He reached across and squeezed my knee.
The Post Ranch Inn is a forty-room hotel built into the California coastline. We parked, and I got out, stretching my legs and hinging at the waist. I felt the blood rush back into my limbs.
Hugo unloaded the car as I looked around. The serene beauty of the place was physical—I could feel my body relaxing with every step I took. Even the air was different—it smelled like rain and pines and lavender. It felt pristine, too. It wasn’t mixed with exhaust and chemicals. Nothing there felt contaminated.
We were shown to our room—a bungalow hanging over the ocean with its own private terrace—complete with lounge chairs and a bubbling hot tub. The interior looked like a chic, woodsy cabin—all cherrywood and exposed beams with a steel fireplace, already lit.
“This is heaven,” I said.
Behind me I heard Hugo thank our bellhop, and then the close of the door.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my favorite places in the world.”
I turned around to see Hugo lifting champagne out of an ice bucket. I heard the cork pop. I untied my sweater from around my waist and slipped it over my head.
“Here we go.” Hugo came outside carrying two glasses. I took one out of his hands. We clinked. I took a sip. It was icy and sweet—delicious.
“It’s crazy to think this is just five hours away,” I said.
Hugo smiled. “It’s a different universe, right?”
“Let’s stay here.”
Hugo leaned over and kissed my shoulder. I felt his teeth on my sweater. “Now,” he said. “I have to show you around.”
“The hotel?”
Hugo took the glass out of my hand and placed it down on the ledge of the hot tub. “Our room.”
He took my hand and led me back inside.
Part of the excitement and allure of this trip was simple: we hadn’t had sex yet.
We’d fooled around, heavily made out—I’d even spent the night. But sex hadn’t happened yet. Part of it was that we hadn’t seen each other that frequently—Hugo was always traveling, and work for me was particularly time intensive—and part of it was that the previous week, when all systems were a go, I got my period. Fine for down-the-road sex, but first time felt aggressive.
“This is the sitting room, complete with two seventies-inspiredcouches.” Hugo maneuvered me by the maroon loungers, and the glass and chrome coffee table between them.
“Very groovy.”
“This is our breakfast nook.”
Two wooden chairs sat beside a small table in the corner that had a basket on it filled with fruits and nuts and what looked to be some kind of dessert bread.
“And this is—I’m blanking on what you call it…” Hugo turned to me with a deadly grin, pointing to the bed.
“The thing for sleeping?”
He slipped an arm around my waist, and leaned his mouth down to my neck. “Hell no.”
I reached up to meet him, and he planted a kiss right below my ear. I felt myself go gelatinous in his arms. I sat down on the bed, and then scooted back, pulling him with me.
I wanted to have sex with Hugo, so much so that I felt like I had been driving it these past few weeks. But I was also scared about what it might do to us. I was in deeper than I should have been; I could feel it. And I was angry at myself for it, too. If I were my friend, I’d be telling me that men like this don’t change, that he was momentarily infatuated with me and that it would fade, just like all the others had. That whatever was between us would not prove to be special.
I didn’t need a friend, I had a paper saying it for me.
The problem was, my body refused to believe it.
“This is all I could think about on the drive up here,” Hugo said. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about for weeks.”
