Only you can determine your self-worth. It’s not a contest.
—My Therapist
Jocelyn spends the entire flight to southwestern Florida asleep on my shoulder. Said shoulder is still tingling when we exit the airport for the rental cars. Perky, well-rested Joss hops twice at the car pickup, all excited for vacation weekend.
I’m a little less thrilled. After examining the emotions surrounding this wedding a dozen times, I’ve finally landed on the reason for my dread:
Embarrassment.
GraceknowsI was into her. Which means Julian probably does, too.
Why am I going to this wedding? And with a fake date? I’m like the guy who brings his cousin to prom.
Pathetic.
Theyreallyneed a better word forpussy. I can’t purge it from my vocabulary without a replacement.
I pat the front of my backpack. Isn’t that where I stashed the Tums?
A silver RAV4 pulls in front of us, and I take Joss’s carry-on from her hands. My shoulder sparks. Jeez. Must have pinched a nerve in there or something.
A half hour later, we’re pulling into a drive-through portico. Valets rush to the car, shuffling us and our luggage into the lobby. I’m offered a claim ticket and a smile, and I hand the guy a twenty because I have nothing else in my wallet.
Joss charges through the marble lobby toward the check-in desk, and I follow at a more sedate pace. Potted palms and tall arched windows give the place an old Florida feel, with just a splash of Art Deco in the light fixtures and floor patterns. Bright and breezy.
At the counter, a dark-haired young woman smiles. “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton. I’m Lucy. How can I help you today?”
My head cocks. “Lucy?”
A curious light flits through her brown eyes. “Yes?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Um. We’re checking in.”
“Perfect.” She focuses on her computer screen. “Can I have a name?”
“Asher Foley.”
Her fingers stall on the keyboard, and her attention lifts to my face. “Mr. Foley?”
Heat. Too much heat. In my cheeks. “Yep. That’s me.”
She blinks twice, then her gaze slides to Joss, sizing her up. Zero subtlety. Not a single drop. When she looks back at me, her brows rise. “This is not what I was picturing, Mr. Foley.”
Don’t know what that means. Just want this to stop.
Joss glances between us. “Er—picturing?”
“Oh, I made his reservation over the phone.” She clicks away on her keyboard. “By his voice, I pictured someone... shorter.”
Joss’s face lights up. “You guess people’s heights based on their voices? That’s fascinating. I’m going to start doing that.”
Lucy makes some noncommittal noise. “Would you like to use the card on file?”
“Yes.”
“The Visa?” The edge of her lip quivers with amusement. “You’re sure you didn’t give us this one byaccident?”
Well, then. Lucy’s a bit of a menace, isn’t she? But she did me a solid in finding me a two-room suite, so I’ll ignore the cheekiness. “I’m sure.”
