Page 46 of Beauty and the Beach
I rub my temples. “Look, Amsterdam,” I say. “I don’t want to do it either. But this is one night, okay?”
She glances back at the bed, and I can see the debate going on in her mind; she doesn’t want to, but she agreed to pretend.
When she turns back to me with a look of irritation on her face, I know I’ve won.
“Fine. But—but!” she says quickly as I open my mouth to speak again. “We will place a pillow barrier down the center of the bed. You will not cross it.”
“Obviously,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I would rather stabmyself with the thorns all those rose petals came from than sleep close to you.”
“That could probably be arranged,” she says with a smirk. It fades, though, as she wanders through the room. “It’s the middle of the day. What are we supposed to do in here until tomorrow morning?”
I know what we’resupposedto do. What we’re going to do, though? I’m less clear on that. “Just relax, I guess. Take a nap.”
“I can’t nap during the day or I won’t sleep well at night,” she says, leaning down to examine the jacuzzi. “This tub is huge. We?—”
But she breaks off as a knock sounds at the door to our suite; her eyes dart to me, gleaming with panic, and I hold up one hand. Then, straightening my suit coat, I hurry over to the door and look out the peephole.
“Oh,” I say, the tension draining out of me. “It’s hotel staff.” I frown and look again. “With chocolate-covered strawberries.”
Her anxious expression brightens. “Perfect; I’m hungry.”
I open the door and nod at the man standing there.
“Compliments of the hotel,” he says immediately, bowing. “To congratulate you on your special day.”
“Wonderful,” I say, forcing a smile at him. “Thank you.”
Then, even though it’s abominably rude, I take the tray from him, give one last nod, and close the door right in his face.
I have a nagging worry that Mavis could ask the hotel staff to report back to her. It’s not outside the realm of possibility.
“We should get changed first,” I say, crossing the room with the strawberries and setting the tray on the chaiselounge. “At least give the appearance of trying to relax if anyone else comes.”
“I know,” she says with a sigh. “Pantyhose are uncomfortable.” She sits on the edge of the jacuzzi and stares at our suitcases. “I’m just scared to find out what’s in there.”
Me too.
“How about you open yours, I’ll open mine, and if we don’t want to wear or use anything in there, we don’t have to. No questions asked,” she says.
“Good idea.” I’m picturing all sorts of things—tiny Speedo-sized pajamas, or maybe matching outfits, because who knows what Mavis is capable of?—and I might end up being more comfortable in my suit.
So we each open our suitcase, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find normal pajamas in mine—flannel pants and a white undershirt—along with basic toiletries.
“Oh,” Holland says, her head emerging from above the lid of her case. “It’s not as bad as I expected.”
“Mine either.”
She holds up what looks like a nightgown, silky and black with delicate straps, long enough that it will probably hit her knees. I take it in and then look away again.
If that’s better than she expected, I’m not going to say anything. “Well, you can change into that if you want”—please don’t, please don’t, please don’t—“or I can give you these for now.” I hold up the undershirt and flannel pants from my suitcase. “I’ll be plenty comfortable once I take off my coat and tie. I’ll probably do some work on my phone for the afternoon; you’re free to do whatever.”
“Those, please,” she says immediately, dropping the silky nightgown back in her suitcase and reaching for my clothes.
I pass them to her with a rush of relief, turning around while she changes.
And look—I’m not a pervert. But there’s something uncomfortably intimate about listening to Holland undress. The rustle of fabric over skin, the buzz of a zipper, theflumpof clothing hitting the floor—these are sounds I have no business hearing, not when they’re coming from her.
Fourteen times two is twenty-eight. Fourteen times three is forty-two. Fourteen times four?—
