He seems to consider this more seriously than the question warrants. “Organization reduces stress.”
“Careful,” I say, hanging up a maxi dress by tucking the hanger through one strap in a way that would probably give him an aneurysm. “Your control issues are showing. Again.”
“It’s called having standards.”
“Great.” I turn to face him, one hand on my hip, a sandal dangling from the other. “Apply them to your side of the closet. My sundresses don’t need your judgy opinion.”
I reach for a hanger, and my clumsy grab sends it flying to the floor. He’s at my side before I realize it, and then we’re both reaching to pick it up at the same time.
Our fingers brush, and the contact is small, barely anything, but he’s close. Closer than he’s been since the bed. I can feel the warmth radiating off him like he runs at a higher temperature than normal humans, and underneath whatever soap he uses there’s just him, something clean and warm and distinctly male that has no business smelling this good on a man this annoying.
Neither of us moves. One second. Two. I’m holding my breath and I only realize it because my lungs start to ache. His pulse is ticking in his throat, steady but faster than it should be for a man who’s made it fairly clear that he’d rather be anywhere but stuck in this room with me. But his eyes are on mine, and for once there’s no irritation in them, no indifference. Just a raw, unguarded focus that pins me in place.
Then he releases the hanger, steps back, and returns to his socks like nothing happened. But I catch the way his hand flexesonce at his side, fingers curling and releasing, like he’s shaking off the ghost of contact.
I hang up my dress with hands that are not quite as steady as I’d like and tell myself the Caribbean heat is getting to me. My pulse is still thudding too hard as I smooth the fabric on the hanger, and I’m acutely aware of the three feet of air between us now, charged with something I don’t want to name.
I slide past him toward the bathroom, close enough that my shoulder nearly grazes his arm, and the near-miss sends a prickle of warmth across my skin. He goes very still as I pass, which I file away under things I’m choosing not to think about.
I start unpacking the important stuff: my truly unreasonable collection of hair products, the Korean skincare bottles I splurged on with lottery money because for once in my life I could, and my favorite old makeup bag that’s held together with optimism and a broken zipper. I line everything up on my half of the marble counter, which takes some creative stacking.
His side is already done, which shouldn’t surprise me. A sleek black dopp kit sits perfectly aligned beside the sink, its contents arranged like a display in a men’s grooming ad. Razor, shaving cream, a comb, deodorant, all in a tidy row.
The dopp kit is half-unzipped, and as I’m reaching for my moisturizer, I catch a glimpse of something inside. Two small prescription bottles, that distinct burnt orange plastic, tucked behind his grooming products. Not hidden exactly, but not displayed either.
I lean in before I can stop myself, squinting at the labels. What’s he taking? Why two? The bottles are angled away from me and I can’t read the print without being obvious about it.
“Do you need more counter space in there?”
Alec’s voice carries from the bedroom, casual enough, but I jolt back from the counter like I’ve been caught pickpocketing.My elbow catches one of my own skincare bottles and sends it clattering into the sink.
“Nope!” My voice is way too bright. The voice of someone who was absolutely not thinking about snooping through a stranger’s prescriptions two seconds ago. “Just claiming my half!”
I right the fallen bottle, heart beating a little too fast, and stare at myself in the mirror.Nice, Ella. Very smooth. You’ve been in this room for twenty minutes and you’re already going through the man’s medicine cabinet.
But the image of those orange bottles sticks with me as I line up my moisturizer and sunscreen. Two prescriptions for a man who can’t be older than his early thirties. A man who doesn’t eat sugar, who meditates in public, whose life seems so orderly and measured it makes mine look like total chaos.
Something about those bottles nags at me. A small pang of something I don’t want to call concern presses against my chest, because concern implies caring, and caring implies this arrangement is something more than what it is.
We’re temporary roommates. Not friends.
His toiletries sit four inches from mine on the counter and somehow that’s the most intimate thing about this entire situation. His razor next to my hair serum. His deodorant beside my moisturizer. The bathroom of two people who have absolutely no business sharing one.
I zip my makeup bag shut and head back to the bedroom where Alec is closing his final drawer with a soft, satisfied click. The suite is mostly settled now, his half neat and ordered, mine a cheerful disaster, and the tension in the room feels less hostile than it did twenty minutes ago. Not comfortable, exactly. But less like we’re two cats shoved into the same carrier.
“So,” he says, arms crossed, full boss-mode posture. “Your closet. My drawers. Bathroom and bed equally divided. This could work. I mean, temporarily.”
I snap my suitcase shut and straighten up, pushing a strand of hair out of my face. “You realize this is a band-aid on a bullet wound, right? It’s festival week. Every resort on this island is packed. By the time they find one of us another room, those towel swans will have grandkids.”
Something flickers across his face. Not quite alarm. More like the look of a man watching his carefully plotted escape route collapse in real time.
“Then we’ll manage,” he says, and the certainty in his voice would be more convincing if his gaze didn’t drop to the bed and linger there a beat too long before snapping back to me.
“Sure.” I level him with a look that I hope communicates the full scope of my exasperated amusement. “We’ll manage.”
One bed. One infuriatingly attractive man who organizes his socks like he’s running a military barracks. One honeymoon suite built for romance that’s currently housing two people who can barely get through a sentence without sparking off each other.
So much for my dream vacation.
