Last Resort

Chapter 1

ABBY

I should not be on my honeymoon alone. I should not be at the White Sands Resort in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, on a random Tuesday in June by myself.

But I am.

“Hello, madam, welcome to White Sands Resort.”

A tall, bald man in a white shirt, black suit pants, and purple vest greets me as I step out of the airport shuttle, a silver tray stacked with rolled-up white cloths held on his arm as he offers me one clutched in a small pair of tongs.

He looks past me into the van, in which I arrived alone.

“Just you, ma’am?”

“Just me.”

Reminding myself that he didn’t mean anything by the question—he’s just doing his job—I dab my face with the cool cloth, which both distracts me from his comment and provides instant, if temporary, relief from the humidity as the driver drops my bags next to me.

Heaven.

It’s not just the cloth that’s heavenly; I’ve stepped one foot onto this resort, and already the otherworldliness has me rooted in place. It started on the drive—the long, landscaped driveway was overflowing with local plants and flowers, boasting of the extravagance that awaited me at the end.

I knew this place would be nice. My ex-fiancé chose it, and he had refined tastes.

I hand off my now-lukewarm cloth, and the gentleman who offered it to me ushers me to a podium off to my left at the top of a set of elegant, marble-looking stairs. Whether they are actually marble is beyond my skills of recognition, but god, they are fancy.

The lobby beyond where I’m standing is grandiose, an open cathedral of decadence with cushioned wicker couches and chairs for arriving and leaving travelers to rest and wait.

Waiters in matching purple vests mill about, offering pre-prepared drinks to guests.

Large ceiling fans swirl in lazy circles overhead, pushing just enough air around that it doesn’t feel stale in here.

It’s the most sumptuous place I’ve ever been, and this is just the lobby.

I feel out of place here, and not just because I’m supposed to be here with the man I was supposed to marry.

The last time I went on a real vacation, I was in college, and my best friend Hazel and I were hostel-hopping around Europe.

There was nothing luxurious about it, so luxury to this degree has me wondering if someone is going to stop me and ask if I belong here.

I’m asking myself that question.

“I swear to god, if you don’t go on this vacation, I will personally escort you to the airport and get you buckled into a plane seat,” Hazel had said to me while she helped me pack yesterday. “You need it.”

I shouldn’t have been packing so last-minute, but after the year I had teaching, especially the end of the year, it kept getting bumped down on my to-do list until I called Hazel panicking yesterday and begged her to help me pack.

And she’s right. I do need this vacation.

Even if this vacation was supposed to be my honeymoon.

“The name on the reservation, ma’am?” A tall, wiry man with a head full of black, curly hair and a bright white smile addresses me.

“Foster.” I swallow hard. It’s not my last name—it’s Todd’s, but I never got around to changing it on the reservation.

When Todd left me, he said I could go on the trip as if he was offering me some kind of weird consolation prize for having my heart broken.

I looked into cancelling, but the booking email reminded me this was non-refundable.

Between that and Hazel’s insistence, I couldn’t say no.

At the very least, I’m hoping this trip will revive me for another year of teaching. Or…give me the space to figure out if teaching is really what I want to keep doing.

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Foster, I have you here in our system. It says you and Mr. Foster are here for ten days. Is Mr. Foster arriving today as well?”

It’s a polite way of asking why I’m alone, and my cheeks heat again, a distinct warmth from the oppressive temperature here in Cabo.

“Um, no, it’s actually just going to be me. And—”

The ma?tre d’ leans in, as if I’m not speaking loudly enough. I feel like I’m yelling.

“One more time, miss?”

“It’s just me,” I say, so loud that a passing waiter turns their head to see what the shouting was about. Oh god.

“Just you, no problem, Mrs. Foster.”

“It’s— It’s just Miss, not Mrs. Um, and the name is Ashe.

Abigail Ashe. Can you change that on the…

?” I gesture to the computer in front of him.

I should have emailed before I came to sort this out; I feel like I swallowed a handful of nails.

It’s painful to correct this man and ask him to update my name.

He smiles, though, typing away on his screen and nodding affirmatively.

“Welcome, Ms. Ashe. We are so pleased to have you with us for the next ten days. Please take a seat in one of the chairs in the lobby here and your personal butler will come to collect you shortly.”

He gestures toward the open space of the lobby—the gateway to the next ten days of my life.

I turn to grab my luggage, but it’s disappeared. Panic seizes me. I’ve been here five minutes; how have I already lost my…

“My luggage, I—”

“It’s been taken care of, Miss.”

“It’s been…?”

“Taken to your room, Ms. Ashe.”

“Oh.” The gripping hand in my chest eases, my shoulders dropping away from my ears. “Thank you.”

He tips his head and gestures for me to take a seat.

As I meander further into the open space, I get a good look at what’s beyond this transitional area.

It truly is a gateway, as the view from the back of the lobby overlooks the majority of the resort.

I lean against the railing; the sound of the ocean is crystal clear, even from here.

The waves shush as the turquoise water meets the sand and pulls away again.

The beach itself is dotted with deep purple cushions on uniform chairs and matching umbrellas.

Staff in white shorts and purple tops walk between the chairs with full and empty glasses, stopping occasionally to pick up a new glass or drop one off.

Bikini-clad women lounge in chairs with books or magazines.

Shirtless men in bright shorts accompany a few of them.

Palm trees sway with the slight breeze, the whisper of their leaves accompanying the chatter of the resort guests.

Closer to the lobby, there’s a large pool, with even more people than on the beach—some in the water, some lounging on the side. A couple kisses in the pool. Newlyweds, no doubt.

My stomach turns. I knew I would see this, but I thought I would be okay.

I thought it wouldn’t bother me to be at the all-inclusive resort my ex-fiancé picked out for us to enjoy after our wedding.

Well, not directly after our wedding. The plan was to get married in March and take this trip in June, when I have time off for the summer, but we didn’t even make it to Christmas.

He left me after Thanksgiving. It’s been six months since he left, and seeing couples kiss and enjoy the pool and the sun, the way I was supposed to, is more of a gut punch than I anticipated.

“A drink while you wait, ma’am?” A staff member approaches me, stirring me out of my thoughts, her dark hair tied into a high ponytail, a notebook in her hand.

“Oh, um, yes. I’d love a margarita. Do you do them frozen?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says and walks off to a full-sized bar on my right. I didn’t even clock it before.

I check my left, and while there’s no bar, there is a small café that looks like it has sandwiches and pastries. I’m tempted to go now, but I have ten days to try everything, and if I move, the lady with my drink might have trouble finding me. I can explore later.

For now, I close my eyes and breathe in deeply through my nose. The salt air and something floral—jasmine?—remind me that I’m not in Pennsylvania right now. I’m at the beach. I am on vacation. I can let go of the last year. I can—

“Mrs. Foster?”

So much for letting go.

I thought the ma?tre d’ had changed my name in the system, but maybe it didn’t take?

I turn to face whoever is calling my name and find myself eye to eye with a tall, dark-skinned man who has to be at least twenty years my senior.

His smile is so bright I almost ask him what kind of toothpaste he uses.

It is also the friendliest smile I’ve seen so far, and that’s saying something because everyone here has been extremely pleasant.

“Yes?”

A small voice in me protests at the wrong name, but I promptly ignore that.

I am not going to correct him. I’d rather open my eyes in the ocean.

It’s embarrassing enough to have to admit that I should be a Mrs., but I’m not, but to also make a fuss about my last name?

It really isn’t a big deal. And I’m not going to make it one.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Samuel; you can call me Sam. I’ll be your butler this week. Why don’t you come with me? I can show you to your room.”

“Oh, I’m just waiting on…” I start, but he’s already started walking away. I check for the girl who took my drink order, and, as luck would have it, she’s just walking back to me with a drink in her hand.

“A margarita on the rocks for the lady,” she says with a smile.

I almost tell her I asked for a frozen margarita, but the words get stuck in my throat before they can come out. This is fine. I like margaritas on the rocks. I tip her and scurry after the butler.

I catch up to Sam, who is waiting on the stairs, having noticed I wasn’t behind him.

I follow him on the paved path lined with perfectly manicured landscaping.

Music plays from somewhere—spa-like sounds to promote relaxation, probably.

We pass blocks of rooms, square, white buildings with pink rooftops.

People roam in and out of the rooms, holding inflatable devices, beach bags, and towels.

Everyone looks like they’re in a commercial for the resort rather than actually visiting—they’re carefree and happy. I’m hoping that will be me soon.