Page 47 of Beauty and the Beach
“Much better,” she says. “I’m decent.” She pauses. “I guess I’ll just read a book and eat strawberries for a while. What a horrible way to spend the day.”
But there’s a little smile on her face when I look at her, a genuine one. I watch as she gathers her hair and pulls it into a ponytail, revealing the curve of her neck that disappears beneath the too-wide neckline of my shirt. She leans down and picks up her clothes from off the floor and drapes them neatly over the top of her suitcase; then she more or less waltzes to the chaise lounge and the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries.
“I’m going to eat every single one of these unless you specifically want me to save some,” she says, settling on the lounge chair. “Even then, it will depend upon how nicely you ask.”
I don’t allow myself to smile at that. “Go ahead,” I say. “I don’t want any.”
“Good.” Her hand hovers over the tray as she inspects the strawberries; finally she chooses one and takes a bite, letting out a little moan.
“That’s a wildly unnecessary sound you’re making,” I say, frowning and watching as she chews.
She moans louder, exaggerated this time, and I roll my eyes.
“Pest,” I say, loosening my tie so that I can breathe. “Eat your food and read your book so I can work in peace.”
“Fine,” she says, pulling out her phone. “But only because I’m making my way through Sunny Palmer’s backlist, and her books are more fun than annoying you. I’ve got my book club book to read too. I’m all set.”
I hold my tongue, remove my tie and my suit coat, and then settle myself on the floor next to the jacuzzi.
No time like your honeymoon to review expenditure reports.
Phoenix
We passthe afternoon in silence.
Holland is curled up on the lounge chair, her nose buried in her phone, and she smiles to herself every so often—I know this because I’m sneaking more peeks at her than I should—but she never says anything.
I do work like I said I was going to, but I’m inefficient and distracted. My eyes keep darting around the suite, at the heart-shaped jacuzzi, the rose petals on the bed, the sumptuous silk-upholstered headboard.
The level of romance expected in a room like this is almost suffocating.
When the sky starts to darken outside the sliding glass door, a knock sounds at the door to the suite.
I startle, standing up so fast my head spins. Then I groan in pain; I’ve been sitting in the same spot for hours.
“Relax,” Holland says. “It’s just room service.”
I blink at her. “You ordered room service?”
“Yeah,” she says, unfolding herself from the chaise lounge. “Aren’t you hungry? We haven’t eaten all day.”
“You had strawberries,” I point out.
“Fine,” she says, padding to the door. “Youhaven’t eaten all day. And I’m hungry anyway.”
“Did you not think to ask me what I wanted?” I say, folding my arms and frowning at her.
She opens the door to the suite with a lurch and smiles at someone I can’t see. “Hi,” she says, sounding far more cheerful than she ever does when she talks to me. “Thank you so much.” She pulls a few bills out of the pocket of the flannel pants—was there already money in there?—and passes them to the person outside. Then she closes the door and comes to me carrying two large paper bags.
“Isn’t this supposed to be on a rolling cart?” I say, but she just shrugs.
“I didn’t ask what you wanted,” she says, passing me one of the bags, “because when I checked the menu, they had Cobb salad.”
My go-to order, nine times out of ten. Especially if?—
“And they let me specify that I wanted the bacon extra crispy.”
Something stirs low in my stomach, something I think I recognize; it’s the same feeling I had on the steps outside Town Hall, when she as good as admitted that she was marrying me in part so I could inherit Butterfield.