Lord at First Sight (The Montevor Royals Saga #8)

Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

LAURA

O ur suite at the Cala Stella Resort is ridiculously luxurious. The bedroom alone is bigger than my entire studio apartment in Paris, and the bathroom has a rain shower that could accommodate a small party… if I were into shower parties. Which I’m not.

I step out onto the balcony for the third time since we arrived. From here, I can see the Mediterranean Sea shimmering blue and the private pool just below. Having watched WAFS before, I did expect a nice hotel for the honeymoon. But the production has outdone itself this season. Each of the seven couples has a suite at Cala Stella. We were supposed to be eight, by the way, but one bride got cold feet when she met the groom.

“Do you think all the rooms here are as grand as ours?” I ask Antoine.

He’s by the bed, reading something on his phone, then typing quickly with his thumbs, then reading some more, and typing again.

“Ours is a honeymoon suite,” he says without looking up. “I’m sure the other honeymoon suites are comparable, but they must have smaller rooms, too.”

I turn around and prop myself against the railing. “You act way too cool. Here’s my theory. Your mind is blown, and you’re overcompensating by feigning indifference.”

Finally, he looks up. “No, not at all. This hotel is really nice.”

And then he types again.

You know what? I stand by my assessment. His unimpressed attitude is an act. He’s a bohemian used to cheap rentals and squats. I bet he’s never stayed in a hotel like this. It’s a kind of misplaced pride that makes him act laid-back, jaded even.

The camera is rolling, so I keep my harsh verdict to myself.

After lunch at one of the resort’s eleven restaurants—I repeat, eleven—we hit the infinity pool overlooking the beach. The water is just the right temperature, and I float on my back and stare up at the impossibly clear sky while Antoine swims laps.

The man’s got technique. Each butterfly stroke is a study of grace and power. His arms cut through the water like blades as he propels himself forward.

The rhythmic sound of his slicing through the water echoes in the pool area, disturbing my mental repose. While the camera is on him, I use the opportunity to ogle his toned, athletic body. Now that his raw masculinity is no longer mitigated by clothing, I must say I’m impressed. And a little self-conscious. My own body, while not overweight, seems too soft, too cushiony compared to the hard perfection of his.

To distract myself from his broad shoulders and bulging muscles, I focus on the elaborate tattoos that wind their way along his biceps and forearms. The vibrant artwork seems to come alive in the dappled sunlight every time his arms kick out from beneath the surface. The darkly imaginative designs swirl and intertwine in harmony with the sinewy muscles that ripple beneath his skin.

When Antoine reaches the edge of the pool and turns with another dolphin kick, I quickly avert my eyes.

Stop staring at him and enjoy the luxury, Laura!

Let’s face it, I may never see the inside of a hotel like this ever again. Well, maybe someday if I work my ass off for the next ten years and become a branch manager at the bank. And even then. Bank managers don’t get paid enough these days to afford hotels like the Cala Stella.

I resume my leisurely float, letting the warmth of the sun caress my skin. The cameraman crouched by the pool’s edge zooms in and out, trying to catch a romantic moment. But Antoine and I aren’t giving him much to work with.

After we dry off, we settle by the pool to enjoy cold drinks. I watch the water sparkle in the afternoon sun and do my best to not care about the camera circling us like a hungry shark. Antoine is stretched out on his sun lounger, looking as composed as usual. I turn away before the camera—or worse, Antoine himself—can catch me gawking at him.

Do I have room for one more mocktail before dinner? Yeah, I do.

I look around for a server when I spot Pedro Monfort in his linen shirt and mirrored sunglasses coming our way. Last week, during the Expert Counseling and Guidance session, I learned that Antoine and I owe our selection to this guy. He’s the psychologist who assigned a potential compatibility score of 92 percent to us, which lifted our average to 78 percent and tipped the scales in our favor.

Pedro drags a chair closer and sits down. “Laura, Antoine, how’s the honeymoon so far?”

“Fantastic.” I wave my hand at the resort. “I could get used to this.”

Antoine says nothing, just tilts his head ever so slightly.

“Good,” Pedro says, seemingly oblivious to Antoine’s lack of enthusiasm.

Or maybe he just knows how to keep a poker face.

He pulls out two envelopes and hands one to each of us. “Your first challenge as newlyweds.”

“What kind of challenge?” I ask.

Pedro leans back. “Two joint activities. Each must be something one of you enjoys and the other doesn’t.”

“Makes no sense,” Antoine comments.

“It’s all about the art of compromise as a couple, dear boy.” Pedro winks. “Have fun!”

Before I can ask for more details, he stands and strides off, leaving us with the envelopes and the ever-present camera crew. I steal a look at Antoine, who’s already opening his envelope. I unseal mine, only to discover a pretty note that has no more information than what Pedro just gave us.

“Well,” I say. “What activities should we pick?”

Antoine sets his envelope down. “How do you feel about hiking?”

“Hiking? You mean, like… on purpose?”

His lips quirk. “Yes. There’s a trail near the cliffs. It must be beautiful especially in the morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” My eyes widen in horror. “Instead of the lazy beach time I planned?”

“Yes.”

Ugh, I don’t want to! But saying no feels like admitting defeat.

I pout. “Fine, we’ll hike.”

“Your turn.”

I tap my chin, thinking. “Do you like sitcoms?”

“No. They’re dumb. The laughter’s fake. It’s a total waste of time.”

I grin. “Perfect. We’ll watch Friends .”

“ Friends ?” There’s a flicker of dread in his eyes.

“Just one episode,” I reassure him. “Honestly, it’s a kinder challenge than dragging me up a mountain.”

He responds with an audible exhale through his nose. “OK. But if it’s as bad as I think it will be, I get to pick the restaurant for tomorrow’s dinner.”

“Deal!” I extend my hand.

He shakes it. His grip is warm and firm, and for a moment, I forget we’re not alone. Then the cameraman moves closer, and I pull my hand back, suddenly too aware of how many people will be watching this.

Antoine reclines back on his lounger. “You won’t regret agreeing to the hike.”

“And you’re going to love Friends !”

His lip curls down. “I doubt it.”