Chapter 1 #3
“On Sunday,” Bryce adds, “we’ve booked a cooking class with the lodge’s chef. He’s going to teach us how to prepare a sustainable farm-to-table meal.”
“And there’s optional yoga at sunrise for early birds,” Ava finishes. “The instructor is supposed to be amazing—she incorporates elements of sound healing and forest bathing.”
Naya clasps her hands together. “That sounds divine. I’ll be there.”
“I’m more of a sunset than a sunrise person,” Zara says with a laugh. “What about you, Owen?”
“Definitely not a sunrise yoga person,” I say, draining my third glass of wine. “But the hike sounds good.”
The alcohol is finally doing its job, softening the edges of my discomfort.
My thoughts are looser, less guarded. As the conversation flows around me, I find myself studying Slade more openly—the sharp line of his jaw beneath his closely trimmed beard, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders when he reaches for his water glass, how his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
His hands capture my attention most of all. Large and strong, with long fingers that move with precision even in casual gestures. Surgeon’s hands. Hands that hold lives, that fix what’s broken.
A bizarre thought crashes into me: If I were interested in men, I’d be all over Slade.
The realization jolts me. My arm jerks, knocking over my empty wine glass. It clatters against the table, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Shit, sorry,” I mutter, fumbling to right it.
Slade reaches over, his movements swift and sure. Our fingers brush as we both grab for the glass, and a current of something electric shoots up my arm. I withdraw as if burned.
“I think I need a stronger drink,” I announce, pushing my chair back. “Anyone else want anything from the bar?”
No one does, or if they do, I don’t hear them. I make my way across the dining room. At the bar, I order whiskey, neat. When it arrives, I down it in a single burning swallow.
“Another,” I tell the bartender, who raises an eyebrow but complies.
I need to get a grip. This is ridiculous.
I’m not attracted to Slade.
I’m not attracted to men, period. It’s just been a while since the breakup, and I’m confused, and seeing Maia with Jace is messing with my head.
The second whiskey arrives. I take a smaller sip this time, letting the burn ground me. Through the mirror behind the bar, I can see our table. Maia is whispering something in Jace’s ear. Ava is gesturing animatedly to Zara and Naya. And Slade…Slade is looking directly at me.
I toss back the rest of my drink and signal for another. If alcohol is what it takes to drown these confusing thoughts, then I’m prepared to become very good friends with this bottle of whiskey.
***
The hallway tilts and stretches before me like a funhouse mirror maze.
Room numbers swim in and out of focus as I squint at the brass plates, trying to remember which one belongs to me.
Two-forty? Four-twenty? My brain feels wrapped in cotton, courtesy of however many whiskeys I downed at the bar.
I’ve lost count—that was kind of the point.
I press a hand against the wall to steady myself. The eco-friendly textured wallpaper is rough beneath my fingertips.
“Two-forty,” I mumble to myself, the words slurring together. “Twoooo-forrrty.”
My feet don’t seem to be working in sync with my intentions. One step forward, slight wobble, course correction. I’m not that drunk. I’m functioning. I’m a highly functional drunk person who needs to find his fucking room.
A couple emerges from a door farther down the hall, their voices hushed and intimate.
I straighten my posture and nod at them as they pass, attempting to appear perfectly sober.
See? Just a normal guy returning to his room at—I glance at my watch, but the numbers blur together—whatever time it is. Nothing to see here.
That corridor contracts and expands with each step. Why are eco lodges always so aggressively earthy? Even drunk, I can smell the essential oils they must pump through the ventilation system. Lavender and something woodsy. Like Slade’s cologne.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge that thought. Bad idea. The hallway spins, and I have to pause again, leaning against the wall.
“Two-forty,” I say more firmly. Focus on the task. Find the room.
Finally, I spot it—the brass numbers gleaming under the soft, energy-efficient lighting. I fumble in my pocket for the keycard, nearly turning my pants inside out before locating it. When I pull it out, it slips through my fingers and flutters onto the carpet.
“Shit.”
I bend down to retrieve it, the floor rushing up to meet me faster than expected. I catch myself with one hand, grab the card with the other, and push back up—an impressive feat of coordination, if I do say so myself.
The keycard hovers near the slot, my hand unsteady. I miss on the first attempt, scraping the plastic against the metal frame. On the second attempt, the card goes in upside down, and the little light blinks red in judgment. On the third try, I drop it again.
“Fucking technology,” I mutter, crouching down once more. My knees crack in protest.
Card retrieved, I stand with exaggerated care. I hold it in front of my face, squinting at the tiny arrow that indicates which way it should go. This time, I approach the lock with the focus of a bomb technician.
The little light blinks green. A soft beep signals my victory.
“Hell, yeah,” I whisper, grinning at my triumph.
I push the door open, stepping into absolute darkness.
The blackout curtains must be drawn, blocking even the faint moonlight.
I consider flipping on the light switch, but dismiss the idea.
Slade is probably asleep, and I’m not an asshole.
I can navigate a hotel room in the dark. How difficult could it be?
I close the door behind me, plunging myself into complete darkness. My eyes struggle to adjust, but alcohol has dampened their adaptive abilities. I stand still for a moment, trying to remember the layout of the room from earlier. Two beds. Nightstand between them. Bathroom to the right. Simple.
“I got this,” I assure myself quietly.
First order of business: shoes. I toe off one loafer, then the other, nearly losing my balance in the process. My hand shoots out to steady myself against what I think is the wall but turns out to be nothing at all. I stumble forward two steps before regaining equilibrium.
Next: jacket. I shrug it off, the fabric catching on my watch. I tug, hearing a ripping sound. Future Owen’s problem. I drop the jacket somewhere in the vicinity of where I imagine a chair might be.
My fingers fumble with my shirt buttons.
Why are they so small? Who designed these torture devices?
I manage to undo about half before giving up and pulling the shirt over my head like a t-shirt.
It gets stuck, and I spin in a slow circle, arms tangled above me, before freeing myself with a triumphant grunt.
Belt next. The buckle clinks loudly in the silent room, and I freeze, listening for any sign that I’ve disturbed Slade. Nothing. The man must sleep like the dead. I pull the belt free with a soft whipping sound that seems obscenely loud.
Pants now. I unbutton them and try to step out of one leg while balancing on the other. Physics and alcohol conspire against me, and I hop awkwardly, arms windmilling, before catching myself on what I think is the dresser. Success.
I stand in my underwear, oddly proud of having undressed without falling or waking my roommate. A master of stealth. A ninja. If project management doesn’t work out, I could have a promising career in covert operations.
The next challenge: finding my bed. I know it was the one farthest from the door, but the darkness makes distance hard to judge.
I stretch my arms out in front of me like a zombie from a B-movie, shuffling forward.
My shin connects with something hard—probably the corner of the bed frame—and I bite back a curse.
I sidestep, hands groping through the dark. My fingers brush against fabric—sheets, a comforter. This must be it. I feel along the edge of the bed, finding where the covers are turned down. Perfect.
I grasp the side of the comforter and fling it back with dramatic flair, probably more vigorously than necessary. The soft whoosh of fabric is satisfying. I lean forward, ready to fall face-first into the welcoming embrace of a mattress.
Instead, I land on something decidedly un-mattress-like. Something solid. Warm. Moving.
Human.
My alcohol-slowed brain takes several seconds to process this information. In that time, I’m sprawled across what is undeniably a person’s body. A male person. A male person who smells like woodsy cologne.
Slade.
Oh god.
Suddenly, a deep, sleep-roughened voice cuts through the darkness. “Can I help you?”