“Thank you so much.”
“Are you hungry? I was about to make myself a big sandwich and a tall spiced rum punch. I’d be happy to make both for you, too.”
His offer feels like a much-needed hug, the same way that nice lady’s kindness at the airport did. “Thank you. I’d love both, if it’s not too much of a bother.”
“Not a bother at all.”
While he busies himself in the adjacent kitchenette, I call the phone number listed at the bottom of my confirmation email, and sure enough, a full refund was sent yesterday to the credit card on file—Brandon’s parents’ card.
I clutch my chest as the hotel clerk explains everything to me, my spirit lodged into my toes.
“But wasn’t it too late to get a refund?” I ask hopefully.
“Normally, it would have been,” the clerk confirms. “We made an exception this time, given your family emergency and because we happened to have another guest willing to pay in full, right then.”
This is a nightmare. I don’t know what “family emergency” Brandon or his parents concocted to make the hotel bend the rules, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. Not when the money’s already been returned and I can’t afford even the cheapest room at this fancy resort.
The hotel clerk adds, “We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Gladstone. Our sincerest condolences.”
My stomach revolts.Please, let that be the last time anyone calls me that slur for the rest of my days.“Thank you.”
Mr. Beautiful returns with two fruity-looking drinks just as I’m disconnecting the call. When he sees my dejected face, his smile vanishes. “They’re not giving you another bungalow?”
I shake my head. “Looks like I’m going to have to find somewhere else to stay for the week. They’re all booked up.”
“What?” He places both drinks on a coffee table and sits next to me. “That’s unacceptable. They need to give you another bungalow.”
“They don’t have one to give.” I don’t know if that’s true, but there’s no way I’m going to reveal the truth about my situation to this man.
“Did you tell them to at least give you a suite or room in the main building?”
“They said the resort is all booked up. Every single room.” Again, I don’t know if that’s true. But God help me, I don’t want him picking up the phone and demanding another room on my behalf, only to find out they’ve given me a full refund, due to some made-up family emergency.
The man scratches his stubbled chin. “Come to think of it, Ithink they mentioned something about the resort being at full capacity when I extended my stay. Shoot. This is a pickle, huh?”
Goddamn, he’s gorgeous. His sheer physicality and proximity are conspiring to quicken my pulse.
I suddenly remember how I promised that nice airport lady I’d fulfill my every desire this week, big or small, in order to heal myself. Well, I can’t imagine something I’d like to “do” more than this gorgeous man sitting next to me. Not to mention, sleeping here for tonight would conveniently solve my current state of homelessness, if only temporarily, in addition to being a delightfully exciting thing to do. Even if it’s only for one night, that’d at least give me a place to rest my weary head before setting out to find a motel or hostel somewhere on the island tomorrow. Obviously, I’d never have sex with this man solely to finagle myself a place to sleep tonight. I’d do it because he’s hot as hell and I’m in dire need of a pick-me-up. But as luck would have it, sleeping with him would also solve my current housing crisis.
The only problem? I don’t have the courage to make the first move on this stunning hunk of a man. Even if I did, however, who knows if he’d be willing to become my first-ever one-night stand. For all I know, he’s not even attracted to me. Or to women. Or maybe he’s got a wife or girlfriend back home—maybe even one who’s somewhere around here at the resort, like at the pool or spa.
I glance around the space for evidence of a woman staying here. Shoes, a purse, a bikini drying on the deck. Did I see makeup on the counter in the bathroom? Were there two toothbrushes or only one? I can’t remember any of those details.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” he says. Whatever he’s seeing on my face, he apparently thinks I need reassurance. “I tell you what. I’ll make those sandwiches, and after you’ve had a chanceto fuel up and rest, we’ll search online together for a nearby bungalow for you.”
“Thanks for the sweet offer to help, but I’ll search for another room by myself. I don’t want you interrupting your vacation.”
“It’s the least I can do. I feel terrible about the mix-up. I wonder how it happened?”
I don’t want to keep lying to his nice man. Lying isn’t par for the course for me. How could I teach preschoolers about the importance of being honest at all times if I weren’t committed to honesty myself? And yet, in this one unique situation, I feel like lying would be the right thing for my mental health. Surely, telling him the truth about my embarrassing situation would feel a whole lot worse than telling a tiny lie about what brought me here today.
“I was supposed to come here with a friend,” I blurt, “but she had to cancel at the last minute for a work emergency.” I clear my throat. “I bet they thoughthercancellation was for both of us.”
“That has to be it.”
I look around again. “So, um, are you here alone, or ...?”
The man nods and leans back into the couch. “My entire extended family was here all week for my cousin’s wedding, but everyone left this morning. I was supposed to leave with them, but the opportunity to play golf with an old friend came up, so I stayed for that.”
