Fifteen
FIFTEEN
ETHAN
“T he roofer is here,” Gabriel radios to Ethan, who still hasn’t gotten out the door this morning.
He overslept, which was to be expected after being up so late.
No, not with Taylor. That ripped-right-from-a-movie fantasy ended after they cleaned up, shared a chaste cheek kiss in the hallway, and then retreated to their separate bedrooms.
It’s not like he could invite Taylor in to share his bed, right? Taylor had shut the door to the guest room by the time he was even hovering close to an answer.
Which meant he awoke sometime around 2:00 a.m., drenched in sweat, hard as an obelisk, and jerked himself off to the memory of Taylor’s eyes lingering over his naked body. And again, earlier today in the shower, when the hot spray carved up memories of the inviting wet warmth of Taylor’s mouth. It dug out questions of: Will I ever experience that again?
The last time he had a sex drive like this, he was still living in his parents’ house. It feels like a scientist has done an experiment on his brain chemistry, and now he’s incongruously sex-starved.
He rushes out the door to meet Lee, the best roofer in town, to see what can be done about the Snow White cottage.
Lee is a tall man with big arms and tattoos that climb down the sides of his neck and unmask themselves when he splays out his hands. His coworker—a preppy guy, Lee’s perfect antithesis—-describes to Gabriel what needs to be done. They’ve driven their truck up and into the first enclave of cottages. Usually this wouldn’t be allowed in the middle of a busy day during spring break, but it’s gotta get done.
“How’s it looking?” Ethan asks Lee, getting down to business. Bypassing any apology for his tardiness. He’s worked with Lee long enough to trust him implicitly. Whatever he thinks needs to be done will be done, and he won’t be charged a cent over what’s fair. Gabriel, on the other hand, would take an apology as a reason to yoke him over what he’s been up to.
“Nothing a half day’s work can’t fix,” says Lee, meeting Ethan for a firm handshake.
Ethan avoids Gabriel’s eyes. Even though he senses them dissecting his every microexpression. He will not display even an ounce of his disappointment over this extremely expeditious timeline. One, because his business comes first and the cottage needs fixing for Samara’s party, which is mere days away. Two, because Gabriel can’t know about the fiery sex he had last night.
Gabriel is, for all intents and purposes, Ethan’s closest friend. That is complicated by their working relationship. That is further complicated by the fact that his wife is Amy’s friend. Still. Even after she moved away five years ago, they keep in constant contact.
The kiss he let slip. That can always be forgiven. But this is being kept sealed, locked and heavily guarded. Too bad, too, because he really could use someone to talk about this with. This is the price he has to pay to avoid the fallout of Amy’s judgment and retribution. While she’s not vindictive, she has been known to overreact and then use Samara as a chess piece she guards with her petty pawns.
“We should be out of your hair right after lunchtime,” Lee says.
“There’s no rush, Lee.” Sure, he schooled his expression, but his words have a way of slipping out. Like last night when he said he couldn’t just forget about that sleepy good night kiss. “I only mean, take the time you need. The cottage isn’t needed until Samara’s friends arrive.”
He’d face-palm if he could. That’s the last thing he should’ve said.
“Half day was overselling it,” Lee says. “Three hours, tops. Seriously, your tarp work saved you from any further damage.”
Fantastic, his oversight brought Taylor closer and now his foresight is ripping him away right when things are about to get good.
Not that they should get good, or better, rather. His head is so jumbled with desire and guilt and lust and shame, but what’s overriding all of that is a tiny voice. At first, it sounded like his conscience. Now it sounds more like Amy, reprimanding him for making poor choices.
“How could you?” she’d say bitterly.
But the only response his mind supplies is, How could I not? For real, from the moment Taylor stepped foot in the lobby, Ethan felt a seismic shift. As if an earthquake were about to roll in and wreck the resort he’s loved since it was only a plot of land and a dream. But now four dinners, two bottles of wine, one bag of mint Milanos and two exceptional orgasms later, he wonders if that rumbling he felt was isolated to his tiny square of floor. If the universe was only signaling that Ethan’s carefully walled life was about to crumble, not his livelihood.
Storybook Endings is only a place; general manager is only a job. Maybe Taylor Frost’s youthful optimism is cracking Ethan open, giving him the energy to imagine a new beginning for himself. Onward and upward.
“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Ethan says, clapping his longtime contractor on the back and walking off without Gabriel.
Gabriel, however, doesn’t get the memo that Ethan wants to be left alone. “The cottage isn’t needed? What’s going on in that house of yours?”
“Nothing. I’m just not going to make Taylor move again. He’s got his supplies for the welcome baskets everywhere. His clothes are unpacked. His groceries are in my fridge. It would be rude to ask him to go,” Ethan says gruffly.
“Sounds like he’s made himself at home.” Ethan doesn’t need to glance over to know Gabriel’s eyebrows are going up and down at a mile a minute.
“He’s my guest. He has every right to.”
“Oh, he’s your guest? I thought he was Amy’s guest.”
“I don’t have time to get into the semantics. There’s a wedding tonight. I’ve got to check in with our event staff. Please make sure Lee has everything he needs and treat them to complimentary lunch from The Thirsty Goat. Whatever they want. On the house,” Ethan says, stalking off and in the direction of the barn.
* * *
If everything’s going right with the roof repair, everything’s going wrong with the impending wedding.
“Our officiant’s flight got canceled,” cries one of the brides into her mom’s shoulder. “The next flight out won’t get her here in time. What are we going to do?” Her auburn hair is already falling out of the strategically pinned updo somebody no doubt spent at least an hour perfecting.
The barn is bedecked for a queer wedding ceremony. Rainbow--colored tulle swans between rows of white folding chairs. There’s an arch of purple flowers at the end of a long, rectangular carpet. Employees dance around the perimeter, obviously attempting to eavesdrop on the unfolding situation. Nobody is quite sure what to do.
“I could do it,” one of the bridesmaids says. She’s a dark-skinned woman with a short fade and a nose ring. “It can’t take that long to get ordained online.”
“I think there’s paperwork we wouldn’t get in time,” says the mother.
The second bride steps into the picture. She’s got milky white skin and platinum blond hair down to her butt. She’s paired a sparkly tiara with her tuxedo. “What if we do the ceremony tonight as planned and then do the courthouse thing later? Tonight will be for everyone and that part will be for us.”
The room is so silent you could hear a pin drop, and they literally do when the first bride shakes her head. Several more golden pins fall to the floor. “It’s all ruined.”
This is a severe overreaction, but Ethan recalls being in a state himself on his wedding day, pacing and carrying on and playing darts with his groomsmen just to let the jitters out. He may not believe in happily-ever-after or marriage as an institution any longer, but he runs a wedding destination for God’s sake. He’s intimately aware of how these types of rituals and ceremonies and dances and dinners can become integral to the fabric of a person’s life. The last thing he wants is for these two seemingly lovely women to leave here with a gray cloud hanging over their relationship.
“Excuse me,” Ethan interjects, stopping another brainstorm happening among five to six people in the wedding party. “My name is Ethan Golding. I’m the general manager here. I know I don’t know either of you personally, but I happen to be ordained and would be overjoyed to officiate your ceremony if you’ll allow me.”
He’s perhaps overselling his excitement with the word overjoyed paired with a cheesy, customer service smile. His gut roils. He tends to give every wedding on the property a wide berth whenever possible. The white dresses, the spilled mimosas, the flower petals. It’s all a lot for him to process.
Bride Number Two says, “That’s nice of you but—”
Bride Number One jumps in, “We accept! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
“But it doesn’t matter what I say because she’s happy, so I’m happy,” says Bride Number Two, squeezing Number One into her side. Her tone drips with truth. That’s love for you, and love is something Ethan will never stop believing in.
He loves Samara, he loves Nana, he loves Gabriel and Giselle and he loves Storybook Endings Resort for all its faults. He’s even open to the possibility of falling in and being in love again one day. Someday.
In his mind’s eye, he conjures Taylor from last night in the hallway, cleaned up and back in his pajamas. Equally as beautiful as he was when he was buck naked and panting for him.
“Good night, Ethan,” he’d said, a flattering pink flush still stuck to the tops of his cheeks.
“Good night, Taylor.” Unsure what was appropriate, Ethan leaned in and, with his hand on Taylor’s right elbow, he kissed that warm pink flush.
But there is no use considering an impossible future. Feelings are as fleeting as the weather. Today, a downpour. Tomorrow, a drought. That’s the usual score, so he won’t succumb to improbabilities.
For the next several hours, he talks with the brides—Sloane and Kimmie—so he can get a sense of their personalities. He’s even able to coordinate with one of the mothers to get an e-mailed copy of the original officiant’s script, so he can play mouthpiece instead of the all-knowing voice. Of course, he’ll make plenty of tweaks so it comes out authentic.
Later, he finishes a few odds and ends at reception, then returns to the cottage in search of his best suit. It’s been ages since he’s worn it, which accounts for why he tears apart his already chaotic closet, but not for why it doesn’t show up in the piles.
“Looking for something?”
Ethan jumps at the sound of Taylor’s voice. He hadn’t heard the door or the footsteps, too frustrated by his fruitless hunt. “My suit.”
“What’s it look like?” Taylor’s eyes scan the room. It’s only then that Ethan realizes what an untenable mess he’s made. That happens sometimes. He gets so lost in the haze of a task that he makes a million new tasks for himself in the process. Taylor appears entirely unfazed, his face showing zero judgment.
“Uh, it looks like…a suit?” Ethan rubs his sweaty palms on the front of his jeans, in patches where the denim is already worn and likely near tearing. Taylor yips out a laugh. “It won’t come as much of a surprise that I don’t dress up often. Not many reasons to, as of late.”
“What reason do you have now?” Taylor asks, leaning in the door frame.
“The wedding tonight lost its officiant. I offered to stand in since I’m ordained.”
“You are?” Taylor asks.
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just thought…”
Ethan’s eyes fall to the floor. “It was before the divorce. Started as a joke and became a thing among our friends.”
“I see. Well, if I find the suit for you, do I get to witness this officiating?” Taylor asks, eyebrows up in apparent challenge.
Ethan folds his arms across his chest. “Why would you want to attend the wedding of two people you don’t know?”
“I like weddings…” he says jovially. “I’m also curious what you look like in a suit.”
Flattery gets you everywhere. “Fine. It’s a deal.”
Less than two minutes later, Taylor’s back with the suit hanging inside a dry cleaning bag. It crinkles loudly as Taylor hands it to him. “Here you are.”
“I never stood a chance, did I?” Ethan asks.
Taylor shrugs, smiles shamelessly. “I remembered seeing it in the hall closet when I was on a hunt for a robe the night of the storm.” He slowly backs out of the room, hands in his pockets, eyelashes fluttering. Too bad last night proved that this innocence is an act. “I’ll leave you to get ready. What time should I be there?”