Page 5 of Secret Offer
I squint into the distance and spot the perfect palm at the other end of the cove, a whole grove of them, in fact. White sand stretches out ahead of me as I beeline toward the grove. By the time I reach the group of palms, the sound of the waves crashing in my ears, the breeze cooling the sweat that’s starting to trickle down my lower back, I’m a little winded but exhilarated. I’m feeling more like my old self again. Someone who’s ready to grab her future by the balls and has the bright red manicure to prove it.
As I step into the dappled shade, I realize there’s a man sitting against the trunk of one of the palms. He’s staring out at the ocean, his dark hair ruffling in the wind. I quickly note his incredible jawline and the way his T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders, but when he turns his head to look at me, it’s his eyes—green, sharply intelligent, but far away, like he’s lost in thought—that take my breath away.
“Hello,” I say hesitantly.
He doesn’t respond.
I try again, forcing more pep into my voice this time. “I, um, didn’t think anyone was over here. Not that that’s a problem or anything,” I add, his hotness making me babble. “Ha—I mean, I was just coming over here to sit down and eat my lunch. Do you want to share?”
I hold out one of the forks to him and laugh out of sheer nervousness, trying to gauge how awkward I’m being by the expression on his face. But I can’t read him.
His gaze sweeps me slowly and my smile wavers.
He’s handsome, I think.Really, really handsome. Hot damn.
And I’ve just made a complete and utter fool of myself.
2
SEBASTIAN
The tranquilityof the turquoise Caribbean waters and pristine white sand stretched out before me should be giving me a dose of oxytocin, should be lowering my blood pressure, should be lifting the weight of the world right off my shoulders. But it’s not. The beauty of the scenery doesn’t have the power to affect me the way it used to. Not since Rachel died.
There’s something just…flat-out offensive about being surrounded by this kind of paradise when she can’t be here to enjoy it with me.
And sure, I’ve been promised by countless well-meaning friends and family members that she’s enjoying her own kind of paradise now, but fuck that. Assurances that your dearly departed is having a great time in the afterlife don’t do shit to make the ones left behind feel any better. It’s been three years now, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss her so much it hurts.
People told me that time would heal my wounds, that I’d eventually be able to move on, but the loss feels just as fresh and raw as it did the day I got the call that ripped my life apart. I still wake up some mornings and forget that she’s gone. And then it hits me all over again like a fucking sledgehammer to the gut when I roll over in bed and find nothing but cold, empty space.
I can still hear her laugh in my mind, full-throated and infectious. It takes zero effort to recall the feel of her hand in mine, or the absolute agony splitting my chest as I numbly listened to the tearful eulogies on the day of her memorial. No matter how irreversibly gone she is, she’s always with me, and so is the reality that I’ll never see her again.
I’ve learned to welcome moments of solitude, when I don’t have to act like I’m fine and put on my brave face for the people around me. But whether I’m alone or with a group, what I’ve noticed is, the good times hurt the most. That’s when her absence hits me hardest. When I’m reminded of the fact that I can’t share this life with her. Thank God I’ve got my job to hide behind.
The Quattuor Group’s matchmaking business has grown exponentially since we started, to the point where its revenue is about to surpass the millions we make on The Regent Hotel. We’ve got a steady stream of influential and wealthy clients lined up to utilize our “consulting” services. There are other matchmaking companies out there, of course, but our pool of matches—CEOs, real estate moguls, entrepreneurs, celebrities, tech giants, politicians, you name it—is truly exceptional. As is our reputation. Plus, everyone signs an ironclad nondisclosure agreement and we’re unfailingly discreet, so clients know that their privacy is protected at all times, both before and after a match is made.
I’m the one who runs the resort where the magic happens, pulling all the strings required to play Cupid between the matches, and I take that role seriously. In my experience, successful matchmaking has more to do with data analysis than fairy dust, and I have an outstanding track record of arranging compatible matches between people with common interests, values, and life goals. Compatibility is the best way to facilitate a happy, long-lasting union. But what we do goes way beyondharmonious partnerships, because the wholeraison d’êtreof the business is preserving legacies, ensuring that families with wealth and status are able to protect that wealth and status.
With few exceptions, our modus operandi is this: high-powered families come to us offering a marriageable bachelorette, and Nate facilitates the glad-handing and initial vetting and contracts. Once the girl is approved, I do my research and then select three to five potential matches and invite them to the island to meet her. After the meetings take place (separately, of course, and in a way that feels organic) and the sparks fly, an auction is set, and the interested matches bid against each other for the bachelorette. The agency and the bachelorette’s family split the auction proceeds.
Between the consulting fees paid by bachelorettes’ families, retainer fees paid by matches, and the final auction proceeds, The Quattuor Group’s matchmaking business is swimming in revenue. We also vet mistresses, third parties for throuples, and more. All a client has to do is reach out and let us know what they’re looking for, and we make it happen.
But no matter how much I try to bury myself in work, I’m not the man I used to be. My business partners know it, I know it. I’m sure Beck, Nate, and Theo are waiting for me to come back around, revert to my old self again, but I don’t know if I ever will. In a lot of ways, that man died when Rachel did.
I wonder if I’ll ever manage a smile that isn’t forced again, if I’ll ever laugh honestly again…
At the sound of footsteps approaching in the sand, I turn my head, getting ready to inform the intruder that this is my resort’s private beach, which is clearly stated on multiple signs, only to find myself looking up at a startled girl in a sun hat and a gauzy yellow dress, carrying a takeout container.
Early twenties, blond, with a hesitant smile on her heart-shaped face. She’s gorgeous, but the female tourists who cometo this island tend to be. Pretty faces are a dime a dozen around here.
“Hello,” she says.
When I don’t respond, she doesn’t take the hint to leave. Instead, she pulls her shoulders back, doubles down on the friendliness, and keeps talking. Something about wanting to eat her lunch under the shade, but I’m barely listening. My mind is still miles away.
Or at least, it is until she lets out a kind of exhilarated laugh, a little too loud, a little bit awkward, sounding so fucking much like Rachel in this moment that my heart skips a beat and all I can do is stare.
I realize she’s holding out a fork to me, and that I still haven’t said a single word to her.
“It’s a cock salad,” she informs me.
