Chapter 7
SEVEN
Lauren
The last real party I attended was a rooftop in Milan for a mineral water brand. This is nothing like that.
Oh, sure, I've been to formal events at the best hotels in Europe, catered affairs where liquor companies sponsor the drinks and fashion houses host red carpets.
I've been to private house soirees where social media influencers are thicker than the Mediterranean heat.
And there are the clubs, with famous DJs and celebrities and the adaptogenic mocktails that are all the rage now.
Tonight there are about twenty of us left now that it's dark: Damien, his brothers, their friends, and Kate. Everyone's only goal is to laugh and flirt and have fun. Nobody's promoting anything.
There’s a speaker playing Noah Kahan, a bonfire in a fire pit, and someone with a bongo drum that makes my whole body thrum with happiness.
Max slides on a shirt — sadly — and then a hoodie as the night grows cool.
He and I chat about nothing, then drift apart, chat and then drift.
I discover he's thirty-five and a real estate consultant in New York who handles sales of resort properties and hotels around the U.S.
He strikes me as a bit uptight, but in an endearing, earnest way. The kind of guy who pays bills a week in advance, remembers to call his mom on Sundays, and doesn't lose his belongings when he travels.
And he does travel often. That's a huge plus in my book.
He also has an appreciation for some of my favorite things: the Lufthansa first class lounge at the Frankfurt Airport, John Green novels, and brunch.
That he's secure enough in his masculinity to embrace enthusiasm for the latter two — all while looking at me like I'm the most interesting person at this party — is incredibly hot.
The men I usually meet are often cynical and surrounded in an impenetrable layer of irony.
Nothing is ever cool enough or interesting enough. Including me.
Not Max, though. He's telling me enthusiastically about the resort renovation, how the floor in each room was redone with a special Italian wood laminate and the doors are a unique light-gray hue.
“Like baby doves.”
I apologize for scraping my wheel-less suitcase on the baby dove-colored door.
“I forgive you.” He grins, showing straight, white teeth, then points at my cup. “You need something cold to drink?”
“That would be amazing. I’d love a water.”
He wanders off. Kate sidles up to me. “You are turning on the charm,” she murmurs.
“Heh,” I retort triumphantly. “Wait and see what I'm capable of.”
Kate dissolves into giggles. Back in our heyday — those first couple of years after graduating from the Art Institute in Chicago — our favorite pastime was flirting with guys.
Not sleeping around. Flirting. Having fun, laughing, and comparing notes.
Tonight feels like old times, and it's making me insanely happy.
Nothing's riding on tonight. No Instagram metrics, no Facebook algorithms. Fun for the sake of fun.
Someone plays that catchy Juanes tune on a little speaker and a couple begins to salsa on the lawn.
Max returns with the water. Everyone else is already dancing, and I jump up and grab his hand and pull him to the grass. We shimmy and bump hips.
After a few more dances, each sillier than the last, I'm fairly confident we're both sorting out if the other one is interested. Spoiler alert: we're both interested.
There's a tipsy singalong to a Bob Marley song, and Kate and I skip arm-in-arm along the path that winds through the resort grounds, laughing about old times as Damien and Max look on.
I shiver because there’s a slight crispness in the nighttime air, and Max ambles over to me, unzipping his blue hoodie.
“You look chilly. Don't want you getting sick before the big day. Put this on.”
There's his faint fragrance on the sweatshirt, like expensive old-school shaving cream with something warmer underneath — cedar, maybe, or the particular smell of someone who's been outdoors and is happy about it.
I want to bury my face in the soft cotton and am pondering whether I should tell him this when he presses his shoulder into mine.
“Is this your first time in Cypress Grove?”
“It is. I'd always meant to visit because Kate talked about this place so much.”
“Damien says you and Kate shared a place in Chicago. You still live there?”
“I don't live anywhere.”
He quirks an eyebrow, and I think about kissing his lips. They look soft.
I grin. “I'm a digital nomad.”
“Ohh, so you're one of those people who travels around the world taking beautiful social media photos. Yeah, I can see that. The beautiful part, definitely.”
The breeze whips a lock of my hair across my mouth, and he reaches to brush it back. Oof. There's that pull in my stomach again.
Thank goodness we're on the same page — there's nothing worse than wanting a guy who doesn't feel the same way.
It's why I almost never flirt or come on to guys while I'm working or traveling; they seem to always desire someone more connected, someone richer, someone thinner.
Or they're dangerously skeevy and give off a cocaine cowboy vibe. So I don't even try.
Tonight feels like the perfect night to try, because I know Max feels the same way. His genuine smiles, the way he looks into my eyes, how he's asking lots of questions and not talking only about himself.
All signs point to yes, yes, yes.
“So you have no permanent address. Where were you before here, and where are you headed next? And where are you originally from?”
I move a little closer to him. His voice is the right tone of gravelly and low. There's no way I'm going to tell him about my complicated family back home in Ohio. Not with how warm and close-knit his own family appears to be.
Growing up, I was the one who kept everything running. I was an only child for ten blissful years, and then when my mom had three later-in-life babies in quick succession, I morphed into her nanny-helper-daughter. Leaving for college was a relief, and a source of guilt.
Now I’m grateful for the distance.
“I was in Italy, headed to Costa Rica after this. A luxury eco-retreat. I was hoping Kate...” I rein in my words.
Nope. Can't spill those details. Especially not to the groom's brother.
“I was hoping to stay a little while in Cypress Grove to spend time with Kate.
After Damien leaves, so she's not too upset, and not alone,” I say quickly.
He turns his head to look at Damien and Kate, who are standing on the other side of the bonfire. She's almost swallowed by his big arms, and I can't help but notice how her expression is positively blissful.
“An interesting situation, Damien and Kate, no?”
“Mmm.” Hopefully I sound noncommittal. I’m a horrible liar. I take a sip of my water and glance at his cheekbones, which are angular and lovely.
“Were you surprised they fell for each other so quickly?” He's studying my face, and I'm worried I'll betray her secret. “Because I was. We all were.”
“Nope,” I say briskly. I don't want to be the one who reveals Kate's secret to the Hastings family. “She talked about how she had a crush on him all through high school, and how he was the one guy who didn't bully her. I wasn't surprised at all. Sometimes love happens fast.”
“Guess so,” he murmurs, then opens his mouth.
I'm afraid he's going to ask more questions about Kate and Damien, and I’m a terrible liar. So I speak first.
“I really, really have to use the bathroom. Is there one by the pool?” I pretend to peer over his shoulder, but really, it's an excuse to get a little closer so I can smell him.
“I'll take you there. C'mon.” He gestures with his head, and I follow him.
The bathroom's not far and is, indeed, near the pool.
“I'll wait for you. Don't want you wandering around in the dark alone.”
I grin and open the door to the ladies' room. He’s such a gentleman.
Inside, I peer at myself in the mirror. I don’t really have to pee, but I did want to check my hair and makeup. The former is wild, and the latter has mostly faded in the warm night air. My cheeks are a flushed pink, and my eyes are wide and bright.
My hand goes to my purse before I even think about it. Old reflex: find the angle, find the light, figure out how to make this into something.
I let my hand drop. This is a different look for me, and I don’t want to package it, document it, or show it off.
Gathering the hood of Max's sweatshirt in my hands, I turn my head and take a sniff, then allow my eyes to flutter shut for a moment. Then I reach into my purse for a mint, because I suspect a kiss is coming soon. I pop it into my mouth.
With a huge grin on my face, I emerge from the bathroom.
“I was thinking,” I say, hooking my arm into Max's, “you should take me on a grand tour of Cypress Grove, since you grew up here and all.”
He looks down at me. “I like that idea. In fact, let's start tonight. There's something I’d like to show you. It's not far. Walk with me?”
“Of course.”
We slip away from the bonfire, following a path that winds through the resort grounds and into the trees.
The night air is soft and warm, and somewhere above us the cypress canopy is full of stars.
Max has a small flashlight — the kind that clips to a keychain — and he holds it low so we can see the path without ruining the dark.
The resort sits a couple of miles outside of downtown, Max explains as we walk.
The hotel is close to the springs but separate from the town, its own world in the cypress.
It occurs to me now what that means: the path we’re on is the connective tissue, the thing that makes the Magnolia Grand feel like it belongs to something larger.
Here in the dark under the trees, I’m starting to understand why someone would build a resort here instead of anywhere else.