What the hell do I do now?

I give in to a moment of sheer, blinding panic as I stare out at the empty horizon, visions of Tom Hanks baring his soul to that volleyball in Castaway running wildly through my head. There’s no way I can survive on a deserted island! Fuck, I’ve never even been to Queens.

“OK, Danvers,” I say out loud, trying desperately to keep myself calm. “You’re practical. You’re a fixer. You can figure this out.” I’m trying to decide if I can somehow fashion a shelter out of the blotting papers and tampons I’ve got in my purse when suddenly I realize—

I’ve still got my purse.

Which means I’ve still got my phone.

Hallelujah! Thank God for small miracles—there’s one tiny bar of service out here, and Ryan answers on the second ring. “Ahoy, matey,” he says by way of greeting. “I heard about your sexy calendar shoot.”

“You have no idea.” I plunk down on a bit of driftwood, my knees weak with relief at the sound of his voice. “Here’s the thing, though: I need your help.”

Ryan listens as I explain what’s going on—managing, to his credit, to swallow down most of his incredulous laughter. “Well,” he says when I’m finished, “I mean, it could be worse. When I saw your name come up on the caller ID I thought maybe they were making you walk the plank.”

I smother a giggle. “That is quite the arsenal of pirate jokes you’ve got there, my friend.”

“Oh, they’re endless,” Ryan assures me cheerfully. “I haven’t even gotten to the one about Blackbeard’s favorite letter.”

“Let me guess,” I say, charmed in spite of myself. “Arrrrrr?”

“You’d think it was arrrrr,” Ryan shoots back, clearly delighted with himself. “But it’s really the C.”

Twenty minutes later, he shows up in a borrowed speedboat. I greet him on the dock, never so happy to see anyone in my life.

“I can’t believe they just took off without me. Actually, no, I can totally believe Vanessa would do that.”

Ryan smirks, his eyes slowly traveling from my thigh-high boots all the way up my bare legs to my wench’s blouse. “Nice outfit.”

“Eyes down, mister.”

“I think what you mean is, ‘Thanks for being my knight in shining armor, Ryan, and not leaving me out here to get eaten by sharks.’ ”

I smile. “OK, that too.”

“Well, we have a boat,” Ryan says, cutting the engine. “But I also brought supplies.” He nods to the beach gear and cooler also tucked in beside him. “So, we can head straight back if you want, but I figured you might be happier chilling here for the day.”

No contest.

“How long will those supplies last?” I ask, helping him bring everything down the dock. “Because I would be happy hiding out here for the rest of the week.”

“That bad?” he asks sympathetically.

“Umm, did you see what she made me wear?” I point, and Ryan chuckles.

“I think you look—”

“For the sake of our professional relationship, I suggest you don’t finish that remark,” I interrupt quickly, and he laughs.

“Good point.”

We set up on the sand, with a blanket and a massive umbrella to keep the heat off. Ryan’s packed beer and snacks in the cooler, and I gladly grab a cold one and take a gulp. “Ah, yes. This place is so much more relaxing without a Facebook Live shoot going on.”

“I saw. She sent the links to your dad,” Ryan explains. “He’s very proud of her creativity.”

“Oh, good.”

I sit back on the sand, and Ryan gets comfortable, too. He pulls his T-shirt up over his head in one smooth motion. I glance over, then look quickly away.

Then I look back.

God, I can’t help it. The man has a body that should be sculpted in fucking marble and worshipped in pagan ceremonies. His abs are incredible. His pecs are like a sexy Ken doll’s. And his ass, frankly, begs to be squeezed. Not a single ounce of the muscle from his football days has softened into fat.

Way to ruin all other men for me.

“Um . . .” I realize that I’ve been staring, and try to drag my thoughts off his tanned, rippling body. “So! How was the rest of your morning?”

“Not as eventful as yours, clearly.” Ryan smiles. “Laid by the pool a little, then hit the gym and worked a little bit on my pitch.” He holds up the sunscreen. “Here,” he says, tossing it casually in my direction, “you mind helping me with this?”

I raise my eyebrows even as I somehow manage to catch the damn thing. “Seriously?”

Ryan makes a face. “Mind out of the gutter, princess. I just need a little help between the shoulder blades, that’s all. Callahans burn easy.”

“OK,” I gulp, looking down and fumbling purposely with the cap on the bottle to hide my own furious blush. “Sure.”

“Thanks,” he says, then chuckles. “You can relax. This isn’t some pretext to get cozy. If I was trying to get into your pirate costume, you’d know it.”

You were trying to get into my pirate costume last night.

I warm the lotion between my hands before smoothing it onto his back. He’s got freckles back here, plus a trio of pinprick beauty marks right in the crook of his shoulder. I want to duck my head and suck on the skin there. I want to nibble the back of his neck.

God, what is wrong with me?

I like sex as much as the next girl, but’s I’ve never been so all-consumed by constant thoughts of the hundred different ways I want some guy to fuck me. It’s like some base animal instinct has taken over, turning me into someone I never knew before.

“There,” I say finally, clearing my throat. “You’re all set.”

Ryan looks at me for a long moment. “Thanks a lot, princess,” is all he says.

We settle ourselves on the blanket, looking out at the water and chatting idly about all kinds of stuff: the giant vegetable garden his mom grows every summer, whether Vanessa made the Bride Tribe swear a blood oath of loyalty, how much Ryan secretly loves The Muppet Show. Occasionally we lapse into comfortable silence, lying side by side propped up on our elbows, listening to the sound of the waves. I can’t believe it was just this morning that I was worried about things being unbearably awkward between us. I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone it’s so easy to be around.

Finally, we take a dip in the ocean, jumping the low waves as the tide rolls in. “OK,” I declare, floating on my back in the clear crystal waters. “I’m calling it. I’m officially relaxed.”

“I can see that,” Ryan says, looking over at me with a small smile playing across those criminally kissable lips. “Is this a first-time experience for you, or . . . ?”

“Shut up,” I chide, splashing him gently. “Cut a girl some slack, OK? I haven’t taken a vacation in . . .” I trail off, suddenly embarrassed by how long it’s been. “God, a while.”

“Oh yeah?” Ryan raises his dark eyebrows. “How come?”

“Always something else to do, I guess.” I sigh. “I was growing the business for so many years, there never seemed to be a good time. I took work trips to meet clients and stuff, but I never just like, took off for the weekend to blow off steam.”

“I mean, this is technically a work trip too,” Ryan points out. “Isn’t it?”

“Right, yeah, of course,” I say, a little bit startled. The truth is, it hasn’t been feeling like one. “It’s just nice to not have to be acting like we’re in love at this particular moment, I mean.” I brush some imaginary sand off my shoulder. “What about you?” I ask, wanting to change the subject. “What’s your perfect vacation?”

Ryan thinks about that for a moment, floating on his back in the surf. “My family’s got a cabin on Lake Michigan,” he tells me. “Nothing fancy—my grandfather used to use it to hunt and like, get away from my grandma—but back when I was playing I used to head out there in the offseason to unplug, clear my head, that kind of thing.”

“By yourself?” I can’t help but ask, hit with a ridiculous pang of jealousy.

“Mostly,” Ryan allows, with a smile that makes me think he knows what I’m after. “My sister would come up sometimes, bring her husband and their dogs, but a lot of trips I was on my own. Mostly I went for hikes and watched a lot of old movies on VHS.”

“That does sounds peaceful,” I admit. “In, like, a Unabomber kind of way.”

“Fuck you!” Ryan says, but he’s laughing. “I mean, yeah, it could get a little lonely. I think I always figured when I met the right girl I’d bring her back there one day.”

I nod noncommittally, letting myself imagine it. I’ve never been much of an outdoor girl, but I think I could like being out in the wilderness with Ryan—sitting around a campfire, snuggling close in the chilly mountain air.

Real close.

“Sounds nice,” I finally murmur.

“Is does, right?” Ryan glances at me for a moment, then back at the beach. “Should probably put some more sunscreen on,” he says, then dives under the waves before I can reply.

We stay on our island for the rest of the day, but eventually, I know, we have to get back to reality. Besides, there’s a get-together for the wedding guests tonight at a beach bar in town, and I don’t want to let him down, so Ryan and I load up the boat as the sun begins to sink lower in the sky. I’m helping him shake the sand out of the blanket when I glance down and gasp.

“What?” Ryan looks up, alarmed. “Did something bite you?”

“My ring,” I gulp, holding up my naked hand as evidence. There’s a thin white strip around the base of my index finger, a tan line from where it usually sits. “My mom’s ring, I mean. That little gold band.”

“What about it?”

“It’s gone.”

As soon as I say the word I’m absolutely sure I’m about to burst into tears. I swallow hard, grateful for my sunglasses, but Ryan is already at my side, looking stricken. “OK,” he says. “Don’t panic. I mean, panic if you need to, obviously, but try to think. When was the last time you saw it?”

I take a deep breath, trying to keep it together. Fuck, how could I have let this happen? That ring was the only piece of my mom I have left. “I definitely had it this morning,” I remember. “And I was wearing it during the photo shoot, I think.”

Ryan nods. “We can have the photographer check the pictures,” he says soothingly. “But in the meantime I’ll help you, OK? We’ll look together.”

We sift through the sand where we set up for the next half an hour. Ryan is unflaggingly optimistic—I can see why he was such a good team captain—but I know in my heart it’s a lost cause. All those jokes about finding a grain of sand on the beach? Try finding a ring, and it’s just as impossible.

Finally, I know, it’s time to admit defeat.

“Come on,” I say finally, trying to keep the heaviness I feel in my chest out of my voice. I know it’s just an object, and I still have all the memories, but I can’t help feeling like I’ve lost my mom all over again. “We’ve got to get back for drinks.”

“Are you sure?” Ryan asks. “I’m happy to look a while longer.”

I shake my head. I get the feeling he’d probably search all night if I asked him to, and I’m incredibly grateful, but in the end, I know we won’t find it. “It’s going to be dark soon anyway,” I say, nodding at the rapidly setting sun. “There’s nothing else we can do.”

We take the boat back over, and pull up at the dock near the hotel just as dusk is falling, the sky filling with streaks of pink of purple and gold. I head to my room and quickly shower off, then pull a silky black sundress over my head, winding the leather straps of a pair of Grecian sandals up my calves and sliding on a couple of gold bangles. My hand feels naked without my mom’s ring, but I force myself to swallow back my emotions. This is a party for my dad, and I don’t want to be the buzzkill moping in the corner.

I meet Ryan in the lobby, and we walk over. The bar is just a few blocks away, right on the beach. It’s an old-fashioned Key West dive with colored lights strung up behind the liquor bottles and UB40 plinking cheerfully away on the sound system. Instead of stools, wooden swings hang from the thatched roof with lengths of heavy rope.

Outside, I take a deep breath. “Ready?” I ask.

“What, to be your fake boyfriend again?” Ryan grins, holding the door open. “Of course. I’ll tell you, Liv, the Agency delivers. I’ve got the best-looking date in the place.”

Heat floods my cheeks, but before I can reply, Vanessa is squealing my name from across the bar. “Livvie!” she wails, wrapping me in a hug so tight it knocks my breath out, her fruity cocktail splashing onto the floor. “I’m so glad you’re OK! I thought you were with us! Nobody realized you were gone until we got back here!” She releases me. “You just blend right into the scenery, I guess.”

I bite my tongue. After my peaceful afternoon with Ryan and the cold shock of losing my mom’s ring, the photoshoot feels like it happened a million years ago, which doesn’t stop me from being annoyed all over again. Still, there’s no point in making a scene. “These things happen,” I manage, signaling the bartender for a drink of my own.

Make it a double.

I try my best to enjoy myself, chatting with my dad and some of his buddies, including Craig and Joel, a couple who run an antiques store on the main drag in Key West. “Hi, sweetheart,” Craig says, wrapping me in a Versace-scented hug. “How’s the trip been?”

The three of us spend a while catching up, before Vanessa and the Bride Tribe climb up on a couple of tables and launch into an impromptu Taylor Swift singalong. “How old is she again?” Joel mutters.

“Who, the blushing bride? She’s thirty,” I reply, pasting an innocent smile on my face. “You know, same as me.”

“Well, as long as Larry is happy . . .”

“Mmhmm.”

All three of us take long gulps of our drinks.

I’m headed to the bar when Tristan suddenly appears. “Hey, beautiful,” he says, ducking his head to press his freshly-shaved cheek against mine. “You look fantastic.”

“Thanks.” I smile. He’s wearing a sport coat, oddly formal for a place like Sharky’s, with his hair slicked back and a polo shirt open at the neck.

He nods at my empty glass. “What’re you drinking?”

“Just a beer.”

“I’ve got this.”

He flags down the bartender and gets us some drinks. “So,” he says, “glad to see you made it back ashore OK. I heard from my sister you had a little bit of an adventure.”

“Something like that.” I open my mouth to tell him about the day’s craziness, then close it again. The idea of trying to explain it all feels suddenly exhausting. “It was fine, actually,” I say, shaking my head. “Ryan bailed me out.”

“Ah.” Tristan’s smile falls. “Gotcha.”

Neither of us say anything for a moment, an uneasy silence descending before he gamely launches into a story about an insurance client with an enormous sailboat. I don’t know what’s going on—I remember Tristan being easy to talk to back at college. I used to want to tell him everything, down to what I’d eaten for breakfast. I don’t know if he’s changed, or I have.

Maybe both.

There’s only one person I really want to talk to in this bar right now, I realize, and I’ve barely seen him since he got swallowed up by a crush of adoring fans when we first walked in. I scan the bar until I spot Ryan near the back, playing pool with some of my father’s friends. I glance over at him once, then again, watching the muscles in his back shifting underneath his T-shirt.

“Uh, Olivia?” Tristan asks, and suddenly I realize I haven’t been listening to a single word he said.

“Sorry,” I say, patting his arm as the bartender sets our drinks down in front of me. “There’s someone I need to see. But I’ll find you later!”

I head back toward the pool table, trying to tamp down the butterflies in my chest at the sight of Ryan’s easy smile. “How’s it going?” I ask, bumping his shoulder with mine.

“Hey babe,” Ryan says, slinging an arm around me and ducking his head to press a kiss against my temple. He smells like saltwater and skin, a mix that goes straight to my head. “Just kicking a little ass over here.”

“I can’t even be mad at him for smack talk,” Ethan says. He does something in e-commerce, Kirsty mentioned, which seems to fit with his short-sleeved button down and hipster glasses. “He is, objectively, kicking our asses.”

Two days ago I would have rolled my eyes at guys’ tendency to fall all over themselves where Ryan is concerned, but right now I’m just enjoying it. I even feel proud. “Yeah, well,” I say, slipping a hand into Ryan’s back pocket. “He’s good like that.”

The rest of the night passes in a blur: Joel and I dance to “Margaritaville.” Tristan makes a bland, respectable toast, and then Crystal makes a wild, drunken one, too. I’m nibbling on some coconut shrimp when Ryan comes up beside me, ducks his head and takes a bite right out of my fingers.

“Oh, sorry,” I laugh, teasing. “Did you want some of that?”

“Yep,” he says, and I can’t tell if I’m imagining the hungry way his eyes flick up and down my body. “I did.”

I swallow hard, taking a long sip of my beer to cover. Because that electric swoop in my stomach I was wondering about earlier? Here it is, right on time. Again, I understand why so many of my clients’ setups have turned into the real deal. After all, it would be easy to get caught up in the fantasy. The casual contact and Ryan’s warm smile, the way he takes my hand as we head out of the bar—it all feels like the genuine article.

But he’s just acting. And so am I.

And it’ll be better for everyone if I remember that.