“Bad?”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Noah says. “Hey—” Noah leans over me, placing his hand on the other side of my head and lowers his face toward mine. His nose is less than an inch from my nose. What is happening? I can smell his cool fresh breath. It’s nice. It’s really nice.
Is he … is he trying to kiss me? We just met. This kind of situation doesn’t happen in real life. Which means, I’m back to wondering if my plane crashed and I’m in heaven. He’s gazing into my eyes. He has beautiful eyes. Everything feels like it’s in slow motion.
Kiss me, Noah James.It doesn’t matter that we don’t know each other whatsoever. You look kissable. He could be my Prince Charming. Who knows? I close my eyes and sew my lips together, just open slightly enough to leave a soft pucker.
Noah’s knuckles brush against the side of my face just before he retrieves something from the pavement beneath my right ear. The sound of metal scrapes against the gravel and I open my eyes, finding him staring at me with question—not just question, but a look of,What the hell is wrong with you?
“You dropped your key. It must have flown out of your pocket.” Noah inspects the key as if any gold-ridge key looks different from another, and then hands it to me. “Here you go. You’ll probably need this.” Noah stands up and brushes the non-existent dirt from his knees, offers me a hand, and I stand up, feeling hot and red. “Are you going to make it home okay?”
“Oh, totally, I’m cool. I’m fine, I mean. No worries. Thanks for the ice and napkins.”
Noah drops his hands into his back pocket and nods his head with confusion. “No problem. Have a—ah—a good day.”
“You too,” I tell him, spinning around on my heels, almost walking right back into the lamp. Thankfully, my hands make contact with the metal first, and I’m able to play it off as if I’m choking the lamp, jokingly, before walking off.
Lovely. Just lovely.
I make it a block down the street and look behind me, finding Noah still staring with wonder.
I will not be going back to that restaurant anytime soon.
Chapter 7
By the timeI’ve gotten back to the villa, I almost forgot about the bonfire invitation I received for tonight. My gut is telling me I’m in for more of what I experienced earlier in the day—man after man approaching me with kind gestures. I feel the need to clarify my reasons for being here, which will be my intent tonight.
I stare at my empty bedroom, debating where to start. For one, the bed needs sheets and my pink-plaid comforter, which took up half of one the suitcases I brought. The small pieces of decor are in one of the boxes I shipped, so I’ll have to stare at the white walls for a few days. I gather my clothes and bring them to the closet, but when I open the closet door, I feel immediately blinded by sequins and sparkles.
So, I guess the closet is already being occupied. I’ve heard of pre-furnished, but pre-clothed, not so much.
I swing through the hangers, one by one, finding long dresses made up of silk, slits and plunging necklines.Not exactly my style.
Rather than play dress-up tonight, I yank out my favorite pair of holey jeans and a camouflage tank top. Maybe the camo pattern will give them a hint.
I walk past Krow’s bedroom on the way to the stairway. “You said you aren’t going to this bonfire tonight?”
“No,” she responds, almost before I’ve finished my question. “That’s not for—“
“Krow,” Kricket interrupts. “Don’t be rude.” I think we’re past rude.
Without needing to hear more, I continue down the stairs, finding my timing to be impeccable as the sun is setting over the horizon outside of the back sliding door.
I slip on my black Reef flip-flops and step outside, searching for the gaggle of men who will likely be at this shindig.
Tiki torches are lit down the small stone path, guiding me in whatever direction I’m supposed to be heading. Sounds of tropical-like music play in the distance, and I swear I hear a steel drum in the mix. If I didn’t see signs for Georgia, I might question if I’m still within the U.S.
As I arrive at a clearing of beach grass, I spot the motion of firewood flying into a ring, and men dressed in their finest Bermuda-style beachwear, sipping on cocktails. Not beers, but cocktails.
I’ve used the term “record scratch” many times before, but this particular moment is the true definition of a record scratch, minus the actual scratch. All eyes are on me— ten sets of eyes.
They all look alike. These men must be pod people. That has to be what’s going on.
At least I spot food. Food will keep me here a bit longer. There is a long table with a white tablecloth, and two male caterers are preparing a carving station alongside a dozen metal serving trays that are being kept warm by tiny candles.
Theo, the first man who approached me today, is making his way over. His charming smile glows as he approaches me with his arm out to the side, seemingly ready to take me into his embrace.
