2. Scarlett
Scarlett
“The suite,” I say as I spin in a circle in the middle of the room, phone on speaker in hand. “Can you believe they gave me the executive suite?”
“I thought every room at those bougie hotels was a suite,” my sister Claire says in her usual, unimpressed tone.
I can tell by the commotion in the background she is driving.
“They are. But this one is extra suite,” I tell her, pun intended. “It looks like some kind of Tahitian cabana. Like we’re still in Miami, but it’s got bamboo and vaulted ceilings and a view of the ocean. I swear I can see Mexico from here!”
I wander over to the wet bar while Claire tells me that’s not how geography works and pick up one of the wine glasses sitting upside down on a little gold tray.
There’s a red lipstick smudge along the rim.
“Ew.”
“What?” Claire asks.
“Nothing.” I put the glass back down. “Just reviewing.”
Because that I’ll remember.
“Why are you on the interstate?” I ask as I explore the bedroom. A bedroom that is bigger and fancier than the one in my apartment. Granted, my apartment is very low-end and kind of lame but that’s not the point. “You hate the interstate.”
“Yeah, well, my normal route is being paved so here we are. And right now, I have an asshole honking at me for going 65 in a 65 and now we are both going 40. Welcome to perimenopause, Kevin…” she says.
Claire calls every guy she is annoyed with Kevin. It’s the Karen of dude names apparently.
“You’re not in perimenopause,” I tell her as I step out on the balcony and breathe in the salty breeze.
I live in Miami. Even the inside of the shopping mall smells like the ocean. But it’s different when you’re inhaling it from a resort balcony. Vacation-y per se.
“Tell that to my sweat glands,” Claire grumbles.
I laugh and wander back inside, passing the enormous bed and dressing area before pushing open the bathroom door. “This bathroom. Claire! The bathroom is—”
“So who are you doing this job for again?” she asks, and I deflate.
There it is.
“I’m not sure. CB Associates or something.”
“CB Associates or something…” she echoes back. “Did you even do any research?”
And there’s the rest of it.
“They paid me upfront to write a review on the Sapphire Keys resort. It’s anonymous. I’ll figure out the logistics later. And speaking of that, I am going to take advantage of this shower. Not later. Now. Because it’s got like five shower heads, Claire. Five.”
“Sounds to me like the Bale Brothers themselves are buttering you up to write a gleaming review so they can make even more money,” she mutters.
“Fine by me,” I say. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“But—”
“Love you, bye!”
I hang up on my sister before she can get to whatever it is she actually called me to talk about.
Because I know my older sister. Claire doesn’t call to ask how I’m doing or tell me about her daughter Emily’s latest milestone or invite me to lunch. She calls because she spends most of her time stewing over her disapproval of my life.
And the little CB Associates or something interrogation was an obvious warm-up.
Considering my current circumstances, I’m not in the mood. I’m back in Miami between trips, trying to figure out my living situation and how to turn the career I love into one that actually pays all my bills.
Today, at least, I’m in far too good of a mood to deal with any of Claire’s negative Nancy crap.
Besides, I’m here to review a hotel, not solve the mystery of who paid me to do it. And right now there is a five-headed shower practically begging for an investigation.
For research purposes, obviously.
I set my phone on the bathroom counter and head back into the dressing area, where my suitcase is sitting open on the floor beneath a row of empty hangers.
Usually right now I would be snapping photos of the room, the view, me in the room with the view behind me, posting it all to my social media platform.
MooreToExplore.
It’s a play on words because my last name is Moore. Catchy, right?
But considering this job had a strict NDA clause about the review being 100% anonymous, I can’t do that.
I am a travel journalist. Self-employed most of the time. Social media influencer all of the time.
But money has been a little slow recently so I am doing what any freelancer does in their dry spells—taking what I can get.
The traveling part I have figured out. I’ve spent the last few years bouncing around the country and getting farther from home whenever a job or cheap flight lets me.
The financially stable part? Still very much a work in progress.
As I turn back toward the bathroom, I spot my little burgundy bucket-list book on the floor beside my suitcase.
The leather cover is warped from being shoved into more carry-ons than I can count. I started it before MooreToExplore was even a thing, and lately checking things off has become almost as addictive as adding new ones.
Maybe Stay in a ridiculously expensive executive suite deserves a spot.
Then again, I’m already here. That would be cheating.
I leave the book where it is and step into the bathroom.
Then I strip.
Shirt. Shorts. Bra. Panties.
I leave everything in a pile on the bathroom floor beside the vanity and grab one of the fluffy white bath towels from the shelf, mostly because it looks ridiculously soft.
It is.
It’s also ridiculously small.
I wrap it around myself and the ends barely meet.
“Seriously?”
For what this place charges a night, you’d think they could spring for enough cotton to cover an average-sized woman.
I drop it back onto the vanity.
Mental note. Luxury towels should actually fit the people paying for them.
I turn on the shower and immediately the marble room fills with a scent that smells like lavender and luxury.
Then I catch sight of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
And stop.
Because apparently nothing can kill the fantasy of being the kind of woman who belongs in a penthouse suite faster than seeing yourself naked under very expensive lighting.
There is a lot of me.
Soft. Curvy. Pale in all the places my full-coverage swimsuit usually hides.
My breasts are full and heavy, my waist curves in before everything curves right back out again at my hips.
My thighs touch. My stomach is soft instead of flat, with a little heart-shaped birthmark beside my navel that I've always kind of liked.
Individually, none of it is terrible.
Together?
I turn slightly to the side. My ass looks even bigger from this angle. Great.
I’ve always been told I’m pretty. But never sexy. Never hot.
Just…
“A pretty girl.”
“A nice face.”
“A good smile.”
All compliments I appreciate, really.
But no man has ever looked at my thighs and forgotten what they were saying.
No man has ever stared at my hips like they were fighting the urge to put their hands on them.
No man has ever made me feel like the parts of myself I work hardest to hide are the exact parts they want to see.
And maybe that shouldn’t matter.
Most of the time, it doesn’t.
“You’re being silly,” I tell myself. “You are happy and smart and hardworking and vibrant and healthy.”
It’s a pep talk I tell myself every time I accidentally stare too long at my own reflection.
And all of these things are true.
I like myself.
I just wish, every once in a while, I could look at my body and understand how anyone else could want it.
I stare at myself for another second.
Then, because apparently self-torture is on today's itinerary, I put one hand on my hip and turn sideways.
Maybe if I—
No.
I turn the other way and stick my ass out a little.
Definitely no.
“Oh, come on,” I mutter at my reflection.
I roll my shoulders back, plant both hands in my hair and give my hips an exaggerated little shimmy.
Once.
Twice.
By the third, I’m laughing.
So I commit.
I sway my hips, toss my hair and do a slow spin in the middle of the bathroom like I'm starring in the world's least convincing music video. For approximately five seconds, I stop thinking about my stomach and my thighs and whether my ass is too big.
I just move.
And it actually feels kind of good.
Until I catch myself in the mirror again.
I snort.
“Nice try, Scarlett.”
I’ll just have to accept that no man is ever going to look at all this and think it’s sexy.