Chapter 10
___
Bev
Our motel is in Azalea Beach, and we’re about an hour away. I hurry and send the last emails regarding our annual fundraiser, so everything can be squared away. I like getting things done early. There’s a satisfaction in it. Even though I’m hunched over my phone, I’m vaguely aware that we’ve slowed, that there’s traffic. But I think nothing of it.
Buzz. My phone vibrates in my hand.
I check my email, and it’s from the event space we use for the fundraiser—a restaurant on the island. It’s a mom-and-pop pasta place, Mama Sofia’s, nothing swanky, even though the restaurants in Melody Bay skew fancy. It’s got tile floors, dried lavender hanging from the rafters, and a large, rustic mural.
But mostly, we like it because of the warm and welcoming atmosphere. No perfectly quaffed hostesses in Gucci, looking like they belong on a movie set, and treating you like you should have tried a little harder with your makeup, and your inferior genetics to boot. Instead, Mama Sofia, comes out in an apron, wiping the flour from her hands to shake your own. A round of drinks on the house. That type of place.
The magical kind.
“Oh no.” I must actually say it out loud because Nate looks over as if to ask, “What?”
I reread the email a dozen more times. “Mama Sofia’s canceled our reservation for the fundraiser. They’re deeply sorry. But a vendor pulled out of their niece’s wedding, so their ‘dear niece’ needs to have her wedding there. And it’s on the same day as our fundraiser.”
“Can you change the date of the fundraiser?” he asks.
“Invites are already out.” My voice gets caught in my throat, around the lump building there.
“Can’t you just change them? And then resend?”
“We can’t change the date. It’s the same every year, and a lot of our big funders—our busy big funders—plan around it.”
“There has to be some other place.” He then rattles off the names of the most expensive, water-front restaurants on the island. We could never afford those. Whatever we raised would pay for the space, which defeats the whole purpose. I suddenly feel sick.
He seems to realize why I’m not interested in his suggestions because he asks, “What about Teri’s? It’s a dive bar. It’s got to be more affordable.”
“Good idea.” I google their info and shoot them a quick email.
“Here we are,” he says.
I look up as we pull into a small, sea-side motel’s parking lot. Each space is full, and I’m surprised Chandra managed to get these reservations so last minute. We finally find a spot in the parking lot’s furthest corner.
Before I can open the door, Nate turns to me. “The reservations are under your name. I asked Chandra after you left.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure where he’s going with it.
“People ignore me on the island. Sure, some people will shout out my lyrics or film me on their phones when they think I can’t tell, but for the most part, I’m left alone. It’s not always like that unless I’m in a big city or home. So don’t give my name to the front desk.”
“What if I have to get your attention though?”
He seems to think on it. “Just say, ‘Hey.’”
“We can have a code name!”
“No thanks.” He opens up his door.
“Coco-Nate? Like coconut?” I call after him. “Or Pepperonati?”
“You’re just hungry,” I hear him say through the window.
“No fun.” But I get out and join him.
The motel’s lobby has what I think is supposed to be a nautical theme, but it reads more as pirate. There’s a captain’s wooden wheel staked into one wall, and some moody paintings of old-fashioned sailboats sailing in a storm.
“Welcome to the Azalea Beach Motel,” the desk worker chirps. She wears a fantastic smoky eyeshadow and dramatic silver earrings.
“Thanks! We’re checking in under Bev Polaski.” I look back at Nate—or should I say Coco-Nate—but his back faces us. He seems to be pretending to study one of the oil paintings .
The worker types a few things, reaches for one of those paper envelopes, and stuffs in our keycards. She scrawls something on the front of the envelope and then places it on the counter between us. It looks like she wrote, “Room 401.”
“What’s the second room number?” I ask.
“There is no second room number,” the worker says confidently, making strong eye contact, all smoky and cool.
Dread begins to descend from the florescent lighting and lands heavily on my shoulders. “But my boss reserved two rooms?” I ask and feel Nate’s attention turn to us.
The worker pauses and looks back at her screen. “No, there’s just one reservation here.”
More dread piles on my shoulders, feeling like I’m holding up a whole wall. “There’s got to be some kind of mistake…”
“I’m sorry.” The worker sounds genuine.
I pull out my phone and show her the reservation. “It’s for two rooms.”
The worker grimaces. “You’re right, but there must have been some kind of mistake on our end. And now there’s only one room.”
“Can you recommend any other places to stay?” Nate says, coming up from behind me.
“There’s a few down the road. Try those. But I should warn you. A big conference is here.”
“A conference?” I repeat.
“Mmhm,” she says. “Toe-wrestling.”
“Excuse me?” She’s got to be kidding.
“It’s like thumb wrestling but with the toes.”
I don’t know what to say to this. Because what can you say? Seriously ?
We all stare at the envelope with the keys for the one bedroom. And probably with our luck it’s one bed too.
I remember the promise I made to my dad. We can’t stay in the same room tonight. We have to find someplace else.
I realize I must have said the last sentence out loud because the worker looks at me as she talks. “I can hold the room for you,” she says. Her voice has gotten increasingly sing-song the darker our mood has become. It’s like she’s trying to offset it. “Especially because I’m a big fan of yours.” She smiles at Nate.
He still looks uneasy about the room news, but he manages a smile back.
“Oh,” she says. “I can’t give you much, but I can give you this.” She slides a piece of paper toward me. “It’s free ice cream from the store next door. It’s the best ice cream place around.”
“Thanks,” I say, more excited than I should be about the complimentary ice cream. “If we can find another room, we’ll call you to let you know.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She grabs her phone, and it seems like she’s about to take a surreptitious video of Nate.
When I look back at him, and he waves to the camera, I have to confess I feel a bit bad for him. I never would want someone to take a video of me—without even asking—after a long day of traveling, but this kind of thing must happen to him all the time.
He winks at the camera, and then, we leave.
Silently, we both climb in the car.
“Where should we go?” The panic has set in, and my voice sounds too high. I feel like I’m overreacting, like a teenager. I’m an adult , I tell myself. I got this .
But there’s something about Nate that doesn’t make me feel like an adult. There’s something about him that makes me feel like an angsty, heart-pounding teenager. All I need is some acne and nighttime headgear, and the transition will be complete.
We drive to each and every motel. Some helpfully have “no vacancy” signs. And some you have to go in and ask. Each mentions the conference.
“What about driving to a neighboring town?” I ask as I climb back into his jeep yet again.
We huddle over his phone, and his expensive, I’m-rich-and-you’re-not soap assaults my nose. I want to say I hate it, but truthfully, I want to linger in it. I want to wash my bedsheets in it, take a bath in it.
He checks a few booking sites, and there’s nothing.
I listen to the radio playing in the background. Two radio hosts discuss whether “getting something out of your system” actually works. The more upbeat voice says there’s a study that shows if you eat a little bit of chocolate when you want it, it’s better than denying yourself and letting that feeling build.
“So you should get it out of your system?” the less upbeat voice asks.
“That’s right. Get it out of your system,” the more upbeat voice repeats.
We each stare out the windshield, not making eye contact.
After a moment, Nate asks, “Can I see the reservation?”
It’s already pulled up on my phone. I hand it over.
“This room is a double king, so we’d each get our own bed,” he says.
“But what if we want to take a shower?” I ask in disbelief. How could he be considering this ?
He turns to me, full-focus. His gray eyes shine intelligently. “Look, do you trust me?”
“I mean, I’d never buy anything from you.”
“Not even a chance to enter my special non-scammy sweepstakes?”
“Sold.” I smile. And then I add, “Okay, I trust you a little.”
“Good. Then, we’ll figure it out.”
I nod, feeling better about this than expected. Plus, it doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice in the matter. We have to sleep somewhere.
“Now, let’s go,” he says. “I’m starving.”
I tell myself, it’ll be fine . I’ve always been great at keeping promises. So why would that change now?
___
The room is very turquoise. There’s a turquoise bedspread and turquoise curtains and a turquoise shower curtain. Now, you may have noticed I said turquoise bedspread and not bedspreads . And, yes, that’s because there’s only one bed.
I still stand in the doorway, but Nate is already in the room, slinging his weekender bag onto a chair in the corner.
“There’s only one bed,” I state the obvious.
Horror. That’s what I’m feeling. You must keep your promise, Bev. You must! Yet everything seems to be working against it .
“I saw,” he says.
“Well…”
“You’ll take it, and I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I want to protest that I’ll sleep on the floor, and he should take the bed—but I really don’t want to sleep on the floor. “I’ll sleep in your car?” I suggest.
He doesn’t look up as he unzips his bag and rummages around for his dopp kit. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Fine.” I remember Chandra’s Four D’s and decide to drop it.
He heads into the bathroom, carrying his dopp kit. “Do you need to use the bathroom?” he asks over his shoulder. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Worst-case scenario. Already. “Nope.”
I uneasily sit on the bed. If I were by myself, I’d sprawl out and get cozy. But not today. I reach for the remote and start switching through stations.
All of a sudden, the bathroom door swings open, and Nate enters with a low-slung white towel around his waist. “I forgot my clothes.”
His words disappear into the ether as I take in his body. Lean, yet strong muscles, washboard abs—that are almost comically, annoyingly washboard—which ripple as he pushes a hand through his hair to keep it from falling on his forehead. A set of muscles, running in a diagonal, light up along the side of his torso. He looks like what AI would come up with for the prompt, “sexy.”
The way he brushes his hair from his face—it also reveals his heart tattoo on his inner forearm—the forearm roped with muscle. I suddenly wonder what it’d be like to trace his tattoo with my fingers. How would his skin feel under my fingertips? Rough? Hairy? Or strangely good? Amazing even ?
My mouth feels dry.
He glances over at me, and the intensity of his eyes does that thing where I feel pinned again, frozen by his sexiness, which I know is ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to describe it.
He’s your intern! I remind myself. Not to mention, Nate Hart. You want nothing to do with him. And the promise to dad…
But I can’t peel my eyes away. They slurp him up like I haven’t drunk water in days.
He grabs whatever it was he needed, looked like a shirt—who am I kidding, I wasn’t looking at that—and then disappears back into the bathroom.
I’m vaguely aware of the TV playing in the background. Some show with canned laughter. But what I notice the most is the pounding of my heart, and the way my insides clench down, squeezing .
I suddenly realize. I’m turned on. Very turned on.
I have to get out of here.
I grab my purse and stagger towards the door, eager for some fresh air.
The sun assaults me when I step outside. Strongest, it seems, before setting. Waves crash in the distance, and a few seagulls circle, their cries almost like echoes.
I remember that we got complimentary ice cream coupons, and the store’s next door, so I’ll grab some for myself and Nate. It’ll be the perfect excuse to not be around while he’s naked in the next room.
The ice cream place is all bright pastels, with fun beach flavors like: Boardwalk Banana Cream and Will You Be My Coconut. I remember from a high school student council event that Nate loves ice cream, especially, Moose Tracks. I order myself some mint chip .
As I walk back to the room, I engage in a few strategic licks to keep the ice cream from running down onto my hand. I consider how unexpected it is for a rock star to love ice cream. It’s one of those cute things that makes him feel like a real person, and not like a glossy cologne ad where he’s surrounded by galloping wild horses and says one word in a meaningful whisper like, “Elixir” or “Renaissance.”
I climb the stairs to our floor and hope this is just what we need. A little sugar. Something to distract us from the weird circulating tension. We can both enjoy a few yum’s, go to bed, and be there for Cody first thing in the morning.
Sure, ice cream cones can be a little phallic. And then there is the licking aspect. But that hadn’t occurred to me then, with the hopeful sun warming my shoulders and a sweet ocean breeze playing at my hair.