Antoine gives me the side-eye. “I’m just saying, we’re still three weeks from Decision Day.”
“Anyway, it’ll be fun to finally meet the other six couples at the party tomorrow.”
“Unless one of them bails by then.”
He must be referring to the “incident” on Wedding Day, when one of the brides jilted the groom.
We reach the hotel, and Antoine pushes open the side entrance. I follow him inside. The cool blast of the AC feels like a blessing.
“Yeah,” I say. “That was next-level rejection.”
“It was perfectly rational,” he counters. “If the moment she saw him she knew she’d never fall for him, then why waste time?”
We’re just a few steps from our suite when Isabelle appears in the hallway like a vision in a neon green pantsuit. She’s holding an envelope in one hand and her ever-present mic in the other.
After some polite small talk, she hands us an envelope each. “Here’s your second Honeymoon Challenge. Good luck!”
She gives us a wink and struts down the hall. The camera crew stays. Of course.
We enter our suite with Alain and his colleague in tow. I set down my beach bag. Antoine tears open his envelope and pulls out a card with a short message written in a beautifully scripted font. Not bothering with my own envelope, I lean in to read the message on Antoine’s card.
Learn a new skill together. You’ll present what you’ve learned tomorrow at the party.
I straighten up. “What skill?”
“It’s up to us to choose.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious!” I roll my eyes. “But what should we pick? Something we can actually learn in a day.”
He folds the card neatly and tucks it back into the envelope. “Juggling?”
“Hard pass.”
“Origami?”
I groan. “Not my thing.”
“Suggestions?”
“What about”—I glance at the list of the resort’s activities on the console table in the entryway—“salsa dancing? I’ve always wanted to learn it. Do you hate the idea?”
“Matter of fact, no. I had to learn ballroom dancing when I was younger. It includes the rumba, in addition to the waltz and such. Salsa isn’t far off.”
I stare at him. “You’vehadto learn ballroom dancing?”
“In high school,” he replies simply.
Of course.That’s totally a thing regular teenagers do.
As earnestly as I can, I inquire, “Was this before or after you joined the Posh English Debate Club?”
He doesn’t bite. “So, salsa?”
“Salsa,” I confirm. “You think we can find a teacher on such short notice?”
Antoine picks up the phone. “That’s what front desk is for.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
