“Of course,” Kevin replies, not able to conceal his disappointment. “Moving on, then. Our restaurant offers world-class dining, and there are some great local spots, but I had the fridge stocked with a few supplies.”
He opens the stainless-steel doors. Inside are a dozen glass pots of French yogurt and petite bottles of pear, peach, and orange juices. There’s a whole shelf of drinks. Butter from Prince Edward Island. Chèvre from Salt Spring Island. In the door are jars of pink candy hearts, artisanal marshmallows, and nuts.
“The chocolates are made locally,” Kevin says of the square box from Chocolate Tofino on the middle shelf. He leans toward George, as if telling a secret. “The Hazelnut Rainforest Crispy Logs are an absolute revelation.”
If we were newlyweds, I might feel a little territorial, because Kevin is looking at George likehe’sa Hazelnut Rainforest Crispy Log. Though to be fair, George’s flannel shirt and sexy glasses combo give him a rugged, intellectual vibe, like a modern Thoreau, yearning to live deep and suck out life’s marrow. I can see the appeal if you’re into tall men with luscious dark waves who smell of mist-kissed pine boughs.
“And of course,” Kevin says, “there’s always room service. We’re proud to offer our full menu, and our chef would be delighted to accommodate any dietary needs. I hope you’ll find everything you need to suit your appetite, but do let me know if you have any special requests. It’s your honeymoon—I know you may never want to leave your suite.”
George quirks an eyebrow in my direction, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Before I take you up to the bedroom, allow me to show you outside,” Kevin says. He walks across the space, gesturing for us to follow, and opens the door. I poke my head out. The deck is like a tree house, surrounded by evergreens and ferns, with Muskoka chairs and a beach view. In one corner, behind a wooden screen, is a hot tub, in which I will soon be relaxing with a glass of dry gewürz.
Kevin turns to George. “Our architect and landscape designer did their utmost to ensure that guests could enjoy the hot tub and scenery while maintaining maximum privacy.”
To fuck. He doesn’t say it. But come on.
I decide it’s best not to look at George.
“Are you ready to see the primary suite?” Kevin suggests.
George follows Kevin up the stairs, and I follow George. It’s not that I want to look at his butt, but it’s right in my face, and it’s hard to turn away because I don’t remember him having such a good ass. Either his jeans are working for him, or he’s been doing squats.
When we reach the top, I look at George, dumbfounded.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “God help me.”
Chapter Fourteen
All I see are bloodred rose petals—it’s like a florist shop exploded. They’re carefully arranged in a candle-lined pathway leading to the king-sized bed and scattered over its snapped-tight white linens. They’re also floating in the mammoth, steaming bathtub that sits in front of a wall of glass overlooking the unworldly landscape of surf and forest. I eye the bed.
“I know,” Kevin says, misreading my apprehension for awe. “Spectacular, isn’t it?”
“There are so many petals,” I say.
“And candles,” George adds.
Surely it’s hazardous.
I can’t look at George. We were sixteen the last time we stood in a bedroom among flickering candles. I can feel the flush of humiliation on my cheeks.
I’ve never stayed anywhere this swanky, and it didn’t cross my mind to call ahead and let the staff know this isn’t a honeymoon.Someone has gone out of their way to make our room look like the set of a nineties rom-com proposal scene.
A reedy spa soundscape comes from the flat-screen, tuned to a slideshow of resort amenities. There’s a second fireplace, a leather love seat, a writing desk, and enough floor space to hire a DJ and charge a cover fee. A glass door leads to a small patio, which is outfitted with two lounge chairs.
“I had a bath drawn when you arrived,” Kevin tells George. “I know the drive here can be hard on the nerves. I thought you might enjoy a good soak.”
Kevin shows George the fireplace settings, and I take myself on a tour of the en suite bathroom. And I do meantour—it’s as big as a studio apartment. There are twin sinks and a glass-sided shower that has a clear view to the bedroom (and vice versa). A small basket sits on the counter with a tag on the handle that readsRomance Kit. Inside demure white packages are condoms, lubricant, “intimate wipes,” and a tiny vibrator. Inexplicably, my first reaction is to throw a hand towel over it. But the idea of George uncovering the basket is even more embarrassing, so I fold up the towel.
It’s no big deal. We’re both mature, sexually active adults. Or at least I used to be. I haven’t reached for my personal romance kit in months. Knowing George, he’s getting enough for the both of us.
“I can also call the spa,” Kevin is telling him when I return to the room. “They may still have availability for a couple’s massage—they can bring the tables right up here.”
George’s cheeks have turned almost as red as the rose petals. Serves him right. He looks to me to save him.
“I’d love a massage,” I say, grinning at George.
What the hell?he mouths from behind Kevin.
