Dancing in Lake Mistletoe (Lake Mistletoe #4)

Chapter One

W hy the hell not?

That’s the question I ask myself as I open the Tiffany-blue suitcase on my bed and begin to cut the tags off of the pile of new vacation clothes I purchased last week.

I toss them inside, along with my favorite white bikini and pineapple-print cover-up.

Conrad and I planned this vacation for over a year. Painstakingly searching websites for the best accommodations, food, and excursions. I saved every penny earned from my part-time job of waiting tables so we could afford to splurge on anything we wanted to do or buy while in Honolulu on the island of Oahu.

Looking forward to a week of baking in the Hawaiian sun and drinking all the tropical cocktails with my favorite guy was the only thing that kept me going through finals and months of long seven-day workweeks.

Once everything is packed, I snatch the pair of airline tickets from the nightstand and sit on the end of the bed.

Two first-class round-trip tickets for Avie Carrigan and Conrad Sullivan.

Nonrefundable .

I swipe at the warm tear trickling down my cheek.

Pull it together, Avie.

I tuck the ticket with my name on it inside of my purse and tear the one with his name into tiny pieces.

Asshole.

Conrad and I had been dating for almost three years, and stupid me thought maybe he was planning to hide a ring away in his luggage to surprise me on this trip.

It was always the plan. Once I finished school, we would move to the city and begin our life together.

Instead, he took me to dinner last night and professed how much he loved me at the same time he was breaking up with me.

Dumped. The night before the trip of a lifetime.

He said we needed a breather.

I asked, “What the hell does that even mean?”

He explained that his dad’s best friend had offered him a job at his architectural firm in New York.

A job that starts next week.

He accepted the position, and he is moving this weekend.

When I asked why the news meant that we needed a breather, he said he wanted to concentrate on work and that a long-distance relationship would be too much of an emotional drain.

“Look, the job is a summer internship. I need to be focused in order to prove myself. After that, I’ll know if it’s what I want to do and where I want to be. Then, we can revisit our situation and see if we want you to move to New York or if I should move back here to Atlanta.”

What he wants to do and where he wants to be?

I stood up as calmly as I could muster, told him he could go fuck himself, picked up the glass of red wine I had been drinking, and dumped it in his lap before I made my way out of the restaurant.

When I made it home, all of his things were gone from the apartment we shared. His clothing, toiletries, laptop, and even the expensive gaming system I’d bought him for his birthday last month.

The jerk had packed up his things while I was on campus. Before bothering to tell me he was moving out.

I will not cry again.

My phone chimes from the dresser, and I stand to see the message that my Uber driver has arrived.

I sling my purse over my shoulder and grab my suitcase.

As I pass the pedestal mirror in the corner of the room, I admire my tanned shoulders peeking out of the top of the gorgeous palm-print maxi dress. I place a large-brimmed straw hat on my head and pull on my new aviator sunglasses before slipping into the white sandals by the door.

Glancing back at the apartment one more time before shutting and locking the door, I head to the elevator.

The driver takes my suitcase and loads it into the back of the car, and I open the door to the back seat, where I find my best friend, Amiya, waiting.

“Hey, chica. I’m ready to get this tropical party started,” she squeals as she scoots to the left to make room for me.

Thank God she was able to get off work at the last minute to join me. The romantic getaway I planned will now be the girls’ trip of a lifetime. And the best part is that it’s being partially funded by the douche formerly known as the love of my life.

“I’ve been reading the online brochure for the resort.” She taps her phone screen and begins to read, “ Welcome to your own private paradise. Our property prides itself on being an exclusive getaway experience, curated just for you. Where you can disconnect from the stress and worries of life, connect to a dream landscape, and enjoy exceptional service with your own personal butler. At The Stanhope Grand Resort, we are all ohana.” She looks up from the device and at me. “That means family.”

“I know.”

“The pictures are insane. I can’t believe we get to stay there,” she squeals.

Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself getting excited about the trip.

The driver drops us off, and we make our way to the Delta counter to see if I can get the ticket Amiya purchased upgraded.

“I’m totally okay in coach. Just send me back a free cocktail or two,” she says.

“It can’t hurt to ask if they can move you beside me. It’s not like anyone else will be sitting there.”

“But I checked last night, and the cost difference is astronomical,” she informs.

I reach into my bag and pull out the American Express card that has my name on it.

“I don’t want you to pay for it either.”

I grin. “I’m not. This is Conrad’s account. He had a card sent in my name a while ago so I could pick up his dry cleaning, grab takeout, and fill his car up with gas on the occasions he was working late. I think the least he can do since he left me with an apartment that still has five months left on the lease is pay for your upgrade.”

“Oh, it absolutely is the least he can do,” she agrees.

After I explain the situation to the lady at the help desk, she changes Amiya’s seat, and we quickly make our way through security.

We grab a bite to eat and a couple of beers at Phillips Seafood while we wait for boarding.

Amiya flirts shamelessly with our barely legal server as I incessantly check my phone.

Once our glasses hit the table, Amiya reaches across the table and snatches my phone from my fingertips.

“Hey!” I quip.

“Hey nothing. You’re not going to keep staring at this thing, looking for a text from him or cyberstalking his social media accounts while we’re in Hawaii. In less than twelve hours, we’re going to be draped in leis and frolicking in paradise. Conrad fucking Sullivan is not going to ruin this trip any further. Got it?”

I nod.

“Let me hear you say it,” she insists.

“Conrad fucking Sullivan is not going to ruin this trip,” I affirm.

She opens the top of her bag and drops my phone inside.

“You’ll get that back when we return home.”

“Fine,” I huff.

She smiles, picks up her glass, and leans in. “There will be an incredible amount of beautiful men there, and we’re going to find one to occupy your time. You’ll forget all about what’s his name before we return. Here’s to a wicked holiday affair.”

I raise my glass and clink it against hers. “Cheers.”