I don’t blame him.
“Actually.” Frobish Americanizes his English a bit more. “You heard my beautiful accent correctly. We have you both staying at the best bungalow we have to offer. Provides the best sunset view on the island.” He preens.
Wait, what?
“I’m sorry. There seems to be some kind of misunderstanding. Nikki and I are supposed to be in different rooms. On opposite sides of the island, preferably. Can you double check that you’ve got the right reservation?”
Frobish gives an order in Russian, and the staff behind him quickly disappear.
“Mr. Nuñez, when the bungalow suite was booked, it was under both of your names. One suite was booked. Not two individual ones.” He picks up a tablet from a side table and flips it toward me to show me our reservation details.
He’s right.
“Well, I’m sorry, but that just won’t do. Can you just put me in another suite? Doesn’t have to be a fancy bungalow. Anything on this island is fine.” Nikki shrugs nervously.
Frobish clears his throat. “We are an exclusive thirteen suite resort. There are no more available suites Ms. Nikki. It is December twenty-ninth. This week has been booked solid for almost a year. The only reason we were able to accommodate you was due to a last-minute cancellation, and a Ms…” He looks down at his tablet. “Amelia Nuñez paid four times the suite’s value to assure she skipped the waitlist and secure this room.”
I’m going to kill my little sister.
“Okay, I’ll deal with Amelia after. Can you please direct me to another resort? As beautiful as this place is, I’ll have Nikki stay while I go elsewhere. Just give me a name, and I can call them myself.”
Frobish winces. “Like I said, it’s two days before New Year’s Eve. We are the only hotel on this small island, and everything from here to Santo Domingo is booked. I’m afraid that, unless you fly back today, your only option is to stay in the suite together. But I promise you, our three thousand square foot bungalow will leave nothing to be desired. There is more than enough room to accommodate the both of you.”
“Oh, Well, yeah. Okay. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.” Nikki stiffens. “Not that this place is a consolation prize or anything. It’s stunning. So pretty. Very romantic. If I wasn’t stranded here with Mr. Bunion—”
“Nikki, for the love of God, please shut up.”
“Yep. Uh-huh. Doing that now.” She nods repeatedly.
Frobish gestures for us to board a small golf cart. Nikki and I ride side by side in silence.
This can’t be happening.
My chest tightens at the idea of sharing a room with Nikki.
I have to keep telling myself it’ll be fine. Closer quarters than ideal, but he did mention it being three thousand square feet. That’s larger than the average home in Florida. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were multiple bedrooms. Or, at the very least, a pullout couch. Fancy hotels love over-furnishing rooms. Yep. It should be all good. Nikki and I will probably be out at the beach the whole day anyway, so we’ll only have to cross paths once it’s time for bed.
Again, not ideal.
But it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it.
The golf cart comes to a stop in front of our over-the-water bungalow. I was so spaced out I didn’t even realize we’d driven over a skinny bridge that has led us far out into the ocean, although the water doesn’t seem very deep.
The bungalow suite itself looks like something straight out of Amelia’s Pinterest boards. I’m sure I’ve seen videos of places like this all over Instagram, but a small screen doesn’t do it justice.
And as predicted, it’s massive. Looks like it’s two stories too. So steering clear from Nikki shouldn’t be a problem. The realization has me easing the tension in my shoulders.
The three of us hop off the golf cart, and Frobish leads the way. He opens our front door with a flamboyantvoilàand steps aside for us to enter first.
Nikki gasps. “Holy—”
“Shit,” I say.
Unlike Nikki, I’m not looking at the panoramic views of the ocean. Or the clear view into the bathroom on the second floor. And I’m sure as hell not focusing on the outdoor area, which has a netted hammock, a hot tub, and a massive pool on our deck.
Nope. I’m looking at the final nail in my coffin. The one mocking me from the center of the room. The one slight detail that’s going to be the death of me.
One. Fucking. Bed.
