Why? I don’t have a framework for my curiosity about her. I don’t have a contingency plan for wanting to know someone the way I’m interested in knowing more about her.
She reads people. I’ve watched her do it. Marina at the front desk. The flight attendant on the plane. It’s not just friendliness. Friendliness is a surface skill. What Ella does is deeper. She sees the person underneath, the way a good analyst reads between the lines of a quarterly report. Except she does it without effort, without strategy. Just by paying attention in a way that makes people feel like they matter.
The question forms before I can stop it: What does she see when she looks at me?
I probably don’t want to know. I’m not normally an asshole. Hell, I hope I’m not. It’s just that this recent health scare has me… well, a little scared. It’s not a feeling I’m used to. It sure as fuck isn’t a feeling I enjoy.
I’m not enjoying this forced vacation either. I’d rather be back in my office working, not voluntarily exiled from my suite because there’s a woman in it who’s sending my central nervous system into red alert every time I’m near her.
I power down the laptop with a sigh. The screen goes dark and my own reflection stares back at me, distorted in the glossy surface. A scowling man in a linen shirt, sitting by an inviting-looking pool he doesn’t want to be near, unable to focus on the work that has defined his entire adult life because a woman he met twenty-four hours ago is taking up all the space in his head where spreadsheets and startup projections used to live.
I lean back against the lounger and look at the water.
This morning was just a physical reaction. Predictable. Manageable. Proximity plus soft curves plus basic biology equals an outcome that means exactly nothing. I’ve been telling myself this since the shower, and the argument is almost convincing.
My heart rate has been elevated all morning, which I’m choosing to interpret as a sign that my cardiovascular system is functioning. Mission accomplished. It works. It works so well it apparently runs a full diagnostic every time Ella enters a room or exits one or breathes in the same square footage as me.
I should get up and press the front desk about the room situation. That’s the practical move. Find an alternative arrangement. Reestablish distance. Solve this problem the way I solve everything: structurally, eliminating each obstacle until the desired outcome is achieved.
That’s all Ella Manning is, after all. An obstacle standing in the way of my relaxation. A distraction I damned well don’t need.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t have a plan for that.
CHAPTER 10
ELLA
The resort has a crushed coral path that winds through gardens so lush they look fake, and I’ve been on it for fifteen minutes because I can’t get over the beds of beautiful, unusual flowers. People on their way to the pool or the beach walk by me like I’m crazy, but I don’t care. They’re the ones missing out, if you ask me.
An old gardener trimming a hedge near the spa entrance catches me staring at a spiky bloom the size of my fist, deep orange fading to red at the edges, and straightens up with a grin.
“Bird of paradise,” he says, before I can ask.
I glance over at him with a smile. “I can see why. It looks like it’s about to take off.” I lean in closer. “I’m Ella, by the way.”
“Clive.” He tips his wide-brimmed sun hat with old-school politeness. “Eleven years at this resort, and that flower still gets me.”
“It’s a beauty, all right. So are all the others. I don’t think I could pick a favorite.”
He chuckles, pausing to scratch his forehead. “Most people rush on by. Always in such a hurry to get where they’re going that they don’t enjoy where they’re at.”
“I hear you, Clive. Life is about the small moments, am I right?”
He nods sagely, then leans in toward me. “You like snorkeling, Miss Ella?”
“I don’t know. Never done it.”
“Well, I think you’ll enjoy it. If you go, head past the beach bar, out to the point. Don’t bother with the spot they recommend at the front desk. Too many tourists kicking up sand.”
I give him a conspiratorial wink. “Thanks for the tip. See you around, Clive.”
He waves me off with his hedge trimmer and I move on, my step lighter. This is what I love to do. Just the simple pleasure of learning someone’s name, taking the time to engage with each other, and watching their face change when they realize you actually care. Five years of waiting tables has taught me that. People light up when they’re seen and acknowledged. It costs nothing and it’s the best part of any job I’ve ever had.
I continue exploring as I make my way across the grounds, passing a friendly couple from Montreal who compliment my sarong and then we end up chatting for a few minutes about Arizona. Before it’s all said and done, they walk away with Tony’s recipe for Red Rock Diner’s famous chili, which I do not technically have permission to share but rationalize as free PR for the restaurant.
I keep catching myself touching things, trailing my fingers along a stone railing, pressing my palm against a sun-warmed wall, like my body needs to confirm this is real and not a screen saver I accidentally walked into.
Because before I left for this trip, I was refilling coffee mugs at the diner and doing the napkin math on whether I could afford both groceries and gas this week. And now I’m here, in a place that charges more for a poolside cocktail than I used to make in tips on a good lunch shift, wearing a white bikini Ibought with lottery money and a tropical sarong that makes me feel like I might actually belong here. My life doesn’t make sense anymore, and I’m trying very hard to just enjoy that instead of waiting for the universe to correct the error.
