Chapter 6 #2
“No, don’t,” I blurt quickly. “I’ll call them. You’re the one who’s already checked in.” I run a hand through my hair. “Sorry if I’m a bit frazzled. I’m exhausted from my long day of travel.”
His features soften with sympathy. “Why don’t you take a seat and relax for a bit? I’m not doing anything, so you can hang out as long as you need while we straighten this out.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Are you hungry? I was about to make myself a big sandwich and a tall spiced rum punch. I’d be happy to make both for you, too.”
His offer feels like a much-needed hug, the same way that nice lady’s kindness at the airport did. “Thank you. I’d love both, if it’s not too much of a bother.”
“Not a bother at all.”
While he busies himself in the adjacent kitchenette, I call the phone number listed at the bottom of my confirmation email, and sure enough, a full refund was sent yesterday to the credit card on file—Brandon’s parents’ card.
I clutch my chest as the hotel clerk explains everything to me, my spirit lodged into my toes.
“But wasn’t it too late to get a refund?” I ask hopefully.
“Normally, it would have been,” the clerk confirms. “We made an exception this time, given your family emergency and because we happened to have another guest willing to pay in full, right then.”
This is a nightmare. I don’t know what “family emergency” Brandon or his parents concocted to make the hotel bend the rules, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. Not when the money’s already been returned and I can’t afford even the cheapest room at this fancy resort.
The hotel clerk adds, “We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Gladstone. Our sincerest condolences.”
My stomach revolts. Please, let that be the last time anyone calls me that slur for the rest of my days. “Thank you.”
Mr. Beautiful returns with two fruity-looking drinks just as I’m disconnecting the call. When he sees my dejected face, his smile vanishes. “They’re not giving you another bungalow?”
I shake my head. “Looks like I’m going to have to find somewhere else to stay for the week. They’re all booked up.”
“What?” He places both drinks on a coffee table and sits next to me. “That’s unacceptable. They need to give you another bungalow.”
“They don’t have one to give.” I don’t know if that’s true, but there’s no way I’m going to reveal the truth about my situation to this man.
“Did you tell them to at least give you a suite or room in the main building?”
“They said the resort is all booked up. Every single room.” Again, I don’t know if that’s true. But God help me, I don’t want him picking up the phone and demanding another room on my behalf, only to find out they’ve given me a full refund, due to some made-up family emergency.
The man scratches his stubbled chin. “Come to think of it, I think they mentioned something about the resort being at full capacity when I extended my stay. Shoot. This is a pickle, huh?”
Goddamn, he’s gorgeous. His sheer physicality and proximity are conspiring to quicken my pulse.
I suddenly remember how I promised that nice airport lady I’d fulfill my every desire this week, big or small, in order to heal myself.
Well, I can’t imagine something I’d like to “do” more than this gorgeous man sitting next to me.
Not to mention, sleeping here for tonight would conveniently solve my current state of homelessness, if only temporarily, in addition to being a delightfully exciting thing to do.
Even if it’s only for one night, that’d at least give me a place to rest my weary head before setting out to find a motel or hostel somewhere on the island tomorrow.
Obviously, I’d never have sex with this man solely to finagle myself a place to sleep tonight.
I’d do it because he’s hot as hell and I’m in dire need of a pick-me-up.
But as luck would have it, sleeping with him would also solve my current housing crisis.
The only problem? I don’t have the courage to make the first move on this stunning hunk of a man.
Even if I did, however, who knows if he’d be willing to become my first-ever one-night stand.
For all I know, he’s not even attracted to me.
Or to women. Or maybe he’s got a wife or girlfriend back home—maybe even one who’s somewhere around here at the resort, like at the pool or spa.
I glance around the space for evidence of a woman staying here. Shoes, a purse, a bikini drying on the deck. Did I see makeup on the counter in the bathroom? Were there two toothbrushes or only one? I can’t remember any of those details.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” he says. Whatever he’s seeing on my face, he apparently thinks I need reassurance. “I tell you what. I’ll make those sandwiches, and after you’ve had a chance to fuel up and rest, we’ll search online together for a nearby bungalow for you.”
“Thanks for the sweet offer to help, but I’ll search for another room by myself. I don’t want you interrupting your vacation.”
“It’s the least I can do. I feel terrible about the mix-up. I wonder how it happened?”
I don’t want to keep lying to his nice man.
Lying isn’t par for the course for me. How could I teach preschoolers about the importance of being honest at all times if I weren’t committed to honesty myself?
And yet, in this one unique situation, I feel like lying would be the right thing for my mental health.
Surely, telling him the truth about my embarrassing situation would feel a whole lot worse than telling a tiny lie about what brought me here today.
“I was supposed to come here with a friend,” I blurt, “but she had to cancel at the last minute for a work emergency.” I clear my throat. “I bet they thought her cancellation was for both of us.”
“That has to be it.”
I look around again. “So, um, are you here alone, or . . . ?”
The man nods and leans back into the couch. “My entire extended family was here all week for my cousin’s wedding, but everyone left this morning. I was supposed to leave with them, but the opportunity to play golf with an old friend came up, so I stayed for that.”
Does his “extended family” include a wife or significant other?
Is the “old friend” he stayed to hook up with actually a woman he’s planning to bang?
I’m dying to know some more details but way too shy to ask, so I take an indirect approach.
“Is there anybody back home, or maybe on their way here, who’s going to be upset with you for letting some random woman hang out in your bungalow for a little while? ”
“Not a soul.” He shoots me a sexy, lopsided grin. “What about you? Is there somebody back home who’d be pissed to find out you’re hanging out with a strange man in what was supposed to be your bungalow?”
Is he flirting with me? Increasingly, it’s starting to feel like it.
“Nope, there’s nobody. I’m single, the same as you.
” If my assumption about his relationship status is incorrect, he’d better correct me now.
Barring that, I’ve just made the firm decision to venture outside of my comfort zone and do my damnedest to seduce him.
Admittedly, I don’t know how to do that, but there’s a first time for everything, and this man is too hot not to at least try.
Mr. Beautiful extends his large palm. “I’m Roman, by the way.”
“Iris.” I shake his offered hand, and a jolt passes through me at the point of contact. “It’s nice to meet you, Roman. Sorry it had to happen like this.”
“I’m not complaining.” He flashes me a million-dollar smile that sends an electric current coursing through me. Okay, that smile definitely feels flirty.
“I’m not normally this frazzled,” I say. “On top of being sleep deprived from stressing about my friend cancelling on me, I’m also hungover from partying with my friends last night.”
“Yeah? Well, in that case . . .” Roman grabs one of the drinks from the coffee table and hands it to me with a wink. “Sounds like you could use some hair of the dog.”
“Definitely. Thank you.” I watch him take a long sip of his own matching cocktail, but I don’t follow suit.
“Sorry to ask,” I say, after he lowers his glass.
“But will you swap drinks with me? I promised my father when I went off to college I’d never accept a drink from a stranger, unless I’d watched it being made from start to finish, and I’ve never once broken that promise. ”
Roman doesn’t seem fazed. “Your dad’s a smart man. There are a lot of creeps out there.”
Yeah, I almost married one yesterday.
We swap drinks, and Roman takes a long, greedy sip of the cocktail that used to be mine—and, holy crap, the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing is extremely sexy to me for some reason.
I follow his lead and guzzle my new drink, and fruity, spicy deliciousness awakens my taste buds. “This hits the spot. Thank you. It’s delicious.”
“Isn’t it? I made this same cocktail for my whole family all week, and we were all obsessed.
” He drags his perfect teeth seductively over his lower lip.
“How long ago did you make that promise to your father, by the way?” When I look at him blankly, he adds, “You said you promised your dad you wouldn’t take drinks from strangers when you went off to college. How long ago was that, exactly?”
I return his wicked grin. I still get carded all the time, so I know for a fact I look much younger than my age. Could it be this sexy man is making sure I’m a full-blown adult because he’s having the same kinds of naughty thoughts I’m having about me spending the night here with him?
“Is that your way of asking my age, Roman?”
“It sure is, Iris.” He chuckles.
“I’m twenty-six. You?”
“Thirty-two.”
Excellent. Kaylee once told me men in their thirties and forties generally have more confidence and skill in the bedroom than men in their twenties.
She would know. Unlike me, our vivacious, carefree Kaylee’s had lots of partners, of all ages, which is why I’ve always lived vicariously through her.
Brandon’s the only guy I’ve ever been with, and unfortunately, sex with him was never what I’d call exciting.
I’ve always wondered if me not being able to have an orgasm with Brandon—I can only do it when I’m alone and using my vibrator—is a “me” problem, a “Brandon” problem, or an “us” problem. And now, out of nowhere, it seems I might unexpectedly have found the perfect man to help me figure that out.
Roman’s dark eyes flash. “Are you in a rush to get out of here, Iris?”
“Not at all.”
“What do you think about us taking our drinks onto the deck with a plate of cheese and crackers before I start making our sandwiches?”
“That sounds great. Other than figuring out where I’m going to sleep tonight, I’ve got absolutely nothing to do.”
“You could crash here tonight, if you’re comfortable with that. There’s a bed and a couch, so we’d make it work.”
Well, that escalated quickly. Is he simply being polite, or is he thinking what I’m thinking? “Thank you so much. That takes the pressure off.”
“Good. No stress allowed. You’re on vacation.”
At Roman’s urging, I head onto the deck with my drink while he makes a snack plate for us, and a moment later, he joins me on a cushioned outdoor couch.
“I love the ocean,” I say, gazing out at the nearby vibrant waves. “I went to the coast all the time when I lived in LA for school. I miss it so much now that I live in Denver.”
“No ocean there.”
“Nope. What about you? Where do you live?”
“Delaware. There’s a long coastline, but it’s nothing like this.”
“This is heaven on Earth.”
He sips his drink. “Are you originally from Denver?”
“No, I grew up in a small town in Washington State. It’s about two hours northeast of Seattle.”
At Roman’s prompting, I tell him some details about my quaint, beloved hometown, Orchard Blossom, and all the reasons it was a perfect, magical place for a kid to grow up.
“It’s right out of a movie,” I say in wrap-up. “You can’t walk down the street without bumping into someone who’s known you forever. What about you? Where’d you grow up?”
“Pennsylvania. I left for college and then moved to Delaware for a job.”
Pennsylvania. Delaware. I can’t help noticing he’s only naming states and not specific cities. Is that what people normally do when they’re anticipating a one-night stand—they don’t reveal too much personal information? Since I’ve never had one, I have no idea how they usually unfold.
We talk a bit more, until Roman holds up his empty glass and says, “I think I’m ready for a refill and a sandwich. You?”
“Sounds great.”
Roman rises from the couch. “Relax. I’ll handle everything.”
“No, I’d like to help.” I stand alongside him. “Right after I pee, that is. I didn’t finish earlier for some weird reason.” I snicker. “Somehow, I got hopelessly distracted.”
Roman returns my snicker. “What a coincidence. I got pretty damned distracted earlier myself.”
Excitement courses through me. Lust. I’m pretty sure it’s coursing between us. Which means, if all this flirting keeps up, we definitely won’t need either of us to sleep on the couch tonight.
I follow Roman through a pair of French doors, and when we’re both inside the bungalow, he heads toward the kitchen, while I beeline for the bathroom.
“Don’t go anywhere, Roman,” I coo over my shoulder. I’m trying my best to come off as flirtatious and sultry, but instantly, I realize that was a dumb thing to say, since Roman literally just said he’s going into the kitchen to make sandwiches and refill our drinks.
Luckily, Roman doesn’t seem fazed by my nonsensical comment.
On the contrary, when our eyes lock, he looks nothing but amused.
“I’ll be right here in the kitchen when you return.
” His smile morphs into a smolder. “If I’m being honest, Iris, at this point, I don’t think wild horses could drag me away. ”