THREE
Lauren
I kick the door open, and it rams against my suitcase with an insistent bang. One of the wheels gave out on my layover in Madrid. The handle became stuck in a pulled-up position when I landed in Orlando. And the bag barely fit in the convertible rental. Stupid thing. I kick the door open again, as if it represents everything that's gone wrong on my way here to Cypress Grove.
This is the part of being a world traveler my Instagram followers never see.
Normally I love the journey, but this one left me exhausted and irritable. Compounding matters: I'd left my e-reader, stocked with my favorite books, on the plane. I’m most upset about that and by the looks of Cypress Grove, it’s too small for a Target or a Best Buy.
I’ll deal with the e-reader later. All I want now is a shower and something cold to drink. Then a long talk with Kate. I can already picture us fleeing the wedding together, the top down on the convertible I’d rented, our hands thrown in the air like Thelma and Louise.
“Crap,” I say, and kick the door a third time.
When I look up from my toppled suitcase, I see a guy in just his boxers.
He's got his phone in his hand and he's staring at me with the same stunned expression I must be wearing. It's the man from the balcony. I recognized him immediately — the dark hair, the muscular arms.
“What the hell is this?” I yell.
The guy grabs a cream-colored pillow embroidered with a green palm tree off the sofa and holds it in front of him, even though he doesn't strictly need it. “I could ask you the same thing. How did you open the door?”
“With a key.” I shake the card key in his direction and try to rise to my full five feet, three inches. “If you don't get your— whatever this is — sorted out right now, I'm calling the front desk. Or the cops. Pervert.”
The corners of his mouth quirk upward. “I think there's been a mix-up. This is my room. Suite two hundred, all the way at the end of the hall. Check your key packet. The desk should have written the room number on the sleeve.”
He's not panicking. He's not even embarrassed. There's a low, easy humor in his expression that is supremely annoying, given the circumstances.
I'd taken the key out of its paper holder. My hand digs through my giant purse for it — past a tampon, a pen, another tampon, my passport — and finds it. I wave it triumphantly. At the same time, a tampon leaps from the purse and lands with a thwack on the tile floor.
Yeah. Pure glamour.
I ignore the tampon, attempting to locate the dignity and grace I project to the world daily on social media. Obviously those things left me somewhere between Italy and Florida.
I scan the curly handwriting on the sleeve. “I am in suite two-zero...” My eyes snap to the last number. “Two.”
My cheeks flare with embarrassment. Of course. I’d misread the room number and barged in on a stranger. Oh, this trip is shaping up beautifully.
“Well.” I close my eyes briefly. “Sorry for interrupting. I don't know why the key worked on your door.”
“I don't know either.” The humor is still there in his voice and his eyes are glittering. “I'll talk to the desk about it.” He shuffles a few steps, still clutching the pillow to his crotch. “Hey, I can help with your bag?—”
“No. I'm good! Stay exactly where you are. I've seen enough of you already.” I wave him off because I’ve learned men in hotels can be super weird at best. “Carry on with your…whatever it is you were doing.”
Trying to muster as much poise as possible, I put the key and packet in my bag, bend to scoop up the tampon, and wrench the battered suitcase to a standing position.
The door, which is heavy and on a particularly strong spring, bangs into my shoulder as I lurch forward. The tampon falls again to the floor, and I kick it into the hall.
“Ow,” I mutter, turning my head to the left. The guy's door slams shut.
Great. My room's right next to his.
It takes three tries to get the suitcase through the door. I swear twice, bang my shoulder once, swear some more. I’m scoop up the tampon and fling it into the room, which is blissfully empty of strangers. It bounces off a painting of… I squint.
Is that a witch silhouette against a full moon?
The door slams shut and I fall onto the sofa.
Am I crying? Yep. I am. Crying and sweating. Even with the air conditioning, the Florida humidity has seeped everywhere.
