Chapter Thirteen #2
“Here we are,” Kevin announces when we get to the last villa.
It sits beneath evergreen boughs, and an impressive blue hydrangea grows beside the entrance—it’s even taller than George.
“Oh, before I forget,” Kevin says. “The whale-watching cruises book up fast, so let me know if you’d like me to make a reservation. ”
“No way,” I say too quickly, and Kevin cocks his head. “But thank you.”
“She’s not a fan of whales,” George explains.
“I strongly dislike them,” I say, before thinking better of it.
Kevin gasps then quickly composes himself. “They really are remarkable. And you’d see sea lions and seals on the tour, too.”
“Not my thing,” I say.
Kevin stares at me, mouth agape, before slowly pivoting to George.
“Frankie doesn’t really like any sort of marine life,” George tells him.
Kevin, poor thing, does his best to smile like this isn’t the most psychotic thing he’s heard.
Try being named after a whale, I want to tell him. Try growing up with my mother.
“Sorry.” I shrug, and Kevin takes that as his cue. He unlocks the door with the key card and gestures for us to enter.
· · ·
“Holy shit.”
I’d glanced at photos of the resort when Nate made the reservation, but I didn’t realize our villa was this stunning.
It’s an open-concept apartment with a two-story wall of windows looking onto the beach and forest and a sliding door out to the deck.
There’s leather furniture, a gas fireplace, and a spiral staircase that winds its way up to the second floor.
Like the lobby, the colors are all sandy browns, hushed greens, and drizzly grays.
“Right?” Kevin exclaims, slipping out of character momentarily. “It’s one of the more deluxe suites we have on offer for special guests like yourself.”
The kitchen is phenomenal. I run my hand over the slate counters, trace the knots in the grain of the wooden cabinets, and practically squeal at the brand names of the appliances—I could never afford these.
The fridge, stove, and sink are arranged in a perfect work triangle, and it’s open to the rest of the suite so no matter where you stand, you have a view of the epic landscape.
I could spend the whole week in this kitchen, experimenting with the Pacific Northwest’s abundant seafood.
Spot prawns. Dungeness crab. Salmon. Oysters.
Gooseneck barnacles are a delicacy I’ve only read about.
“I’ll show you around and then leave you to enjoy,” Kevin says.
Like a Dutch still-life painting, there’s food everywhere.
A bottle of sparkling rosé lazes in an ice bucket.
Chocolate-dipped strawberries glisten beside it.
There’s a fruit platter spilling with pineapple, cherries, figs, grapes, and apples.
On a wooden board is a crusty baguette and links of dry sausage alongside a jar of grainy mustard and bottle of pinot noir from Duncan, Vancouver Island.
“The baguettes are house-made,” Kevin says, following my gaze.
“I wasn’t sure whether you preferred red or white wine, so there’s a bottle of gewürztraminer in the fridge as well.
” He turns to George. “It’s from the Okanagan.
I don’t know whether you’re wine people, but the Valley’s vineyards are doing some pretty sensational things. ”
“Oh, we’re wine people,” I say.
“Wonderful.” Kevin gives me a tight smile and then twists back to George. I guess I lost him over the whales.
“And have no fear,” he says to George. “The gewürz is bone-dry.”
George stifles a smile and gives him a clipped nod. “I appreciate that, Kevin. I do prefer a dry gewürz.”
Kevin looks like he might float up to the rafters. “I’d be happy to open it for you, if you’d like a taste now.”
“That’s all right,” George says. “I’ll save it for later.”
“Of course,” Kevin replies, not able to conceal his disappointment. “Moving on, then. Our restaurant offers world-class dining, and there are some great local spots, but I had the fridge stocked with a few supplies.”
He opens the stainless-steel doors. Inside are a dozen glass pots of French yogurt and petite bottles of pear, peach, and orange juices.
There’s a whole shelf of drinks. Butter from Prince Edward Island.
Chèvre from Salt Spring Island. In the door are jars of pink candy hearts, artisanal marshmallows, and nuts.
“The chocolates are made locally,” Kevin says of the square box from Chocolate Tofino on the middle shelf. He leans toward George, as if telling a secret. “The Hazelnut Rainforest Crispy Logs are an absolute revelation.”
If we were newlyweds, I might feel a little territorial, because Kevin is looking at George like he’s a Hazelnut Rainforest Crispy Log.
Though to be fair, George’s flannel shirt and sexy glasses combo give him a rugged, intellectual vibe, like a modern Thoreau, yearning to live deep and suck out life’s marrow.
I can see the appeal if you’re into tall men with luscious dark waves who smell of mist-kissed pine boughs.
“And of course,” Kevin says, “there’s always room service.
We’re proud to offer our full menu, and our chef would be delighted to accommodate any dietary needs.
I hope you’ll find everything you need to suit your appetite, but do let me know if you have any special requests.
It’s your honeymoon—I know you may never want to leave your suite. ”
George quirks an eyebrow in my direction, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Before I take you up to the bedroom, allow me to show you outside,” Kevin says.
He walks across the space, gesturing for us to follow, and opens the door.
I poke my head out. The deck is like a tree house, surrounded by evergreens and ferns, with Muskoka chairs and a beach view.
In one corner, behind a wooden screen, is a hot tub, in which I will soon be relaxing with a glass of dry gewürz.
Kevin turns to George. “Our architect and landscape designer did their utmost to ensure that guests could enjoy the hot tub and scenery while maintaining maximum privacy.”
To fuck. He doesn’t say it. But come on.
I decide it’s best not to look at George.
“Are you ready to see the primary suite?” Kevin suggests.
George follows Kevin up the stairs, and I follow George. It’s not that I want to look at his butt, but it’s right in my face, and it’s hard to turn away because I don’t remember him having such a good ass. Either his jeans are working for him, or he’s been doing squats.
When we reach the top, I look at George, dumbfounded.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “God help me.”