But the El Cartana?
This place was blissful. The loudest sounds in the mornings and afternoon were the hum of my in-room coffeemaker and the rustle of palm leaves blowing in the tropical breeze. It smelled like salt and sweet nectar flowers. I ate well, slept well, and wrote well whenever I stayed at the honeymoon resort that I really had no place being at.
Fortunately, I had connections in the hotel.
Katie, the honeymoon coordinator, had caught wind that their guest, a Mr. Wes Parker, was not just an ordinary solo traveler, but rather the world-famous romance author, W. Parker. She’d approached me quietly one day while I was writing by hand at one of the bars and asked if she could sit with me. She had a bag over her shoulder and a bashfulness to her smile that I’d found endearing, and every interaction we’d had previous to that one had been pleasant.
She’d pulled a book out of her bag—one of my books—set it facedown on the table to hide the cover, slid it toward me, and tapped her index finger on the summary. Then she’d looked me in the eye and asked if it was my book.
At the time, my feathers had been ruffled.
I preferred to keep my identity a secret for a reason. A writer like me tended to attract fans that were quite passionate. Also, romance books with steamy sex scenes could sometimes give people the wrong idea of who I was as a person. I wasn’t the epitome of my books. I was just a guy who wrote about what he dreamed of having one day.
I was the sad fraud behind the love and the picture-perfect happy endings.
Katie hadn’t fan-girled over me. She’d grinned like a fool, to be sure, and was very proud of herself for solving the little mystery. She’d promised not to tell a soul who I was, but over the years, she and I became friends. I started giving her free advance copies of my work and, shortly after that, was giving her boxes of signed books to send to friends and family. They all knew she knew me, but they didn’t know who I was, and that was a happy balance for me.
When I checked into the hotel this go around, Katie had been in a particularly good mood. She was in a new relationship and she and her man had moved in together somewhere nearby on the island. I’d joked and asked her if this new guy of hers would care if I still used her as a muse. She’d told me she’d be upset if I didn’t. Just because she was off the market didn’t mean she wasn’t still charming as hell.
I steadfastly agreed.
Katie was a woman any good man would be lucky to love.
I finished the rest of my meal, and three more songs played on my playlist. When I finished, I set the dishes outside in the hall on the same tray the meal had arrived on. Moving to the liquor cart near the patio doors, I poured myself a drink and stepped through the sheer white curtains and out onto my patio.
I preferred ground-floor corner units. That way, I could eliminate the potential of there being loud guests on one side and below me. Sure, I’d spent my fair share of nights here listening to newlyweds fuck like banshees, but that was unavoidable at a hotel that made its revenue off of new lovebirds. Besides, every now and then, it made me inspired to write steamy scenes in my work when I was procrastinating.
I’d heard wives scream for their husbands to put it in their ass.
To fuck their throats.
To bend them over and spank them.
To fuck them like they hated them.
To make love to them.
To suck their toes.
Yep. Suck their toes.
I’d heard it all. And a lot of it had ended up in my books. Some people might call that eavesdropping. I called it writing off of reality. That was what my readers wanted anyway. They wanted love stories that felt real. They wanted a promise that there were happy endings out there for everyone—even the people who didn’t deserve it.
Sometimes, especially the people who didn’t deserve it.
I breathed in the salty sea air and leaned against the balcony railing. Before me was the expansive green property of the El Cartana. The hotel itself sprawled outward on either side, so my view wasn’t obstructed by architecture and shadows. I had a clear view of the turquoise ocean and the setting sun that painted the horizon orange. Up above my head, the sky was a deep indigo color, and soon, stars would be winking to life, painting constellations across the dark canvas.
Feeling connected to the island and the sky and far too spiritual for my own good, I moved over to the patio lounger where I’d been working before my dinner arrived. The seat was warm beneath my back as I settled against the reclined cushions and traded my drink for the open notebook that rested on the wide armrest.
My pen waited for me to pull it free of where the clip held it to the top of the page. I clicked the tip out and scanned the page I’d written. It was rough, as all first drafts were, but there was promise in this story. I could feel it.
And my agent liked it, which was really all that seemed to matter nowadays.
My pen hovered over the last sentence I’d written for just a moment.
She ran her finger over the razor-sharp edge of the broken china cup, her heart as split as the floral pattern that once had been.
My hesitation lasted only a brief moment before the words started to flow. The pen scribbled madly from one line to the next. One idea became another and then another, and before I knew it, three more pages had been written, and the woman holding the broken china cup had thrown it at the floor to break it once and for all.
After that, no more thoughts came.
I grimaced at the page.
If I wanted to get this book done before my deadline, I was going to have to be able to sit down and pump out more than three handwritten pages at a time. Productivity had not been my friend as of late and my agent was up my ass about it.
Something had to give.
I hadn’t left my room in over forty-eight hours, so I decided to put my notebook down and go socialize. Even if the only person I could talk to was one of the resort bartenders, it might be enough to shake something loose and get me back into the writing groove. I finished my drink and left my room, making for my favorite bar at the hotel.
It wasn’t busy when I arrived. I suspected tomorrow morning, all the new guests would arrive and flood the resort, so now was the time to enjoy a quiet drink.
It kind of contradicted my desire to socialize but whatever. I was inherently an introvert and didn’t like crowds. It sort of went hand in hand with the whole writing gig and author persona.
I slid onto a barstool and ordered a mojito. It was warm out, and this bar was an outdoor bar. It sat on a veranda with tables for two around the railing and the bar in the middle. It was dimly lit with tiki torches that luckily didn’t smell like citronella.
I’d only been sitting for about three minutes with my drink when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, dreading having to talk to a stranger, and was relieved to find myself looking at a familiar, beautiful brunette woman.
Katie nodded at the stool beside me. “My shift just ended and I’m waiting for my ride to arrive. Mind if I sit with you for a few?”
“Please.”
Katie tucked her pale yellow dress under her thighs as she slid onto her seat. The bartender didn’t ask her if she wanted a drink, but he fixed her one anyway, and seconds later, she had a tall glass with sparkling clear liquid in it garnished with a wedge of pineapple. She pursed her lips to the straw, sucked, and turned to face me on her stool with the heels of her sandals resting on the bar between the stool legs. “How has your writing been going the last couple of days? I haven’t seen you out and about. I assume that’s a good thing?”