Chapter 10
ELLA
The resort has a crushed coral path that winds through gardens so lush they look fake, and I’ve been on it for fifteen minutes because I can’t get over the beds of beautiful, unusual flowers.
People on their way to the pool or the beach walk by me like I’m crazy, but I don’t care.
They’re the ones missing out, if you ask me.
An old gardener trimming a hedge near the spa entrance catches me staring at a spiky bloom the size of my fist, deep orange fading to red at the edges, and straightens up with a grin.
“Bird of paradise,” he says, before I can ask.
I glance over at him with a smile. “I can see why. It looks like it’s about to take off.” I lean in closer. “I’m Ella, by the way.”
“Clive.” He tips his wide-brimmed sun hat with old-school politeness. “Eleven years at this resort, and that flower still gets me.”
“It’s a beauty, all right. So are all the others. I don’t think I could pick a favorite.”
He chuckles, pausing to scratch his forehead. “Most people rush on by. Always in such a hurry to get where they’re going that they don’t enjoy where they’re at.”
“I hear you, Clive. Life is about the small moments, am I right?”
He nods sagely, then leans in toward me. “You like snorkeling, Miss Ella?”
“I don’t know. Never done it.”
“Well, I think you’ll enjoy it. If you go, head past the beach bar, out to the point. Don’t bother with the spot they recommend at the front desk. Too many tourists kicking up sand.”
I give him a conspiratorial wink. “Thanks for the tip. See you around, Clive.”
He waves me off with his hedge trimmer and I move on, my step lighter.
This is what I love to do. Just the simple pleasure of learning someone’s name, taking the time to engage with each other, and watching their face change when they realize you actually care.
Five years of waiting tables has taught me that.
People light up when they’re seen and acknowledged.
It costs nothing and it’s the best part of any job I’ve ever had.
I continue exploring as I make my way across the grounds, passing a friendly couple from Montreal who compliment my sarong and then we end up chatting for a few minutes about Arizona.
Before it’s all said and done, they walk away with Tony’s recipe for Red Rock Diner’s famous chili, which I do not technically have permission to share but rationalize as free PR for the restaurant.
I keep catching myself touching things, trailing my fingers along a stone railing, pressing my palm against a sun-warmed wall, like my body needs to confirm this is real and not a screen saver I accidentally walked into.
Because before I left for this trip, I was refilling coffee mugs at the diner and doing the napkin math on whether I could afford both groceries and gas this week.
And now I’m here, in a place that charges more for a poolside cocktail than I used to make in tips on a good lunch shift, wearing a white bikini I bought with lottery money and a tropical sarong that makes me feel like I might actually belong here.
My life doesn’t make sense anymore, and I’m trying very hard to just enjoy that instead of waiting for the universe to correct the error.
“Ella!”
Marina, the concierge who checked us in, waves me over near the main pool entrance. She’s in a crisp resort polo, tablet in hand, and her smile is the same warm one she gave Alec and me yesterday when she was trying to make the double-booking disaster feel like a charming adventure.
“How are you settling in?” she asks. “Is everything okay with the suite?”
“The suite is incredible. The roommate situation is... an experience.”
She presses her lips together in a way that tells me she wants to laugh but is too professional.
“We’re still working on alternatives. I promise.
” She taps her tablet. “In the meantime, please enjoy everything we have to offer. We have a limbo competition on the beach every night at nine. It’s very popular and so much fun. You should come.”
“Limbo? I have trouble staying on my feet even when I’m not bending backward under a stick.”
She laughs. “We also have a sunset catamaran cruise on Wednesdays, and the live steel drum band plays during dinner service every evening.”
“Sounds amazing.”
She smiles and gives my arm a brief squeeze. “Have fun today! If you need anything at all, you come find me.”
I’m tempted to tell her that the only thing I need is to lose the wet blanket I’m sharing my suite with, but for some reason the words stay locked behind my teeth. “Thanks, Marina.”
She continues on her way and I’m left thinking about Alec. Again… still. I wonder if he’s actually trying to work when there’s a perfectly beautiful resort to experience. Maybe I should go find him and drag him away from his laptop for his own good.
Wait a second—what the heck is wrong with me?
Since when is his happiness my responsibility?
His very presence at this resort is messing up my happiness.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him at all.
I definitely should not be thinking about the way his body was wrapped around mine this morning like we were fused together, two halves of the same whole.
Nope. Absolutely not thinking about that anymore.
I forge on and find myself at the pool area. To my chagrin, I spot him immediately.
He’s on a chaise at the far end of the stone deck, partially shaded by a palm tree.
Miracle of miracles, the laptop beside him is closed.
I note this with a satisfaction I don’t bother hiding from myself.
He came down here to work and he’s not working.
Instead, he’s scowling at the pool, where a couple is splashing each other and laughing, the woman shrieking as the man pulls her close and kisses her.
Alec is watching them the way most people watch someone cut in line.
Like their harmless public display of affection is a personal affront to him.
Alec is sitting in actual paradise, surrounded by sun and ocean and the kind of beauty that only exists on postcards, and he’s glaring at people who are enjoying it.
I’d find it infuriating if he didn’t seem so absurdly, stubbornly committed to being a grump.
He’s not just in a bad mood. He’s in a principled stand against relaxation.
Then I notice the blonde woman in the chaise near his.
She’s right beside him. Platinum hair, tan skin, flawless figure in a coral bikini that plays up her assets to maximum potential.
She’s positioned her lounger at an angle that just happens to face his, and as I watch, she adjusts her top’s strap with a slow deliberation meant to get his attention.
The glance she sends his way over the rim of her sunglasses is one I can read from thirty feet away.
Alec does not look at her. Not once. He’s too busy being offended by paradise in general.
An odd satisfaction settles in my chest at the way he seems utterly oblivious of her. Even though I should just keep walking, preferably in the opposite direction of him, my feet carry me to the pool area anyway.
I approach his chaise from the side, tote bag slung over my shoulder like I’m a pack mule heading to base camp. He doesn’t see me until I’m practically standing over him, blocking his view of the offending happy couple.
“You know, most people come to tropical islands to have fun. You look like you’re mentally composing a strongly worded letter to the sun.”
His gaze lifts to mine. The linen shirt from this morning is rolled to his forearms, the same forearms that were heavy across my waist six hours ago, and the sun has put the faintest flush across his cheekbones that makes him look far too sexy for my peace of mind.
“I’m relaxing,” he says flatly.
I snort. “Really? Because it looks like you’re terrorizing that couple with your face.”
His mouth quirks, almost imperceptible. Not a smile. The structural precursor to one, maybe, buried under several layers of refusal. “They’re being loud.”
“They’re being happy, Alec. Besides, this isn’t a library.
” I shift my tote bag higher on my shoulder and his eyes follow the movement, catching briefly on the bare skin of my hip above my sarong.
It’s a fast glance. Blink and you’d miss it.
I don’t blink. “Laptop’s closed, I see. Feel a little silly being the only one working out here? ”
He scowls at me. “The humidity was a problem.”
“The humidity,” I repeat. “Right. Not the fact that you’re in Barbados and should be doing literally anything other than answering emails or analyzing spreadsheets.”
He doesn’t reply, but his jaw shifts in that way I’m learning to read as reluctant engagement.
The silence between us is different from this morning’s careful neutrality.
Warmer. Charged with a current that has nothing to do with the conversation and everything to do with the fact that the last time we were this close, he was standing in the bathroom doorway looking at me like he’d forgotten his own name.
When he doesn’t even try to make conversation, I decide not to linger. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your glowering. I’m going to go enjoy the sun like a normal person.”
I pick a chaise several down from his and drag it farther into the open sunlight because, unlike him, I didn’t come to Barbados to sit in the shade.
Then I unpack my tote, which is something of a production.
Sunscreen, ebook reader, water bottle, phone loaded with enough playlists to soundtrack a cross-country road trip, earbuds, a towel that I bought specifically for this vacation because it has cute dancing flamingos on it, and a small inflatable beach pillow that I have to blow up, which takes longer than it should and makes me lightheaded.