Chapter 9
CARLIE
Itoss clothes into my oversized luggage as Mills sits on the end of my bed, hands wrapped around her mug. The scent of her chamomile tea infuses through my room.
“I’ll be fine, sweetheart. I’m not a child. I’ve been taking care of myself for decades.”
“I know, but what if something happens and I’m not here?” I stop packing, and her hand rests over mine. The stone that swelled in my airway at the thought of leaving Mills here alone only grows.
“You like this job, right?” Mills sets her mug on my bedside and shuffles closer.
With her dressing gown on and rollers in, she looks like Sophia from The Golden Girls. My heart squeezes in my chest. She’s my adopt-a-grandma, my best friend. My reason to fight for everything.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Good. Well, you’re going. It’s only a week, and I have this thing called a cell phone. I’ll send you a text every day, okay?”
“Fine.” I sit on the bed next to her. “What if I can’t move past this? What if Rawlins and I can’t figure this baggage out?”
She tilts her head. “My precious girl. You can do absolutely anything you put your mind to. I saw that the day I met you. Heavens above, you saved my life. You’ve already done the hardest thing a person can ever do.
” Silver lines her eyes. “Now, it’s past this little old lady’s bedtime. Night, sweetheart.”
“Night, Mills,” I choke out.
She forgot her mug.
I chuckle at her forgetfulness. But an hour later, it’s the little things that could go wrong that have me tossing and turning.
What if she forgets to turn off the stove. What if she forgets to lock the front door or to look before crossing the street . . .
So much for sleep.
My alarm snaps me out of my restless sleep. On a fucking Sunday. I fumble for my phone. It slides from the bedside to the floor.
“Fuck,” I groan.
Rolling over, I toss the blankets off and sit up on the side of the bed. My phone lights up again. A text.
From . . . Rawlins.
Urgh.
Carpool?
Not likely.
Um, I meant, can I bum a lift?
Are you serious?
This son of a bitch doesn’t have a car?
Fine. But we’re splitting the gas. And one syllable about my driving and you’re walking.
Righto, Rubes.
Huh?
Who the hell is Rubes?
Perplexed, I shower and dress and double-check I have everything before doing a thorough run-through with Millie on safety stuff while I’m gone.
“Remember to turn off the stove at the wall, okay? Double-check the front door every night, do not rely on the automated locking system. Check it.”
She swats my arm, and her brows drop into a rare frown. “Would you get out of here, already? My life is not that eventful. Book club is the most exciting thing I’ll be doing while you’re gone, and it’s only two blocks away.”
That makes me freeze, and she deflates. “Please, sweetheart, do something for you. Just this once.”
I sigh and fold her in a bear hug. With my heels on, I tower over her. She slides an awkward arm upward and pats my cheek.
I’m suffocating her.
Her signal letting me know I’m squishing her. I have a habit of doing that.
“If I don’t get a reply to my morning text every single morning, there will be hell to pay, Millicent DeLuca.”
“Good lord, not the full name, Mom.” She winks at me. The little shit.
I peck her cheek. “Love you. Enjoy your week of solace.”
“You too,” she says with absolute cheek.
I press the center button on the handle of my suitcase and shoulder my handbag as I turn for the door. A hand swats my ass, and I shoot Mills a glare over my shoulder. “Just as well I love you.”
She cackles. “Just getting my turn in before the cowboy does.”
I roll my eyes at her, and she pulls a crazy face.
Scrunching my face up in a goodbye smile, I slip through the door and pad the ten steps to the elevator.
In the garage, I hit the keypad on my car key, and the BMW’s lights flash with a high-pitched chirp.
I haul my bag into the trunk and slam it shut.
Sinking into the driver’s seat, I fire her up. The low rumble of my car always sends lightning through my veins. Something my mother never understood. “Boys and men like cars, not women,” she would say any time I showed interest in a car. To my credit, they were always luxury cars.
I pull out onto the street and slip between traffic, flying toward the drop pin Rawlins sent me before I walked out the door.
“Siri, take me to the latest drop pin.”
“Taking you to East 73rd Street.”
Lord above, slumming it, Rawlins.
When I pull up out front of a five-story attached brownstone, I honk the horn as I pull up level with the man himself and his luggage. He stands in Levi’s and a polo shirt with aviators and his usual messy brown hair parted to one side. A small piece of luggage sits at his feet.
He slides the aviators down his face and frowns.
Seriously?
I hit the trunk button and climb from the car. “If you’re waiting for a limo, you’ll be here a while.”
He slides the glasses up onto his head and smiles. “Mornin’ to you, too.”
The fucking nerve on this guy. I swear, he only uses that damn drawl when he thinks it’s going to piss me off.
“Whatever. Get your shit in the trunk; this doesn’t have to take all day.”
I sit back in the driver’s seat and check my phone. Nothing from Mills yet.
Of course there isn’t.
The car dips with his weight as he fills out the passenger seat, surprising me. It’s been ages since I’ve had a guy in my car, and none have affected the suspension.
Rawlins is lean and fit . . . and looking oversized in the passenger’s seat.
His aftershave fills the small space. My heart races, sending short, useless breaths to expand my lungs.
I clear my throat and secure my seat belt over my lap before flicking the turn signal and pulling from the curb and into traffic.
“Nice wheels,” he says softly.
My skin is awash with goosebumps at his low tone.
Ignoring him, I tighten my grip on the wheel.
“Should take us about two hours,” he says, tapping his phone.
“Yup.” I let the p pop.
Longest two hours of my life.
“Not really one for small talk, are you, Lamont?”
“Absolutely. Just . . . not with you.”
He chuckles.
“Well, we’re going to have to sort it out before we both end up unemployed.”
“You mean, you’ll be unemployed. I have prospects.”
He dares to chuckle again.
It takes every fiber in my being to not ram his side of the car into the guard rail as we merge onto the highway.
As if I would ever . . . My beautiful BMW, I would never.
But it’s a fucking temptation.
With a satisfying lack of small talk, or any talk at all, we reach Hartford in under two hours. I pull into the parking lot of the retreat. The huge sign welcoming all to Cedar Beach Lodge passes overhead as we roll into the last of the free parking spots.
The place is buzzing with activity. It must be high season.
People mill about the expansive grounds. A group is in the middle of a yoga lesson to one side of the main building. A few folks lounge by a beach-type pool area that looks like it has a bungalow-inspired bar with grass hut vibes, complete with a couple of waitresses sporting coconut bikini tops.
Shaking my head, I glance at Rawlins, who is taking in our surroundings, his glasses pulled down with one hand.
I check the gauges and kill the engine.
I leave Rawlins to grab our bags as I check in. He can figure out his accommodations after he hauls the luggage in.
The girl behind the counter shoots me a nervous smile as she appears to be checking and double-checking something. “So, we have you booked for the week, with an option for ten days if needed.”
I raise an eyebrow.
God no. There is no way I’m prolonging this torture.
Damn you, Serelle. Always finding a way to keep us accountable.
“Okay . . .” I study her face.
Why is she so nervous? I school back the resting bitch face that usually takes up permanent residence on my features. She taps away again before lifting the receiver on the phone. “Monty, we have an issue with the bookings.”
She hums in agreement as Monty, or whoever, replies on the other end of the line. And when she hangs up with a tight smile, I know something is off.
“So, we had your last-minute booking, but your two twin rooms that were booked got snatched up earlier.”
“What does that mean?”
“We only have a larger suite left.”
“Okay, so I’ll take that.”
“No, sorry. I must not be explaining it right.” She shifts on her feet.
Rawlins appears at my side with all the luggage and a smile on his smug face. “What’s going on?”
“There is only one room left.” The girl at the desk flickers her gaze between us like she’s watching two dangerous predators and trying to figure out which one is going to rip her to shreds first.
“That’s okay, we’ll take it,” Rawlins says.
“It’s the couples suite,” the girl says softly, like the words will get her eaten by the nearest predator.
“We will not.” A look of horror stretches my face.
“Yes, we will. Unless you would prefer to sleep on the lawn and see the sunrise for the next seven-to-ten days.” Rawlins waves a hand at the expansive outdoor area.
I drill him with a glare that heats my own face with its afterglow. I force a smile and return my focus to the girl behind the desk. “Fine.”
“It really is our nicest suite. I think you’ll find it most lovely.” The girl tries to banish my expression of horror, now melted to a fiery annoyance, from existence.
“I’m sure it will, Jessica. Don’t stress, hey.” Rawlins leans on the counter, giving her a smile.
Good lord, this man is detestable.
She hands him the keys, complete with a sparkling red, and rather obnoxious, heart. She holds one up to me, the heart pink. I snatch it from her hand and stalk from the office with a sigh.
Of all the ridiculous things . . . The only two people in the state of New York who can barely stand sharing an office have to share an even more intimate space.
I’d bet my left breast Serelle set this little shenanigan up.
Double-booked, my ass.
We cross the lawn to the furthest bungalow. The oversized hut has a tropical, Bali-inspired thatched roof over its round architecture. The door is unlocked. A handle, that gives way under the lightest touch, gleams under two semi-faded hearts, one red and one pink.
Because of course it does.
I push open the door, and it swings back to reveal a studio type room, but round. On one side, there’s a kitchenette. On the other, a flat-screen, but no sofa. Who has a television and no sofa? A faux wall highlights the massive bed that is the central feature of the Couples Suite.
No sofa.
One bed.
Copious amounts of pillows top the bed along with rose petals and a towel rolled and twisted into the shape of a heart.
A bottle of champagne and gold heart chocolates sits between them.
A small tray of strawberries and what looks like a tiny bowl of chocolate fondue tucked into one side also sits on the white linen.
“Son of a bitch,” I hiss, dropping my key on the small bamboo side table.
Wheels rolling over hardwood drags my gaze back to the front door. Rawlins stops, our bags in hand, and lifts his aviators up as he takes in the bungalow.
A smirk tugs at his lips, but his jaw clenches. “Now, this is fucking cozy.”
Urgh, fuck my life.