“That’s impossible,” I say, my voice sharp enough to make Marina flinch. “I specifically booked?—”
“I know exactly what you booked, sir, and I sincerely apologize. The problem is, with Crop Over and GrandKadooment happening this week, we’re not just fully booked—we’re overbooked. I’ve been frantically calling other resorts all morning, but everywhere is in the same situation.”
“So, what are you saying?” I demand.
Marina swallows. “Well, um… there’s two of you and only the one room. I’m so sorry.” She looks like she wants to disappear into the marble floor. “Perhaps I could speak with the manager about alternative arrangements?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Do that.”
Twenty minutes later, the manager appears—a distinguished man in his fifties who exudes the kind of calm authority that comes from years of dealing with wealthy, demanding guests. His solution is diplomatic and utterly unsatisfactory.
“I understand this is highly irregular,” he says, “but given the festival circumstances, I’m afraid our only option is to ask if you might be willing to share the suite temporarily. It’s quite spacious—over two thousand square feet with separate sitting areas. And the moment we have a cancellation, we’ll move one of you to alternative accommodations immediately.”
“Share,” I repeat, looking at Ella, who appears equally horrified by this prospect.
“This is insane,” Ella says, though she sounds more bewildered than angry. “I can’t share a room with him. I don’t even know this man. What if he’s a serial killer—or a rapist?”
“I’m not,” I say flatly.
She turns to me with raised eyebrows. “Which one?”
Despite everything—the ruined vacation, the invasion of my carefully planned solitude, the complete collapse of my control over this situation—I feel my mouth twitch. The response is so unexpected, so perfectly timed, that for a split second I forget to be furious.
I should leave. I should demand my money back, book a flight home, and chalk this up as yet another reason whyvacations are a terrible idea. But Dr. Vaughn’s warnings echo in my head, along with the memory of my chest seizing up during the poker game. I need this break, even if it comes with complications I never could have anticipated.
“Fine,” I hear myself saying. “Temporarily.”
Ella stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Are you serious?”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
She opens her mouth, closes it, then shakes her head. “I guess not.”
“Excellent,” the manager says, relief evident in his voice. “Marina will escort you both to the suite immediately. And again, we sincerely apologize for this inconvenience.”
As we follow Marina toward the elevators, I tell myself this is manageable. It’s a large suite, it’s only temporary, and I can handle anyone for a few days. How hard can it be?
Then I catch a whiff of that warm, indefinable scent that seems to follow Ella everywhere, and just like on the plane, it sends a powerful current of awareness through me. I want her, despite the fact that she is the last woman I should ever crave.
As I stare at her, I realize I may have just made the biggest mistake of my very carefully controlled life.
The woman is chaos incarnate, yet somehow I’ve just agreed to share living quarters with her. Paradise location. Honeymoon suite. One bedroom.
Fuck my life. This vacation is going to kill me.
If my heart condition doesn’t finish the job, cohabiting with Hurricane Ella definitely will.
CHAPTER 6
ELLA
The elevator doors slide shut, and I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Not the agreeing-to-share-a-suite-with-a-stranger part, although that’s definitely going to be a top contender for Worst Decision of My Life when I inevitably compile that list. No, the mistake is stepping into a mirrored elevator the size of a phone booth with a man who takes up nearly all of the available oxygen simply by being here.
Congratulations, Ella. You manifested paradise and got Satan’s CFO as your roommate.
I clutch my tote bag against my chest like it’s going to protect me from something, though I’m not entirely sure what. Alec stands on the opposite side of the elevator, which in a space this small means roughly eighteen inches away. His posture is so rigid housekeeping could wheel him into the corner and hang coats off him without anyone noticing the difference.
