32. Fantasy Suite Plus One
Fantasy Suite Plus One
HAYES
S t. Sebastian welcomes me back… again .
Twenty-four hours with August has shifted something fundamental inside me.
I’m still Groomsman to Groom Hayes on the outside—freshly pressed linen shirt, camera-ready smile—but inside, I’m a dad who promised his son he’d start making choices based on what’s right, not what’s safe.
Which makes today’s fantasy suite date with Luna as appealing as a root canal performed by a toddler.
The production assistant who meets me at the airport chatters about schedule adjustments and weather forecasts while I nod mechanically, my mind replaying August’s words on a loop: “You should pick the woman who makes you laugh like you used to with Mom.”
“Mr. Burke?” The PA’s voice pierces my thoughts. “We’ve arrived.”
We pull up to the beachfront resort and I grab my bag. “What time is the date?”
“One hour. Kayaking first, then dinner, then the overnight portion.”
My stomach churns with the same nausea that derailed my date with Serena. At this rate, I’ll develop a Pavlovian vomiting response to anything romance-related.
“Where’s Skye?” I ask, suddenly aware of her absence. Usually, our free-spirited host materializes within minutes of my arrival.
“I don’t know, actually,” the PA says. “That’s strange.”
Perfect. My one potential ally is MIA. I’m on my own for this slow-motion train wreck.
I hope she’s okay—I’m actually a little worried.
Inside my room, a note from Darren awaits: “Remember our conversation. All in. No hesitation.” His handwriting is as aggressive as his directing style.
I shower and change into what the stylist has laid out—board shorts and a light blue linen shirt that matches my eyes. Of course.
The camera crew arrives precisely on schedule. I paint on my Groomsman to Groom smile and step outside to greet Luna.
She arrives in a golf cart driven by a production assistant, her entrance carefully choreographed.
Her sundress is the exact shade of the turquoise water, her hair styled in beachy waves that somehow remain perfect despite the humidity.
She’s objectively beautiful, the kind of woman who looks like she was created in a dating show laboratory.
“Hayes!” She squeals, launching herself at me with practiced enthusiasm. I catch her, my arms completing their assigned task while my mind remains detached, observing from a distance.
“Luna.” I infuse my voice with warmth I don’t feel. “You look beautiful.”
“So do you.” She straightens my collar, her fingers lingering. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
The cameras capture our choreographed greeting—her enthusiasm, my polite response, our picture-perfect tropical backdrop.
From certain angles, we probably look like a couple on the verge of happily ever after.
From others, like two actors who’ve never met before thrown together for a toothpaste commercial.
“Ready for some adventure?” I gesture toward the waiting kayaks on the beach below.
“With you? Always.”
We walk hand-in-hand down to the beach, Luna chattering about the resort spa facilities and her morning facial. I make appropriate noises of interest while scanning the horizon, hoping to see Skye’s blond head bobbing in the distance, coming to my rescue.
The kayaking guide gives us a safety briefing that neither of us fully absorbs—Luna because she’s posing for cameras, me because I’m mentally drafting resignation letters to Darren. We paddle out into the clear blue water, Luna in front, me in back.
“This is literally perfect,” Luna calls over her shoulder as we navigate around a cove. “My followers are going to die when they see these shots.”
“I bet.”
“On Instagram. I’ve gained like, fifty thousand since being selected for this show.”
I paddle mechanically, watching a pelican dive into the water with enviable single-mindedness. “That’s impressive,” I say when I realize she’s waiting for a response.
“Right? I’ve already gotten sponsorship offers.” She flashes me a smile so bright it could signal passing ships. “Don’t worry, I told them I’m hoping for a couple deals after the finale.” She winks conspiratorially.
My paddle falters mid-stroke. Is she implying what I think she’s implying? That we’ll be doing sponsored content together after the show? The assumption makes my skin crawl.
“Luna,” I begin, then stop. What can I say? It’s not going to be me and her at the end? I can’t do that, so I’ll just let her have her fantasy.
“You’re being so quiet,” she says with another wink. “Thinking about tonight?”
I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Just enjoying the scenery.”
The kayaking portion of our date passes in a blur of more meaningless conversation. By the time we return to shore, my shoulders ache from paddling and my face hurts from maintaining my camera-ready expression.
“That was amazing,” Luna says as we hand our life jackets to the waiting guide.
“It was.” I smile and offer my hand to help her across the sand. She takes it, intertwining our fingers, positioning us for optimal camera angles.
“Can’t wait for dinner,” she says, voice lowered to a murmur. “And what comes after.”
My stomach performs an Olympic-level flip. “Yeah. Should be great.”
Back at the resort, the production team swarms around me like ants, preparing me for the dinner portion. Fresh clothes appear. A makeup artist dabs at my forehead, erasing evidence of stress sweat. A producer reminds me of talking points—connection, future, feelings.
“And Hayes?” the producer adds, glancing at his notes. “No repeat of the incident with Serena.”
The “incident.”
“No problem,” I lie smoothly. “That was just something I ate.”
Or something my conscience couldn’t stomach.
Dinner is set up on a private terrace overlooking the ocean, candles flickering in the breeze, champagne chilling in sterling silver buckets. It’s the perfect romantic setting, and right now, it makes me want to run into the sea and keep swimming until I hit another continent.
Luna arrives in a dress so fitted it might qualify as a second skin, red fabric shimmering in the candlelight. She’s stunning, objectively speaking, but my body has zero response to her.
“Hayes.” Luna leans in for a kiss that I convert to a chaste peck at the last second. “This is beyond beautiful.”
We settle into our seats, eat our meals off-camera, then ready ourselves for filming.
Servers appear to pour champagne, and Luna launches into an emotion-provoking spiel better for TV—about how she’s never felt like this before.
How her past has kept her from truly opening up to someone, that is, until now.
Then, after taking a delicate sip of champagne, she says, “I’m falling for you. ”
I push zucchini blossoms around my plate, preparing to say what I’d planned ahead of time. I look up, smiling. “I have strong feelings for you, too. And thank you so much for being vulnerable with me.”
She laughs, the sound practiced and melodic. “Of course. With you, it’s easy.”
The main course arrives, and Luna transitions to a story about her parents’ divorce, how tough it was because her mom and dad were so busy fighting, she had to look after her younger sisters.
This makes me sad, and I understand more why she does things to push people away.
I’m sure she’s protecting herself. I say, “I admire that you stepped in and cared for your sisters. That says a lot about you,” I say, and mean it.
Finally, a production assistant approaches with the dreaded envelope.
Her eyes light up with anticipation as I open the card and read aloud: “Luna, should you choose to forgo your individual rooms, please use this opportunity to spend time together in our fantasy suite. Signed, Skye.”
That reminds me—where is Skye when I need her most? She knows I’m drowning here.
“I would love to spend this night with you,” Luna says, her voice dropping to a register clearly practiced for maximum seduction. “There’s so much more I want to explore.”
My collar suddenly feels two sizes too small. “Great,” I choke out.
The fantasy suite is a beachfront bungalow with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. Inside, the same rose petals form a path to a king-sized bed, champagne awaits in yet another ice bucket, and ambient lighting that creates another night of atmosphere.
The cameras follow us inside for the same awkward preamble—Luna and me sitting on the edge of the bed, making stilted small talk about the beautiful space and our wonderful day together. We perform our assigned kiss, the producers get their footage, and then the crew backs out.
“We’ll see you in the morning,” the lead producer says with a wink that makes me want to throw myself off the balcony.
The door closes. We’re alone. The magnitude of my predicament crashes over me.
“So,” Luna says, stepping closer. “Should I freshen up?”
“Actually,” I begin, desperately searching for words. “I want to talk first.”
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows rise slightly. “Talk?”
“Yes.” I swallow hard. “About expectations. For tonight.”
“Oh?” A coy smile plays on her lips as she reaches for the zipper of her dress. “I think my expectations are pretty clear.”
“Luna, wait.” I hold up a hand. “I’ve been thinking about what happened with Brielle—”
“Brielle?” Luna’s expression sharpens. “Why are you bringing her up right now?”
Shit. I didn’t mean to say her name. “Just the situation that happened between her and me after the running of the bulls. People got hurt.”
Luna’s eyes narrow. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying...” I take a deep breath. “I think we should just sleep tonight. Actually sleep. I’m not engaging in any physical intimacy when there are still other relationships I’m exploring during fantasy week. Not after what happened before.”
It’s actually not even an excuse. It’s something I was planning on doing when I signed up for the show. Which changed when Brielle happened, but I digress.