His silence is answer enough.
Another text arrives while we're both still looking at the screen.
Also: TOUCH EACH OTHER. You look like business partners who accidentally booked the same resort. Fix it.
I press my lips together very hard so I don't laugh.
Everett locks the phone.
"This is going to be unbearable," he says.
As if unbearable means pretending to be in love with the woman you just married and had hot honeymoon sex with hours ago.
"Completely," I agree, though he doesn’t catch the sarcasm.
And that's how I end up lying on a lounge chair by the pool in a white bikini at ten-fifteen in the morning, pretending to read a book I'm not absorbing a single word of, while my husband, who obviously wants to pretend nothing happened, sits shirtless in the chair beside me looking like a cologne ad that wandered out of a magazine and forgot to put on sunscreen.
Everly's texts arrive right on time.
10:22 — Closer. You look like you're on separate vacations.
I scoot my chair six inches toward his.
10:31 — Aria, lean into him. Hand on his arm. Make it look casual.
I reach over and rest my hand on his forearm.
His skin is warm. The muscle underneath tightens at my touch.
Neither of us acknowledges this.
10:38 — Better. Now Everett, put your arm around her.
He reads the text, exhales once through his nose, and extends his arm along the back of my chair. His fingertips brush my bare shoulder.
My entire nervous system lights up like a switchboard.
This is fine. Completely fine. We are just two adults performing a task.
