Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LAURA
T he first thing I hear when I wake up is Antoine’s voice, low and firm, muffled by the bedroom door. My eyes crack open against the soft morning light streaming in through the sheer curtains. Antoine’s tone sounds very different. Gone is the laid-back vibe. There’s a hard, commanding quality to his voice that I haven’t heard before.
I sit up slowly, catching bits of his conversation.
“…no, that’s unacceptable. I don’t care about their timeline. Ours takes priority.”
Yawning, I stretch and rub my eyes. Last I checked, tattoo artists didn’t have urgent timelines. Well, maybe if someone booked two full sleeves last minute… But even then, Antoine’s vocabulary sounds off.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, tiptoe to the door and peek through the crack. Antoine is pacing near the French windows, one hand gripping his phone, and the other in his hair.
“I said no,” he barks. “Tell them to find another way.”
OK, so either he’s an unusually intense bohemian, or something doesn’t add up.
I push the door open. “Morning.”
He spins around, his face the picture of guilt. “Laura. You’re awake.”
“Who’s the poor soul on the other end, getting the roasting?”
He hesitates for a split second too long. “My accountant.”
“Your accountant?”
“I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone before looking at me again. “Believe it or not, but all businesses, tattoo parlors included, need an accountant. Taxes, you know.”
“Riiight, of course.”
He narrows his eyes, sensing the sarcasm in my voice. I step past him toward the coffee table.
He leans against the window frame, arms crossed. “You have a sharp ear.”
“And you have a terrible poker face,” I shoot back, turning on the coffee maker.
I expect him to argue, but he just laughs softly and pushes off the frame. “I’ll give you some privacy for your morning routine.”
He walks off, leaving me to stare after him.
Accountant, my foot. I smirk and pick up a coffee cup.
But then again, who the fuck cares? This honeymoon is a sham and this whole marriage is a lie, anyway.
Yeah, I’m in a foul mood this morning.
I swallow my first espresso, grab a towel and head for the bathroom. As the hot water washes over me, my thoughts wander back to last night—the source of my current temper.
One minute we were kissing. Like, really kissing. His hands were in my hair, and his tongue, deep in my mouth. I was enjoying every second of it and anticipating what he’d do next. Surprise! He pulled back and said something about not wanting to rush things.
Rush things? Rush things??
We’re married. We’re on a honeymoon. What’s left to rush?
My stomach twists with annoyance. And frustration. Tons of frustration.
After his puzzling bout of propriety, Antoine went straight to the bathroom and turned on the shower. When he climbed back into the bed, I’d crawled to my usual spot, teetering on the edge and pretending to be asleep. He had the gall to ignore my unequivocal body language and give me some unsolicited advice.
“Can you move closer to the center, please?” he’d said. “I won’t sleep well if I’m worried you’ll fall off and hurt yourself.”
And I moved!
I guess I didn’t have the energy to argue. Thankfully, I fell asleep without much trouble, thanks to the wine, and I slept like a baby. I don’t know why I’m worked up about the whole thing now…
Get over yourself, Laura. The third day of your honeymoon awaits.
The sun is warm on my back as I settle onto my stomach, adjusting my towel under me. The hotel’s private beach is picture-perfect, with the turquoise waves lapping gently at the shore, and the faint hum of distant cicadas filling the air. I could almost relax—if I were able to ignore the two cameramen lurking nearby.
I glance sideways at Antoine, who’s reclining in the shade of a striped umbrella, sunglasses firmly in place, eyebrows drawn, like he’s mentally filing his taxes.
I turn my head the other way. A woman in a neon yellow swimsuit and a pale guy in bright red swim trunks are walking toward the beach along one of the pathways. They’re followed by a cameraman and a sound technician, both sweating visibly under their equipment.
“Look,” I say to Antoine, craning my neck. “Over there.”
Antoine shifts and pushes his sunglasses up just enough to see. “Oh. One of the other couples.”
“They must be, right?”
There are six other WAFS couples honeymooning here at Cala Stella with a small crew assigned to each. But the hotel is so big and the show’s schedule so well-oiled that we never bump into each other.
The couple coming down to the beach is laughing about something, their movements relaxed and easy. They look happy.
I feel a pang of envy and push it down. “Weren’t the producers supposed to keep us all separated?”
“This was bound to happen eventually,” Antoine says. “It’s no big deal.”
“No, I guess it isn’t.”
He sits up and glances at his watch. “Anyway, we should head back. You don’t want to sport a sunburn at the poolside party tomorrow night.”
I stand, shake the sand off my towel and gather my things. Antoine does the same. As we walk up the wooden pathway toward the hotel, I don’t wear my flip-flops, loving the feel of the warm boards under my bare feet.
“They looked happy, the other couple,” I comment.
Why did I say that? Did it come out bitter and resentful? Will the viewers decide I’m an envious bitch?
Antoine shrugs. “Appearances can be deceiving.”
“Such optimism! You should become a motivational speaker.”
What’s with all the snark, Laura?
Antoine gives me the side-eye. “I’m just saying, we’re still three weeks from Decision Day.”
“Anyway, it’ll be fun to finally meet the other six couples at the party tomorrow.”
“Unless one of them bails by then.”
He must be referring to the “incident” on Wedding Day, when one of the brides jilted the groom.
We reach the hotel, and Antoine pushes open the side entrance. I follow him inside. The cool blast of the AC feels like a blessing.
“Yeah,” I say. “That was next-level rejection.”
“It was perfectly rational,” he counters. “If the moment she saw him she knew she’d never fall for him, then why waste time?”
We’re just a few steps from our suite when Isabelle appears in the hallway like a vision in a neon green pantsuit. She’s holding an envelope in one hand and her ever-present mic in the other.
After some polite small talk, she hands us an envelope each. “Here’s your second Honeymoon Challenge. Good luck!”
She gives us a wink and struts down the hall. The camera crew stays. Of course.
We enter our suite with Alain and his colleague in tow. I set down my beach bag. Antoine tears open his envelope and pulls out a card with a short message written in a beautifully scripted font. Not bothering with my own envelope, I lean in to read the message on Antoine’s card.
Learn a new skill together. You’ll present what you’ve learned tomorrow at the party.
I straighten up. “What skill?”
“It’s up to us to choose.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious!” I roll my eyes. “But what should we pick? Something we can actually learn in a day.”
He folds the card neatly and tucks it back into the envelope. “Juggling?”
“Hard pass.”
“Origami?”
I groan. “Not my thing.”
“Suggestions?”
“What about”—I glance at the list of the resort’s activities on the console table in the entryway—“salsa dancing? I’ve always wanted to learn it. Do you hate the idea?”
“Matter of fact, no. I had to learn ballroom dancing when I was younger. It includes the rumba, in addition to the waltz and such. Salsa isn’t far off.”
I stare at him. “You’ve had to learn ballroom dancing?”
“In high school,” he replies simply.
Of course. That’s totally a thing regular teenagers do.
As earnestly as I can, I inquire, “Was this before or after you joined the Posh English Debate Club?”
He doesn’t bite. “So, salsa?”
“Salsa,” I confirm. “You think we can find a teacher on such short notice?”
Antoine picks up the phone. “That’s what front desk is for.”