Ethan #2
“He gave me your family’s address.” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.
“A few days after you told me about it. Your name came up while he was helping me troubleshoot why I couldn’t connect to the VPN.
He told me you wouldn’t want everyone at work all up in your business.
I realized you knew each other outside of work and asked him for the address. ”
“Why a fruit bouquet?”
Barbie opens her mouth, only to scoot closer to me when a group of people brushes past us at that very moment. The peachy scent of her shampoo greets me. I’m suddenly reminded of the plane—not from my dream—and the hours of flirting before we discovered we knew each other.
“It’s a long story,” she stammers. “I think you should go get your neck checked out. Or you should take a hot shower.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Yeah.” Her eyebrows are still drawn together when she takes a step back. “I used to hurt my arm a lot during my softball days.” Her eyes light up. “Oh my God. You should book a session with a massage therapist. I’m sure the hotel has them on staff.”
“I don’t think the company will comp a massage session,” I state the obvious. “I don’t want to explain to payroll why I booked one.” I shake my head, then groan when my neck pinches. Mother of God.
On second thought, maybe I will let this place gouge my wallet. Anything to stop the pain from flaring up again.
“Do you think they have any sessions available after the conference is over today?”
Barbie lifts a shoulder, readjusts the dozens of tote bags hanging on her arm, and retrieves her cell phone. “Only one way to find out, Carter.”
“So, you have to book a massage the day before at the latest,” she murmurs. “And their hours are from eight to three.” She pauses. “You could fit in a massage tomorrow before the conference starts.”
“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” I insist, met with a blank look from her. “I’m not paying two hundred dollars for them to poke my neck for thirty minutes. That’s absurd; ridiculous. That’s highway robbery.”
“It depends on the type of massage you want,” she says. “One-eighty for a deep tissue. Ooh. For two-fifty, you can get a hot clam shell massage.”
The image that pops into my head ain’t pretty. I’m picturing a seafood buffet being spread out across my back. And numerous seagulls, for whatever reason. “Two hundred and fifty dollars? For half an hour?” I nearly sputter. “Unless they’re spoon-feeding me clams—”
“Let me look up coupons.”
“Do you think a place charging you that much for fucking clams would honor coupons?” I ask dryly.
“There have to be deals,” she says. “I mean, I saw a bunch of tourism packages on display when you were checking us in last night.”
“Ahh. Yes. Come to South Carolina. We have deals for clam massages.” I pause. “Why pay two hundred and fifty dollars when I can spend a thousand on a bunch of activities I won’t do instead?”
She levels me with an eye-roll. “Okay. They have all-inclusive day passes. You can save up to fifty-five percent…” She’s rambling while she’s scrolling through her phone. “Ooh. We can go see the aquarium for half off with the coupons provided.”
“Hold on. I don’t think they make deals for single people,” I say. “Aren’t those packages usually for families? Groups? Couples?”
“I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend if it means”—she peeks at her screen—“we can do the boardwalk tour for free.” Her excitement is so damn palpable that it fills up the entire room.
“You can see the boardwalk from here,” I say, gesturing wildly to the window. Which is a mistake on my end when it pulls at the tender muscle in my neck. How is it that every single fucking movement I make has me experiencing so much pain?
“Oh my God. There’s this one package that includes an hour-long couple’s massage,” she observes. “We’ll go halfsies.”
“And does it come with a free boardwalk tour?” I ask dryly.
“It comes with dinners,” she gasps. “And tours for the aquarium, the art gallery, and the maritime museum. Ooh, we also get to do ziplines and a bunch of other outdoorsy excursions.”
“My neck is on life support,” I say, “and you want us to go ziplining?”
“Ethan. It’s, like, eight hundred bucks total.
A two thousand dollar value package. We can split the cost between us.
Four hundred each. You’d have to spend almost two hundred bucks anyway.
So for two hundred more, you can have fun here.
This is a good deal. It would be criminal not to take this offer. ”
“It sounds way too good to be true,” I say. “Are you sure this isn’t a scam? One where we end up abducted and our organs harvested for the black market?”
“No. I looked up the packages advertised in the lobby,” she says. “It’s a honeymoon package—”
“Excuse me?”
“Okay. It’s not like they’re going to check to see if we have a marriage certificate on us,” she says. “When you get married, you don’t even get it right away. It’s mailed to you weeks later. Regardless, they’re not going to care. They’re making a profit. We’re getting discounts. Everyone wins.”
“Except for the fact that my neck still hurts,” I say. “And I don’t think we can squeeze in a couple’s massage tonight.”
“No, but we can get one scheduled tomorrow,” she says. “Oh my God. Adult tickets for the aquarium are, like, fifty per person. Ethan, this is a deal.”
She’s talking fast, and over a million things at once, as if her brain’s set on vibrate. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed her this excited—and this includes the time Ed told her during a B&E team update meeting that all the higher-ups were impressed with her report-out deck and presentation.
“I made a promise to my sister—”
“Skipper?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny,” she says with an eye-roll. “No, I do not have a sister named Skipper.”
“Chelsea?” I try next.
“Nope. I have an older sister, Betty,” she says. “And a younger sister, Bell.”
“Elizabeth, Barbara, and… Isabella?” I guess, and she wrinkles her nose.
“No. It’s just Betty, Barbie—”
“Jesus, they named your sister Bell? With an E at the end, or like the thing cows wear around their necks?”
She purses her lips. “Actually, Bell is short for Bellie.” She pauses. “With an I-E at the end.”
Disbelief flares through me. I can only stare at her while she lifts a shoulder.