“So what’s with the outfit then?” I ask. “I thought we were on vacation.”
He looks down at his clothes, a crease between his brows and lips turned down.
I take another bite of croissant before I speak. “You look like you’re going to a meeting. I was thinking, like, swimming.”
“You want to go swimming?” he asks.
I halt my chewing, my turn to frown. Is swimming too immature for him? Does the man know how to take vacations?
“This fancy ass hotel has a pool, fitness center, spa—we have ourownhot tub. It would be a shame not to partake. A waste of money, even.”
“We stay for free,” he reminds me as if his last name isn’t embossed onto the stationary on all of the bedside tables in the hotel.
“All the more reason. It’s like a buffet, they should belosingmoney on us.” I wipe my fingers on the cloth napkin and crawl out of the bed, the air cool on my bare legs. I slept in Maxim’s muscle shirt which he’d slipped over my head after declaring that me walking around naked would be too distracting.
His eyes flit to my legs, and then quickly back up at my face.
So polite.
“Did you have other plans today? Work?” I ask.
“No, we’re traveling today.”
I stare blankly at Maxim. The honeymoon isn’t a long one; just three days, and mostly for appearances, but I didn’t think we’d be going back to his hometoday. I thought we’d have time to get facials and what the fuck ever someone does at an Orlov.
“Willa didn’t tell you?”
I prop my hands on my hips, causing his eyes to stray downward again before quickly returning to safer, less indecent territory. “She didn’t.”
“We’re going to Mexico,” he says. “Three days. You can do lots of swimming.”
I blink, processing this news. Part of me wants to be upset at the surprise—I do not love surprises—but I had already written the next three days off of productivity of any kind. Now I’ll just be unproductive in Mexico, presumably next to a large body of water.
“When do we leave?” I ask.
Maxim looks down at the shiny watch on his wrist. “We leave in an hour.”
I shouldn’t be shockedthat the beachside Orlov resort in Mexico is even nicer than the Orlov we slept in last night. Everything since we left has been dripping in luxury—the plane that took us here, the limo that was waiting for us when we arrived, the full spread of chilled tropical fruit on our table as we stepped inside the room. I knew Maxim had money, everyone knows this, but to know his net worth and to experience it are two different things.
It’s not like we didn’t have our share of luxurious vacations as kids, but there is a difference between a nice room at a nice resort and the nicest room at thenicestresort, and it’s felt inthread counts and included amenities. Even more with every employee knowing us by name, politely welcomingMr.andMrs. Orlovas we passed.
Our room isn’t as large as the other was, but it has indoor and outdoor seating as well as its own smallpool. I’m not tired since I slept most of the flight here—the plane was nice and the leather seats were stupidly comfortable. The flight attendant even brought me a blanket that was so soft I asked Maxim if I could take it with me.
The blanket sits on our second California King bed in as many days while I float on my back in the pool, Maxim reading a paperback in a patio chair beside me.
He traded his slacks for shorts and his button up for a polo, which was more exciting to me than it should have been, seeing his shins and biceps, his detailed tattoos on display for my perusal. Willa packed all new clothes in my suitcase, including three of the sluttiest little bikinis I could imagine. I put one on as soon as we’d arrived and caught Maxim staring at my ass immediately.
Once again, my sisters love to meddle.
My fingers sufficiently pruned, I dunk my head under water one final time before I climb out. My bathing suit is bright purple and probably not appropriate to wear in public spaces, but I look great and it’s just Maxim. He saw a whole lot more of me last night.
The sun is setting, beautiful pink and orange painted across the sky over the ocean. I turn over my shoulder to tell Maxim, only to find him already looking up at me. I can’t see his eyes beneath the sunglasses, but I imagine they’re violent and stormy based only on the firm set of his mouth. If I let my mind wander, I begin to imagine that he resents being here with me. That this is a honeymoon he would’ve preferred to save for his ex-fiancée. I am sure she was nicer than me.
I say, “I’m hungry again,” and it’s that simple. The novel is set on a side table, sunglasses tucked into his shirt pocket, and he’s listing options of food, either to be delivered or restaurant options. I choose one of the resort’s restaurants (if we stay alone in the room for any longer I’ll probably get bored and try to seduce him into more orgasms), and make quick work of changing before we’re walking side by side there, both smelling of sunscreen.
“You like to read,” I say once we’re seated. “I just remembered your house was full of books.”
Those piles of books stacked on side tables and shelves seemed so strange to me then, so incongruous to the image of Maxim Orlov I’d created in my mind. I think I imagined him perpetually with a glass of liquor in hand, forever brooding in a club, maybe puffing a cigar. I couldn’t imagine his legs propped up and brow furrowed while reading sci-fi.
