Chapter 6
Amy
It’s been three days since we arrived at the hotel.
And I, admittedly, am bored. The first day I was so terrified that I didn't leave my room. My grandmother took me down for dinner at the hotel restaurant since I didn’t bring any clothes for anything fancier.
As it was, no one seemed to take me seriously in the restaurant in my jeans and nice blouse.
I’ve never really needed to bring anything beyond that when I stayed with my grandparents since they have a personal chef.
My grandmother noticed, and seemed upset about it. She instructed me to go shopping in the hotel’s shops and have it charged to the room. I didn’t even realize that hotels have shops. Another world, indeed. Apparently I need at least three new outfits that are appropriate for business meetings.
I hate this, how much I’m being forced into a mold. I hate being forced to be something I’m not, no matter what it is, but this feels particularly bad. But there’s no use crying over spilled milk, right? I’m trying desperately to remain positive here.
I didn’t have the courage to do much on the second day, either.
I went down just to explore and see what the setup of these shops were, but the attendants were dressed so fancy and looked hungry for sales, which intimidated me.
My grandmother hadn’t given me a budget, but surely there was one.
How was I supposed to know what to buy and how much to spend?
Apparently, I’m just supposed to know what’s expected of me. Per usual, I don’t.
The amenities of this hotel are unreal. Even the gym has a chandelier in it. Seems stupid to me, but there’s a lot of things that are stupid in my opinion that others find glamorous.
But let me tell you what isn’t stupid. The pools.
My god, are they beautiful. There’s multiple of them, including a whole lazy river that looks like it’s going through a cave system.
So. Cool. But most people didn’t seem to be using that.
Instead, most of them are swimming laps in a long, square pool, the most boring one of all.
Yeah, it’s probably the one that’s best suited for exercise, but still. Boring.
I’m not wearing my bathing suit, so I just look around, admiring the sights. Some people give me weird looks, but I just smile at them and keep going. I’m a guest here, too, so I should be able to do what I want.
I did bring my bathing suit, but I’m not so sure I’ll be using these facilities, because, let me tell you, everyone in here is gorgeous.
I’m sure people who recruit models wander around here and look for potential swimsuit models because this seems like the perfect place to find them.
Maybe that’s why people are giving me weird looks, because I don’t belong. I can’t say I blame them.
As I walk around the pool to get a better look at the lazy river, a man walks out of the pool, passing by me as water drips off of him.
He’s gotta be an actor or something, because with a face like that?
He has to be. He flashes a dazzling smile at me and I return it with a tight-lipped smile of my own, my classic go-to for strangers.
I move around him to continue on my mission of exploring this massive pool area. They really have the landscape around the pools nicely decorated, too. It seems to be kind of tropical themed, with birds of paradise, orchids, and other tropical flowers.
Eventually, I see all I can of the pool area without actually getting in any water, so I head back out to glance at the shops again.
I have the place better mapped out, so when I actually do get the courage to go shopping, I know where I’m going and what it’ll look like.
Then I return to my room to be a hermit again.
And that’s how we got here, three days after we arrived at the hotel, and I’m getting ready to go shopping for real this time. My grandparents have barely spoken to me, apparently busy with ‘preparations’. I don’t know what that means and I’m not sure I want to. The prospect scares me.
And, as far as I know, there’s been no word from Curry Alldare or whatever his name is. Obviously, I know that’s not his name, and honestly, it’s offensive to curry, which is delicious. However, a bit of humor is all I can do to cope.
I dress in jeans and a t-shirt from one of my favorite k-pop bands. What do rich people wear to shop? Surely they don’t just wear Gucci the entire time.
Okay, maybe they do. But don’t they like wearing band tees, too?
I feel like they do, even if they don’t know the bands.
Because it’s edgy or cool or something. But they probably don’t wear jeans from Walmart, which is what I’m wearing now.
No one can tell, anyway, that my jeans aren’t designer just from a glance. All jeans look the same, right?
Wrong.
The sales associates clock me as soon as I walk in.
I don’t know how, but they do. There’s two of them working in the first store I enter, and both of them glance over at me, look me up and down, and must think I’m a poor tourist because both of them focus on the one middle-aged lady that’s looking over some watches.
Surely she doesn’t need both of their help.
But that’s fine, honestly, because their attention would just make me nervous, anyway. Still, I rehearse what I’m going to say to them if they do decide to grace me with their presence.
The stuff in this boutique is cute. Honestly, nothing grand. But they should be for the prices they’re asking for. $600 for a plain white clutch handbag? I feel like I’ve seen the same thing at Walmart. I probably have. Wouldn’t put it past designer labels to just swap out their tags.
Even if I can stomach making my grandparents pay for these prices, we have another issue: size.
The biggest sizes this boutique goes up to is medium.
Since I’m decidedly not that, I venture out and go to the next shop.
And then the next. Until it quickly becomes a pattern of hey, you don’t belong here, and we aren’t going to accommodate you.
Not in customer service, not in sizes, certainly not in prices.
And not in the heavy perfume that seems to flow through all of these shops like oxygen.
That’s really not accommodating for anyone autistic.
This is exhausting. I decide I need a break, so I can try to figure out how to tell my grandmother her plan to get me well-dressed has some fatal flaws.
I need to feel normal for a bit, not some outsider who’s trespassing.
Coffee. Coffee will do it. Just going to a normal person’s coffee shop, breathing in the delicious scent of those beans, and blending in with the crowd.
I need to blend in, just for an hour or two.
Then I can go back to luxury-ville and maybe manage to convince one of the clerks to let me buy a shopping bag big enough for me to wear, because god knows that’s the only thing that’ll probably fit me in those shops.
I plug in ‘coffee’ to my phone’s GPS, and look beyond the hotel’s cafe and the Starbucks that are dotted around nearby to service the rich crowd. Finally, I find what seems like a mom and pop shop a couple blocks away and get to walking.
The city is loud. A car honking on the street startles me every few minutes, even though I know it’s normal.
It’s New York City, after all. I think about putting in some earplugs I always keep on me, but honestly, I’m worried about limiting my senses and getting mugged or something.
My anxiety battles with my overstimulation, and by the time I reach the coffee shop, I feel rattled.
It sucks.
The coffee shop is full of people. At least, that’s what it feels like to someone who’s overstimulated by crowded spaces and is used to small towns.
In reality, I don’t think it’s at full capacity, since it’s two in the afternoon and the baristas look relaxed even as they make the drinks.
The loud screeching of the coffee machine makes me wince.
Oop. This may not have been a good idea after all.
I get in line, ignoring the jingling of the bell over the door as people enter and exit.
I shuffle to let people pass, and when someone gets in line behind me, I make sure I’m not in their way.
The anxiety of the moment distracts me, and I don’t even look at the menu until the person ahead of me is ordering. Shit. I need to focus. What do I want?
In truth, I really didn’t come here for a drink, but just to feel normal for a bit. And normal people drink coffee and do some research in coffee shops.
I finally decide on a mocha cold brew with toasted marshmallow foam. Seems like a good choice and right up my alley. I’m not used to such fancy options in the cozy coffee shops in my small town in upstate New York, where it’s mostly country.
Finally, it’s my turn to order, and the barista is chipper as she greets me. I stutter a bit as I place my order, damn mouth not working properly, the traitor, and I get out my wallet. “Will that be all?” The barista asks as she puts in my order.
I open my mouth to say yes when a voice speaks up behind me.
“No, I’d like a large flat white, please.
” I look over my shoulder to the guy behind me, about to tell him off for tacking onto my order, or at least try to since my brain isn’t in the mood to cooperate apparently, when I realize his accent is Irish.
It’s Irish. And then I recognize him from the pool I had just visited hours earlier, the really good looking guy that smiled at me.
Shit. Double shit. Triple shit.
As my mind reels, the barista looks between us in some confusion as she probably thought we weren’t together. Hell, I thought we weren’t together until he joined my order.
He tells her that’s all we’re having, and pulls out his card and pays.
My open wallet is dangling limply because I’m either an idiot or I’m in shock, or both.
As the barista hurries to make our orders, he gently pushes my hand down with the wallet.
“I thought it was time for us to meet, Miss Astero. And I wanted to do it on our own terms instead of some awkward arranged meeting. I hope you don’t mind. ”
I just blink up at him, mind feeling foggy, like it was filled with mush instead of neurons. “Um, yeah. Thanks for the coffee.”
He grins at me, as if he can tell I’m frazzled and finds it amusing. Damn it. “It’s my pleasure. Shall we get a seat?”
I nod, holding onto my wallet like it’s a lifeline, and follow him as he finds an empty table in the corner. He pulls out the seat for me before sitting down on the opposite side, his vantage point giving him a clear view of the entire coffee shop.
I shift nervously in my seat. “You’re…him, I suppose?”
He chuckles softly, eyes twinkling with amusement. Apparently everything I do is amusing to him. “Yes. I’m Kerry Alasdair. And you’re Amy Astero, my fiancée.”
Ah, fuck. Here he is. In the flesh. Looking calm, confident, and way more handsome than I thought. Like…not a bald spot on him. Damn him. Instead, he could be a model. I had compared him to such before I even knew his identity.
This is going to be an interesting meeting. Hell, it’s going to be an interesting marriage.
And I’m petrified to find out what he wants our marriage to look like.