Faking Love

Chapter Eighteen: jungle green with envy

The world went from mossy greens and bright, summer blues to a chamber of darkness mottled with neon lights. The bouncer ushered Daisy and Hunt into the club as a strobe of light blinked, showering them in ripples of violet.

"What the hell have we been missing out on?" Daisy asked loudly over the music, an electro-pop mash-up that begged something inside her to dance. It was hard to imagine that this—the quote-unquote other side of the resort, with its nightlife and fire breathers and moonlit lagoon—was just a ten-minute walk from the sleepy, staid retreat. It felt like a crime against humanity.

Or a crime against Daisy, mostly, given she'd had to endure days of yoga and hiking and whatever the hell else was causing her old injury to flare up.

She rubbed her thigh mindlessly as they cut a path through the forest of bodies, soothing the pain. Hunt leaned closer to hear her over the music, his hand skimming her lower back and turning that burn into a whole different sort of ache.

"What did you say?"

She waved him off as the beat dropped, and he made a hand signal that she interpreted as him going to the bar.

Her gaze was tied to the dancefloor while she walked up a spiral staircase to the mezzanine, spotting a vacant table that looked down into the club. There was a whole lot of movement going on down there, but she wasn't sure whether her old ballet mistress would call any of it dancing. Certainly not whatever a tall redhead and a petite brunette wearing his sunglasses were doing as they ground up against each other in front of one of the club's many living, breathing ferns.

Poor fern.

Daisy sat on a stool as a flash of neon blue bathed the lower level until it looked like a lake, the shot girls like merfolk in their glittering sarongs and water lily crowns. Some of the dancers wore masks, and performers with flowers woven into their hair strutted back and forth on stilts. Daisy saw Hunt passing one of the stone columns bracketing the roof, the rough, aged rock choked by vines and colourful blooms. The club was designed to look like some kind of ancient crumbling temple; Daisy couldn't help but think it was as if they'd stepped right into Movie Moment and onto Savannah and Atlas' Jumanji-inspired film set. Hunt's eyes followed the length of the upper level, two drinks in his hands. Daisy stood and waved, and he grinned, aiming for the stairs.

They'd gone to therapy—half an hour after it was supposed to have ended. Amira had been in a session when they appeared on the front step of her cabin, breathless and flustered.

"I'm so sorry," Daisy had said between pants. "I wasn't feeling well, and ... and—" She'd pressed a hand to her chest, doubling over.

Hunt's chuckle had caressed that thing inside of her that wanted to dance. "We lost track of the time," he'd explained to Amira with all the charm Daisy had lost. "Our deepest apologies for disrespecting your time like that."

Amira had taken off her glasses. "Did you have fun?"

"Fun?" Daisy had asked, bewildered.

"On your date?"

She'd looked at Hunt. Was that what it was? A date? "Um ..."

"There's no need to apologise," Amira had said as she polished her lenses, surveying the forest as though assessing the relationship between each of its trees. "As it turned out, another couple needed your slot today more than you did, anyway."

Daisy had searched Amira's face, fully expecting her to whip out a detention slip like the ones she routinely got in high school for breaking the dress code. "You're not ... angry?"