Three
THREE
ETHAN
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: re: re: Schedule Change
Dear Ethan,
The Snow White cottage will do just fine for me for the week, and thank you for complying with my request for late check-in. I should arrive to the resort shortly after 6 p.m. eastern time.
I will be busy with preparations for Samara’s party, so I will mostly be out of your hair except for when we do our walk-through inspection. I have been entrusted with the task and appreciate the entire staff taking care as to treat it with as much importance as if Ms. Lu was in attendance. I look forward to meeting you on March 22nd.
Warmest regards,
Taylor Frost
Personal Assistant, Amy Lu
T here’s something condescending about the way someone could write such a coldly formal e-mail, have the last name Frost, and still have the gall to sign their e-mail warmest regards . This e-mail has all the warmth of the arctic tundra.
Granted, when Ethan got the e-mail, he was mostly relieved. No longer would he be squared with entertaining his ex-wife for an entire week without their daughter as a buffer. Putting Amy up in one of the guest cottages while he walked back to their old family cottage every night to make dinner for one would’ve been weirdly ravaging.
In the intervening years, their fractured family has met in neutral locations for small vacations and long weekends. But having her back here without Samara, after so much has changed between them, well…he doesn’t think he’d even know how to talk to her. Most of their communication as of the last few years has been through this guy. Taylor Frost. A cute face paired with icy verbiage.
Gabriel sidles up to the reception desk after fixing a burned-out light bulb in the foyer and says, with the stepladder under his right arm, “Kurt would really like to see you again.”
Ethan is thankful for the reprieve from tapping his fingers anxiously against the welcome desk, awaiting Taylor Frost’s arrival, but regretful that his friend has chosen this topic to break the spell with.
“I don’t think that’s wise.” One drink with Kurt was all it took for Ethan to decide that dating isn’t for him.
Last week, everything seemed to be going well with Kurt, the decently handsome used car salesman with fetching salt-and-pepper hair, until the rest of the group went to go play pool in the back room. If they had never been left alone, Ethan might’ve entertained another outing with Kurt, but when the conversation veered toward their dating histories, the whole night went to shit.
“Ah, yes, I remember Gabriel said you were married,” Kurt mused, pouring himself another drink from the sweating pitcher on the table between them. “Remind me again, dead or divorced?”
Ethan tried to mask his shock over this man’s bluntness. He appreciates a person who cuts to the chase in a conversation, but he physically had to take a second and a sip of his beer before he responded. “Uh, divorced.”
“Ah, yeah. It’s coming back now,” he said. “I got out of a long-term relationship recently, too. Only engaged, though, on my side. What was your husband like?”
“Wife, actually,” Ethan said, refusing to sound sheepish even though he easily forecasted what was coming next.
Squinted eyes. Check. Passing confusion. Check. Slightly open trout mouth. Check. And then: “Have you been with…guys?”
Ethan domed both hands around his beer glass. “I have.”
“So you’re…?”
“Bisexual.”
Kurt’s nod came too slowly to read as acceptance.
To his credit, he didn’t say what other men of his age have said to Ethan before. Is bi a real thing? You just want it both ways, don’t you? I’m not sure I could date a bi person. You really should’ve put it in your profile. Ethan’s heard it all before.
Dating in upstate New York for a divorced, bisexual, fat, single dad who just turned forty with very little fanfare is not sunshine and rainbows, storybooks and sunsets. The past five years have been a montage of awkward conversations, shitty beers in shittier bars and slow head nods from guys named Kurt.
Gabriel bristles, setting down the stepladder. “What? Why not? What’s wrong with him?”
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Ethan remarks unconvincingly. “We’re just not a match.” He grabs a pair of scissors from the drawer to his right and snips off a stray thread from the purple-and-gold flannel he’s wearing. A Christmas or two ago, Samara gave it to him as a gift, and even though the hem of the right sleeve is fraying from being worn and run through the wash so often, he refuses to get rid of it. It reminds him too much of his daughter whom he misses with every fiber of his being.
“Where have I heard that before? Oh, yeah. You. About the last few people you’ve gone out with. When even was the last time you went out with someone before Kurt? A year ago? Two?” Gabriel says a little too judgmentally for Ethan’s liking. Just because Gabriel has an awesome, successful, lawyer wife doesn’t mean everyone needs to be perfectly partnered. “You’re never going to find a match with that attitude.”
“Maybe I’m not looking to find a match,” Ethan says, steadfast.
“If you’re not looking for a match, then who’s going to light your fire, Mr. Golding?” Gabriel asks, voice leaden with overwrought innuendo.
“I’m perfectly capable of lighting my own fire, thank you very much.”
“Mherm.” Ethan and Gabriel both startle from the sudden presence of another person in the reception area.
As soon as Gabriel steps to the side, Ethan is face-to-face with Taylor Frost. Those russet eyes are even more arresting in real life, drawing Ethan in at an alarming rate. Trying to preserve his cool, he looks down, which is by far the worst move he could make. Taylor’s lean frame is wrapped up in a colorful, tie-dyed sherpa hoodie and gray sweatpants, so form-fitting and thin that Ethan can practically see every line of Taylor’s underwear.
Hold on. Is he even wearing any underwear?
“Sorry to interrupt,” Taylor says.
“Welcome to Storybook Endings,” says Gabriel when Ethan remains silent for a beat too long.
“Thank you,” Taylor says, voice like jam being swiped across toast. Smooth with a slight crunch.
“I’m Ethan Golding,” he says, finding his words albeit the most obvious ones. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Taylor drops his purple bag by his feet to meet Ethan’s outstretched hand. The cold of Taylor’s palm is a shock and exacerbated by a few stylish silver rings—one on his forefinger, one on his middle finger, and one on his pinkie. Ethan imagines at least one of these is a gift from Amy. That’s how she’s always gained favor—through tokens. Ethan wasn’t materialistic, but clearly Amy never read that book on love languages.
“Same here. Good to put a person to the e-mails,” Taylor says, oozing a laid-back friendliness that jars Ethan.
Unlike his last name and his hands, Taylor radiates hotness. Yes, in his looks, but also in his demeanor. His posture is lax, his dark brown hair is mussed and longer than it is in his recent e-mail photo, and he moves as if suspended in a pool of water, an effortless glide.
“Let’s get you all checked in. Would you mind giving me your ID?” Ethan asks, reverting to his welcome wagon script.
Taylor’s hands pat at the pockets of his sherpa, then his sweatpants, before rooting around inside his suitcase. A look of confusion wriggles onto his face as he mumbles his way through something. “I had it in here. Then, I stopped to get gas for the rental car, which I parked down in the lot at the front gate—” He meets Ethan’s waiting eyes. “Must’ve left my wallet in the glove compartment.”
The full day of travel has clearly made Taylor tired. Forcing him to walk all the way back down the hill to the parking lot and get his wallet would be cruel. Ethan’s inspected the face on the e-mails enough times to know Taylor’s not some sort of imposter. Unless he has an evil twin come to tear Ethan’s life asunder…
“Let me just…” Taylor turns with his bag toward the door.
“No need,” Ethan says swiftly, uncertain where this forgoing of policy is coming from. “We can handle all that tomorrow. Tonight, we can just get you settled.”
Relief wisps across Taylor’s brow. “Thanks. Before we do that, is there a restroom you can direct me to?”
“Through there,” Gabriel says, pointing toward Knights & Knaves, the resort’s bustling game room.
Taylor disappears through the faux stone arch masking the doorway.
“Are you blushing?” Gabriel asks when the wooden door has swung shut.
Ethan scowls. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“Because your cheeks are red.”
True, there is an inconvenient heat on his face that he can’t blame on standing under the vent. “I’m not good at regulating my temperature. Between the heat being on and the cold draft blowing in from the door, my body doesn’t know what to do.” He strips off his puffer vest and sets it under the desk.
“Maybe your body was responding to something other than the temperature,” says Gabriel, whose eyes saucily chart a path back toward the bathroom door.
“Can it, Esteves. Don’t you have a bed frame to fix?” There are always work orders piling up around here. A decade of wear and tear takes a backseat to funneling money into new locations, apparently.
“I wouldn’t if this place weren’t so damn romantic.” Gabriel clears his throat and shakes his head. “When the new booking website launches, make sure there’s a check box that reads ‘I understand that banging like jackrabbits is strictly prohibited on property beds.’”
“Mherm.”
Ethan stops short of hanging his head this time. That embarrassed blush is back with a mutinous vengeance. Taylor’s timing couldn’t be worse.
“I’m off,” Gabriel says, hoisting the stepladder back up. He turns to Taylor. “Enjoy your stay.”
Taylor thanks him, holding there in the foyer, uncertain, with his phone clutched in his hand.
“Go ahead and sign the guest ledger.” Ethan produces a heavy, leather-bound book from its perch under a purely decorative glass case. He makes a show of blowing off pretend dust like it’s an ancient thing, when really they rotate them out by season. From behind the desktop, he grabs the trusty pot of ink and the feather quill and passes both to Taylor.
“Neat,” Taylor says as he writes his name in tidy cursive. Who knew good penmanship could be so attractive?
To avoid that internal question, Ethan turns away to grab the key to the Snow White cottage off the ornate wall of hooks. “Let me show you around.”
“Oh, no, I can carry that,” Taylor says.
Ethan’s already come around the desk and scooped up Taylor’s suitcase with ease. “Nonsense. Allow me.”
Ethan may have denied his own blush earlier, but there’s no mistaking the pink coloring that sweeps across Taylor’s cheeks and makes Ethan’s stomach wildly flutter as they exit The Castle side by side.