Chapter 23 Now #2
My skin warms in response to this, but as is my nature, I can’t simply accept his compliments.
Shoulder-Maren appears, wagging a finger, so I forgo pure denial in favor of some light self-deprecation.
“Sebastian Nikolaou moves back to Brantley Beach and immediately launches a campaign to send me away. I’m flattered. ”
He tuts. “You’re right, I don’t want you around. That’s why I agreed to be your rent-a-date tonight.”
I shrug. “That could totally be a front. You said yourself you needed an excuse to get on the island for research.” He glances at me, eyebrow raised. “Don’t act like you didn’t notice that the hotel’s in-house café has quite an impressive single-origin coffee program.”
He dips his head toward me, conceding this point. “Can’t I look forward to hanging out with you and sampling a Nicaraguan pour-over?”
I roll my eyes, but neither of us says anything more. His words echo in the silence, and I wonder if that’s exactly what he wanted to happen. I turn up the music to quiet them just as we hit Exit 63. He flips on his blinker and veers right, taking us off the Garden State Parkway.
Long Beach Island is one of my favorite places on the Shore, and maybe on earth.
It’s a barrier island split into six cute little towns with names like Surf City and Ship Bottom.
The hotel we’re headed to is toward the southern end of the island, in Beach Haven.
For the first time throughout the drive I have no problem keeping my eyes on what’s outside the car.
We pass the familiar businesses—a breakfast haunt called The Chicken or the Egg, a townie bar called Nardi’s with a bright pink bus outside that drives patrons back to their beach homes or rentals each night, a mini golf course attached to a soft-serve shop.
There are also rows and rows of quaint beach homes, with more of the newer, not-so-quaint mansions mixed in than I remember seeing when I was here on a weekend trip with my mom last summer.
I could tell from the photos I’d seen online while researching for my column that The Island Inn was a beautiful establishment, but as we pull up to it now I realize that it’s even more stunning in person.
It’s impressive in size, but unlike some of the modern resorts that have popped up along the Shore in recent years, it has a traditional, grand-hotel vibe.
A teenage valet in khakis and a polo rushes over to Sebastian’s door, and two bellhops in matching uniforms are close behind, offering to take our bags.
Sebastian helps them hang his suit bag and my dress and duffel on a cart, then hands them each a few bills as he thanks them.
Sebastian and I follow the bellhops between two white columns and into the lobby, which is somehow both grand and quaint, with robin’s-egg blue banquettes, white coral-inspired chandeliers, marble floors and historic photos of New Jersey landmarks lining the walls.
I check us in at the front desk while Sebastian says he’s going to peruse the café menu.
I turn around with our key (yes, an old-fashioned key rather than a card) just as he’s returning with two take-out cups.
“Research?” I ask as he extends one to me. I’m heavily caffeinated from the Rook I drank in the car, but I’ll rarely turn down any form of coffee.
“One is Nicaraguan and one is Costa Rican. I think I like the Costa Rican better, but I want a second opinion.”
I take a sip as we walk toward the elevators, then swap with him. “They’re both nice, but I think I agree with you.”
He hands me back the Costa Rican, which may be the most selfless thing a man has done for me in a while. (I realize this isn’t necessarily something to be proud of.)
I lead us to room 47 and insert the key. I see the corner of one bed, then let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding when a second comes into view. I’d of course requested a room with two double beds when I’d originally made the reservation for David and me, but you never know.
The room is adorable. Light hardwood floors connect to pale blue walls that match the accent pillows on the otherwise white beds.
On the other side of the room is a kitchenette with a quartz waterfall island and two seagrass barstools, flanked by a den with an old-fashioned settee and coffee table.
A sliding glass door leads to a small balcony with two white Adirondack chairs, overlooking the ocean view.
My gaze wanders to the open bathroom door, through which I can see a Jack and Jill sink and a frameless glass shower. I quickly blink away the image that appears in my mind of Sebastian’s torso: shirtless, muscled and wet. I turn to face the beds again and am assaulted with more unwarranted images.
“Do you want me in the bedroom or the bathroom?” he asks. I freeze, gaping at him. But then he grabs his suit bag from where the bellhop must have hung it in the closet and I realize he’s asking where he should change.
“I can take the bathroom!” I gather up my things and bolt there, shutting and locking the door behind me.
Once my breathing resumes a semi-normal pace, a quick phone check confirms we have about thirty minutes until we need to be seated outside for the ceremony.
It’s the perfect amount of time: I’ve already done my hair and makeup so I won’t feel rushed, but I also won’t have too much extra time to spend in this adorable room with Sebastian, banishing forbidden images from my brain.
I unzip the garment bag that’s holding my dress. It’s still got a few wrinkles, but I realize I forgot to pack my steamer, and there’s no way I’m going to check the closet for an iron and risk a glimpse of a half-dressed Sebastian. It looks good enough.
After running a comb through my hair and touching up my makeup, I shimmy into a pair of shape-wear shorts, swap my comfy bralette for a strapless bra, and step into the dress. I get the zipper about halfway up before it catches just below my bra band. Of course.
Holding the top of my dress in place with one hand, I exhale, roll my shoulders back, and assess myself in the mirror. I am going to ask Sebastian Nikolaou for help, and it’s not going to be awkward or embarrassing or flirtatious.
I begin turning the doorknob, then think again of stumbling upon Sebastian while he’s still changing and stop myself. I text him instead: Let me know when I’m good to come out! May need a hand with my dress.
He replies by knocking on the bathroom door, which makes me jump. I crack the door and peer up at him through the opening.
“Need me to zip you?” he asks, and I wonder if he, too, finds this sentence unexpectedly sexual or if I’ve just really lost it. I nod, pushing the door open further.
I turn to face the mirror, and he steps forward until he’s standing right behind me. “It’s a little tight around the …” I say. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I see the corner of his mouth curl ever so slightly. “But it definitely fits.”
“I’ve got you,” he says, and then I feel his hands on the back of my dress. The dress zips without a hitch on his first try, and I let out a relieved breath.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Of course.” He’s still looking at me in the mirror. “No problem.”
I step into the kitchen area so that Sebastian can use the restroom.
Seated at one of the barstools, I yank on my block heels and fasten the straps.
When he comes back out a moment later, I get my first good look at Plus-One Sebastian, who proves to be just as devastating as Road Trip Sebastian.
He’s wearing a blue summer suit with a crisp white shirt and the brown leather loafers he wore the day I’d run into him at the clerk’s office a lifetime ago.
He’s also applied a little more gel to his slightly slicked-back curls.
I prefer them wild, but the look suits him.
“You clean up nice, even on short notice,” I observe.
“You can thank Andre,” he says. “I was going to run to the mall. Then I remembered we’ve always been the same size and he’d probably have even more options. Also, you look beautiful.” The earnestness with which he says this sends a jolt through my belly.
“Thank you. Ready to go down?” Perhaps I just need to accept that no sentence will sound innocent this weekend. But he just nods, and gestures for me to lead the way.
“Need me to hold anything?” he asks while we wait for the elevator.
He’s a good date, I think. Considerate. I imagine him slipping my phone into his pocket, my ID into his wallet.
Modern markers of intimacy. But then I remember that he’s probably learned to ask this from years of dating Claire. I thank him and shake my head.
In the lobby, a hotel staffer registers our cocktail attire and guides us down a hallway that leads to the courtyard, where rows of white wooden folding chairs lead up to an impressive floral arch.
A strip of private beach serves as a stunning backdrop.
I lead Sebastian to the far corner of the last row and we each take a seat.
Only about a quarter of the guests have arrived so we could sit much closer, but I like to stay under the radar—and out of the photographer’s view.
When I attend weddings for work, I’m always acutely aware of being the least important person there.
Well, maybe behind Mom’s work colleague the couple has never met, or Dad’s recently divorced golf buddy’s new girlfriend.
Sebastian lets out a low whistle. “How much do you think a wedding at a place like this costs?”
“A hundred grand,” I say, snapping some pictures on my phone to help me remember the details later. He raises both eyebrows in shock. “I have a copy of the itemized budget.”
“Damn. I just don’t know how you don’t think about everything else you could do with that kind of money.”
I nod. “Yeah. I used to think that all the time when I first started covering weddings.”
“Not anymore? I guess you probably get used to it.”