“Thank you,” I interrupted smoothly. “Anica’s a bit shy about public displays of affection. Very professional. Doesn’t want people to know she’s madly in love with me.”
Mrs. Albury patted Anica’s hand. “No need to be shy here, dear. Love is beautiful at any age. You hold on to this one. Men who look at women the way he looks at you are rare, like good mangoes in winter.”
Anica shot me a look that promised retribution, but she smiled politely at our host. “You’re very kind.”
After settling the payment and collecting a toothbrush and other necessities from Mrs. Albury’s stash for stranded travelers, we were shown to the honeymoon suite. It was charming in that old-fashioned B&B way—floral wallpaper, antique furniture, and a four-poster bed draped with mosquito netting.
One bed. A queen-sized bed that suddenly looked very small for two adults, one of whom was trying very hard not to think about the other one in a non-professional capacity.
“I’ll take the floor,” I offered immediately once Mrs. Albury had left us alone.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anica sighed, looking exhausted. “We’re adults. The bed is plenty big.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, giving her an out. “Because I’m perfectly happy to?—”
“Callan,” she interrupted. “After the day we’ve had, the last thing I need is to ruin it by feeling guilty about you sleeping on a hardwood floor. We can share the bed. Just... stay on your side.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, saluting. “I shall construct a pillow wall if necessary. Perhaps draw a line down the middle with lipstick. Create a DMZ of blankets. Hire tiny border patrol agents to enforce the boundary.”
“Or you could just be a normal person who respects boundaries,” she suggested.
“That sounds significantly less fun. But I accept your terms. No crossing the International Date Line of the mattress without proper documentation and approval from border control.”
The awkwardness of the situation hit us both as we stared at the room clearly designed for honeymooners, complete with rose petals scattered across the turned-down sheets and what appeared to be massage oils on the nightstand.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Anica announced, grabbing the toiletry kit Mrs. Albury had provided. “And pretend this isn’t the most uncomfortable situation I’ve been in since my cousin’s wedding where the best man proposed to the maid of honor during the toast and she said no.”
“Ouch,” I winced. “That’s rough.”
“He had a backup speech.”
I burst out laughing. “No way. That’s diabolical.”
“True story,” she assured me, disappearing into the bathroom.
I heard the shower start and tried very, very hard not to think about Anica naked and wet just a few feet away. Instead, I busied myself removing the rose petals from the bed and turning on the ceiling fan to combat the island’s humid night air. I also found and discreetly relocated a book titled “101 Tantric Techniques for Newlyweds” that Mrs. Albury had thoughtfully left on the nightstand.
When Anica emerged twenty minutes later, her hair was damp and she wore a button-down shirt, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. She’d rolled up the sleeves, and the effect was both adorable and unexpectedly sexy.
“Mrs. Albury said I could borrow this,” she explained, gesturing to the shirt and a pair of men’s boxers just visible beneath the shirt’s hem. “Apparently her son leaves clothes here sometimes. They’re clean,” she added hastily.
“Good to know,” I managed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll, uh, take my turn now.”
I grabbed the remaining toiletries and escaped to the bathroom, where I took the quickest, coldest shower of my adult life. With no alternative, I had to put my shorts back on, deciding to sleep shirtless rather than in my sweaty, salt-crusted button-down.
When I returned to the bedroom, Anica was already in bed, perched as far to one side as physically possible without falling off. She glanced up from examining her phone, which still had no service, and her eyes widened slightly at my bare chest before she very deliberately looked away.
“Sorry,” I said, gesturing to my lack of shirt. “It was either this or put back on the shirt that smells like I enjoy marinating in seawater and sunscreen.”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly, looking anywhere but at me. “Just, you know, stay on your side.”
“As promised,” I agreed, sliding into the opposite side of the bed, careful to leave as much space between us as the queen mattress would allow. “Good night, Anica.”
“Good night, Callan,” she replied, reaching to turn off the lamp.
The room plunged into darkness, illuminated only by slivers of moonlight filtering through the curtains. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of her presence beside me. Her breathing was too measured, too careful, to suggest she was anywhere close to sleep.
“This is ridiculous,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “I’m not going to be able to sleep if I’m this tense.”
