The desk has been busy tonight, and the scent of steak and shrimp hangs in the air. My stomach grumbles, because it’s been hours since the burger and fries in Atlanta. Sloane has hung back, out of the way, guarding our luggage while I deal with keys, getting maps, directions, and towel coupons.
“ID and credit card,” the woman says, and I hand them over. She tappety-taps and clicks, a frown appearing between her eyes. “When did you book this room?”
“Tuesday,” I say. “Just barely.”
She doesn’t look at me at all, and that’s not good. I’ve checked into enough hotels and resorts to know. “Give me a minute, please.” She speaks in crisp, perfect English, her accent clearly there but easy to understand.
She walks away before I can protest. What would I say anyway? No? You can’t have a minute?
I glance over to Sloane, but she’s buried in her phone. I know she wants these tropical retreats to be just that—a retreat from the busyness of her life. I want to call her to my side to reassure myself that everything is fine. Of course we have rooms here. I just booked them on Tuesday.
She looks up, sees me, and immediately grabs her suitcase handle and mine. She tows them to the counter. “What’s going on?”
“She went somewhere,” I say. “I don’t know.”
Sloane frowns too, but I’m not going to leap over this chest-high counter to look at the computer. Her stomach growls, and I grin at her. “I’m sure the buffet will still be open.”
“If it’s not, I’m eating off your arm,” she teases.
The first hour or so with her had been filled with some tension and nerves. I know they all came from me. It’s getting harder and harder for me to conceal how I feel about her. Even now, I let my hand drop to hers, where I give it a quick squeeze and let go.
“Food and a bed,” I say. “That’s all we really need, right?”
“And frozen drinks on the beach.” She smiles too, and we both look at the pair of women who return to the computer station.
“I’m so sorry,” the first says, glancing at the two of us before pointing to the screen. The second woman examines it like if she looks long enough, the secret to world peace or the cure for cancer will snap into place.
She finally looks up. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats. “We had a computer malfunction—a glitch—and we’ve overbooked the resort.”
“So do we have rooms?” Sloane asks, putting her elbows up on the counter.
“No,” the woman says.
My heart sinks to my feet. I’ve been up since five-thirty this morning, and I gained an hour flying to Belize. I want food and a bed, and I want them both right now.
I blink. “I booked two days ago. There were plenty of rooms.”
“Yes, but it was a glitch.” The woman wears sympathetic eyes. “I have one room available. I can give it to you for the same rate as the regular room.”
I lean into the counter too. “It’s not a regular room?”
“How many beds does it have?” Sloane asked. Outside of that first trip, we’ve always had our own rooms. I’d paced in mine morning and night last year, trying to work up the courage to tell Sloane I wanted to kiss her instead of just whisper secrets about our mothers together.
Girlfriends do that with each other.
I want her to be a different kind of girlfriend for me.
“One bed,” the woman said. “It’s a king bed, and there is a large couch and sitting area.” Her eyes light up. “The balcony is fabulous. Faces the ocean, and it has a jetted tub.”
“On the balcony?” Sloane asks, and dang if she doesn’t sound interested.
“Yes,” the woman says. “It’s one of our luxury…honeymoon suites.” She looks between me and Sloane. I look between her and Sloane. Sloane looks only at me, her eyebrows raised.
My heartbeat thunders in my chest, and it feels like a herd of wild horses are stampeding through my veins.
I break her gaze and look at the woman. “For the same cost as one regular room?”
“Yes, sir.”
I meet Sloane’s eyes and know instantly what she wants. We melt into each other’s sides, and as I lift my arm around her once again, I say, “I guess we’re going to take our second honeymoon then.”
Chapter Four
Sloane
It’s fine, my feet say with every step. It’s. Step. Fine. Step.
It’s. Step. Fine. Step.
The “luxury honeymoon suite” is a short golf cart ride away from the swanky front lobby. A man greets Murph almost before the cart has stopped. “Mister Murphy,” he says in a smooth voice. “Welcome to Oriandon.” He starts to unload the luggage from the back of the cart. The driver jumps down and helps too, and I collect my backpack and slide from the bench seat of the golf cart.
Murph reaches for me, and I go to his side. We follow the butler up to the third floor and down the hall to the very last room. It sits right in the middle of the resort, and I know the view out that window is going to be fan-tabulous-tastic. Too bad it’s already dark, and I won’t be able to see the water until morning.
I can hear it roaring softly in the distance, and the scent of sand, sunscreen, and surf rides on the air. The butler keys his way into our suite and holds the door. “There’s champagne,” he says. “Chocolate-covered strawberries are in the fridge.”
“Thank you,” Murph says. My voice dried up back in the lobby. I wasn’t anticipating having to share a room with my best friend.
It’s fine, I tell myself. I slept on him practically the whole flight here, and we shared a bed as near-strangers years ago. This will be a walk in the park.
It’s practical, I tell myself. Why should we each pay for a room? We know how to share a bed without any hanky panky going on.
I cut a glance at Murph as I squeeze by him and enter the room. He wears an unreadable expression, and I don’t have time to study his face. Once we’re alone, we’ll talk. We’ll set some boundaries. Friend-zone boundaries. The problem is, my hopes have lodged somewhere near my heart, and now it’s beating things like, But maybe you could be something more with Murph.
The room smells like bleach and linen, two of my favorite scents. It means there are no germs. It indicates cleanliness. I sigh as I slip my heavy pack from my shoulders and leave it on the long counter that also houses the TV.
I’ve gone past the bathroom already, which opened with a set of double doors. If I had my own room, I wouldn’t have to close those to shower or use the bathroom. With Murph here, I will. I hate showering with the door closed. It steams up the mirror and makes everything muggy and hot.
The bed is huge, stretching to fill the bulk of the room with puffy white pillows, sheets, and comforters. Murph puts his pack on the left corner of it, and I turn toward the sitting room beyond.
I have to go down a step, and the red Spanish tile stretches from corner to corner in the room. There’s a lounge-style couch here, as well as a table and chairs. The wall of windows looms in front of me, and I slide open the door.
The curtains get sucked out with the release of pressure, and I see the built-in couch outside. The jetted tub waits to my right.