Chapter 16 Rhiannon #2
Robert picks up a flyer on the way into the hotel lobby.
“Perched on the tip of the lush Lapad Peninsula in the neighborhood of Babin Kuk, the Aurelia Grand Resort is conveniently located close to the storied Old Town. This five-star hotel features elegant accommodations with dazzling vistas of the Adriatic.” He flashes a grin at me. “Consider me dazzled.”
“And all we’ve done is cross the threshold.” I return his smile. “I guess your bar is pretty low.”
“Most of my travel has been to war-torn nations, and I’ve never had the five-star treatment.
” He’s almost bouncing as we approach the check-in desk.
“I know it’s not really our honeymoon, but I’m excited to have a week by the sea in the sun.
And you can bet your arse I’ll be destroying the hotel’s ‘award-winning buffet breakfast and fine cuisine at La Mar.’ ” He reads off the leaflet again.
“I love fine cuisine. I love all cuisine. I’ve rarely met a cuisine I didn’t like. ”
Not that I’ll say this out loud because I’m standing firmly behind my “I hate his guts” peace wall that’s firmly and sturdily in place, but his excitement is adorable.
When the receptionist hangs up the phone and turns her attention to us, instant love hearts appear in her eyes at the sight of Robert’s smile.
I can’t blame her; it’s even more dazzling than the hotel. I won’t be telling him that, either.
“Checking in?”
“Yes, the surname is Wilson.” My insides cringe that I’m still associating with my ex, but it didn’t occur to me to change it when I called to change our room from the honeymoon suite to a room with two beds.
I was so focused on not spooning Robert McAllister that I didn’t think about checking in under George’s name.
The receptionist clicks the keyboard. “Ah, yes. Two adults staying for one week in a king room.” She flashes a wide smile over the computer screen. “I believe congratulations are in order. It’s been prepaid, so I’ll just need a credit card for incidentals please.”
My face heats. “Actually, I called last week to request a change to a room with two beds.”
She purses her lips, two lines appearing between her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, but…” She taps more keys, the frown deepens. “It seems a change was made from our Presidential Suite to a king room.”
No. No, no, no. I don’t want to share a bed with this man. We’ve already slept together. We’re here in a romantic, luxury hotel for a week. I’m undoubtedly going to drink. And the last thing I need is to wake up pressed against deliciously hot, rugged temptation with morning wood.
We made rules for this very specific reason. While my self-control is iron clad, because he’s an arsehole journo, there’s no denying that he’s hot as hell.
“We’ll take adjoining rooms, if you don’t have a room with two beds.” I pull my purse out of my handbag. “I’m happy to pay the difference.” I’m actually not—this place wasn’t cheap to book, and this change to two rooms is going to sting me for a small fortune.
A pang of guilt strikes as I’m reminded that if I’d confronted that bastard before my wedding day, his mother wouldn’t have paid for this trip.
I’ll pay her back at some point, I have to. But for now, whatever it takes to have a bed of my own.
Her confusion is clear as to why we’d want separate rooms when we’re here on our honeymoon, but to her credit, she doesn’t say anything. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Wilson.”
My face contorts without conscious thought. For so long all I wanted was to be Mrs. George Wilson, and now someone thinks I am, and it makes me queasy. How quickly things change.
“But we don’t have anything else available. We’re fully booked.”
My stomach dips even lower. No. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life, only in the movies, or those romance novels Clíodhna makes us all read for book club. “Surely you have some rooms you keep aside in case of emergency?”
I hear the desperation in my voice, but panic has my chest in a vise. If anyone gets wind of us staying in separate rooms on this romantic holiday away, they’ll know it’s fake. Shit. Shit. Double shit.
The decision is out of my hands, though, and the receptionist shakes her head.
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do. The suite is no longer available, the king room is your only option.” She holds out the sleeve with our keys tucked inside.
“We’ll manage somehow, you know, slumming it in a king-sized room.
” Robert winks at her, and she melts. He’s actually quite charming, but my wall remains intact.
There’s no charm in Northern Ireland that can melt the structure, not even Robert’s, though you couldn’t tell that from the way the receptionist is fluttering her eyelids at him.
I steady my breathing. There’s bound to be a sofa or some kind of pull-out bed I can sleep on, to avoid breaking one of the damn rules. The ink is barely dry on our list. And if he keeps flashing that stupid, high-wattage smile, I might be tempted to carve out a door in my peace wall.
He guides me to the lift, pushes the button, and ushers me in when it arrives. “It’ll be grand, Rhiannon. We’ll make it work.”
When we open the door to our room, all oxygen leaves my lungs. It’s a one bedroom, one bathroom space, complete with a dining area, private, covered terrace, hot tub, and stunning sea view. The pictures online don’t do it justice.
“Sweet baby Jesus and the wee donkey.” Robert spins in a slow circle.
Aaaand there’s no fucking sofa.
“I know there’s a gorgeous beach down there.
” He points to the terrace with the backdrop of rolling hills leading into the Dubrovnik Riviera.
“But it looks to me like there’s no real need to go out or indeed see anyone if you didn’t want to.
This is…” He whistles through his teeth.
“What the hell does the Presidential Suite look like?”
Where the fuck is the sofa?
“Fuck me. This is impressive. And costly.” He turns to face me. “I feel like I need to offer some money to cover this. It can’t have been cheap.”
I swallow down another “What the fuck?” about the lack of a sofa in the damn room and try to steady myself.
“It wasn’t. But George’s mother paid since it was him that wanted something so extravagant, so thank you, Mrs. Wilson!
” Another twinge of guilt spears me in the chest. I’ll give her the money back.
It’s not her fault her son is a cheating arsehole.
There’s a bottle of champagne chilling in a metal bucket next to the dining table, and a note card congratulating the newlyweds and telling us to enjoy the cake in the fridge. Robert thrusts the card in a clutched hand into the air. “Cake!”
It takes him less than a minute to liberate the small cake from the fridge. Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. is written across the top of chocolate ganache and has a white heart in frosting next to the S. Once he has the cake and two forks, he jerks his chin at the champagne.
He seems way less bothered that there’s only one bed for the two of us.
Unless he thinks one of us will sleep on the floor.
I wince. I didn’t come to a five-star resort in Croatia to sleep on the floor, and while he was a reporter in the Middle East and probably slept on the floor sometimes, I can’t find it in my heart to make him take the hard floor, either.
“Come on, fake wife. Bring the glasses and let’s get stuck in.”
Fake wife. Huh. That’s a step up from girlfriend for sure.
If I hadn’t found out about that slut George and his sidepiece, I could be standing here, Mrs. George Wilson.
A shudder ripples up my spine as Robert makes his way out onto the terrace, plonks himself on the outdoor dinner table—because that’s just how extra we are for the next week—and turns toward me.
“Hurry up, my self-restraint only goes so far. If you take much longer, I’m going to dive right in, and I can’t guarantee there’ll be any left for you by the time you get out here.” He holds his fork hovering above the cake he’s cradling just under his chin.
Self-restraint only goes so far.
Feels a bit like an omen, but I can’t help smiling.
This is what I wanted, right? Time to reset, space from the news outlets and the pressure from my family, and an actual holiday with real sunshine.
Then why is there a sense of apprehension in my stomach that grows with every step I take toward the handsome man waiting to share a chocolate cake with me?