Elise exhaled and folded into warrior pose, arms reaching to the sky. She counted to five, then flowed into triangle pose and stretched out her sides before easing into a low lunge. Her calves warmed on the sunbaked limestone, and for a glorious second, she felt grounded. In control. There was no reason today couldn’t go off without a hitch. They’d managed to do the rest of the introductions last night, minus the jasmine arch. The post-introduction cocktail party had taken place in the room withthe yellow sofas, which Elise had generously called the flashy room. Megan had seemed happy. The ten contestants too. And Elise had skillfully avoided Harper for the rest of the night. Which meant that by the time she got to her bed, she was both physically and mentally exhausted.
Her alarm suddenly buzzed. “Shit,” Elise muttered under her breath. She rose and squinted against the sun. The ocean was sparkly. The boats careened across its surface; they barely looked like they were moving. She considered a second coffee before finishing up and heading up to the villa. The thought instantly lifted her spirits, or at least enough to give a kick in her step as she yanked open the sliding door that she had closed to keep the blessedly cool air-conditioned air inside. But just as she stepped into the small living room, she nearly collided with air itself.
Harper was perched on one of the stools.
Elise’s knees wobbled like jelly, and it had nothing to do with the brief yoga session she’d just done.
“How the hell did you get in here?” she spluttered, snapping her head to the front door. Had she not locked it? What kind of fool doesn’t lock their front door? But then she remembered how tired she had been the night before. It was late when she’d gotten in, and, yes, maybe there was the slightest chance she’d forgotten to lock it.
“Never mind,” she said quickly, pointing to the front door. “You have to go. Now. I don’t want to see you.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so angry,” Harper said gently, rising from the stool.
But she didn’t walk toward Elise. Thank goodness. Elise wasn’t above throwing a decorative throw pillow at her face if Harper took even one step closer. Especially after that question. Maybe she was a little angry. Fear disguised as anger, yes that’s what it was.
Well, Harper, maybe because you left the morning after we slept together, maybe because you slipped out of my tent before sunrise, leaving nothing behind but a cool dent in my pillow and your half-empty water bottle you ran back to fetch. No note. No goodbye. No phone call. Just a ridiculous postcard six months later with a photo of you and Harry, smiling outside Fitzrovia Chapel. Meanwhile, I tried to convince myself I hadn’t imagined everything that happened between us.
But Elise didn’t explain herself. If Harper hadn’t understood it back then, she wasn’t so sure she’d understand it now.
“Why are you here?” Elise asked, folding her arms tightly over her chest. She’d skipped the bra this morning and regretted it. Her nipple stand was out of this world.
Harper raised one eyebrow. That eyebrow. The same infuriating little lift she’d perfected years ago. The one that used to make Elise’s stomach drop straight to her dust-covered boots. “I needed the job,” she said plainly.
That was absolute bullshit. Two months ago—Elise remembered because she’d read the article after a Merlot-fueled Google spiral, the kind that only happened when a rom-com blindsided her into questioning her entire life—Harper had just wrapped up aNational Geographicexpedition documenting the migration routes of desert elephants in Mali.
“Why are you lying?” Elise asked as she rubbed her forehead. She wasn’t sure if it was itchy or if her muscles were spasming out. “You have a job. Your dream job. The job that you always wanted.”
Harper opened her mouth and inhaled softly. It had been ten years since Elise had last seen her, but she still knew her well enough to recognize the warning sign. Harper Angel was about to spew some polished half-truth.
Elise cut her off before she could do it. “Where is your ring? What happened between you and Harry? Are you divorced? Is that why you’re here?”
“That’s a lot of questions,” Harper said as her right hand automatically reached for her empty ring finger. She caught Elise staring and dropped both arms to her sides.
“Yes, well, I need a lot of answers,” Elise replied. Her legs felt strangely hollow, like someone had scooped out the bones. “And you better start talking before I call security and tell them you broke into my house.”
“The door was unlocked.”
“I don’t care,” Elise spat.
“Fine,” Harper said. She leaned with her back against the kitchen countertop and crossed one leg over the other.
Elise’s mind nearly hurled her into yet another memory: Harper in khaki shorts with long golden-brown legs dangling off the side of a dust-covered Land Cruiser, looking at Elise like she was the only person around for ten thousand miles. But she blinked the memory away so fast her eyes watered.
“Harry and I got divorced,” Harper said, her voice steady.
“Why?” Elise asked, not missing a beat.
“I think you know,” Harper said, staring so hard at Elise that she had to look away. “I think you’ve always known why it wouldn’t work out between Harry and me.”
Elise, whose gaze was fixed on the sunbaked tiles of the living room, shook her head. She wanted to argue and say, “Don’t pin this on me,” but no words came out.
“Maybe it’s the same reason you’ve been married and divorced twice,” Harper said, her voice far softer now. She even took a step forward, which automatically made Elise take a step back. It was imperative that they kept their distance from each other. Elise couldn’t imagine what would happen if they didn’t. She’d gotten a whiff of Harper’s shampoo yesterday during thewhole debacle with the jasmine arch, and that had done enough damage already.
“My previous marriages have nothing to do with you,” Elise snapped a little too aggressively. Elise couldn’t deny that Harper was partly right. Elise’s first marriage, to Michael Lockridge, an indie filmmaker with devastating cheekbones and a Sundance ego, had crumbled within eleven months. Elise blamed both their busy schedules. Her second, to Daniel Angus, a Michelin chef from Santa Barbara, who had won her over with his perfectly braised short ribs in red wine and porcini reduction, had ended only three months in when Elise realized he was sleeping with his sous chef. They’d all died prematurely because of differences Elise had chosen to ignore. Not because of Harper. Not because Elise had been trying to force a life with men.
“Are you sure?” Harper said. “Maybe they failed because you were trying to fit your life into a shape it wasn’t meant to ha—”
“Is that what happened to you?” Elise interrupted, though she knew the answer. Harper wouldn’t be standing in front of her, calm as a cat, asking her these impossible questions if she hadn’t already figured out exactly who she was. “Are you…” But she couldn’t get her lips to form the L word.