How to Honeymoon Alone

“Really?”

“Yeah. It was a private tour of a distillery and a rum tasting.”

My mouth opens. “A private tour?”

“Yes. Still want to rag on my trip planner?”

I pretend to lock my mouth shut. “I swear I’ll never talk badly of them again!”

Phillip nods again, the dimple flashing. “Well. I think it’s scheduled for this weekend. Want to come along?”

My answer is immediate. “Yes. But I have to pay you back somehow. I mean, with this fishing trip, the catamaran cruise. I can’t just-”

“Absolutely not,” he says. “Everything was already booked.”

“But I can’t just impose like that.”

His arm stretches out along the back of the railing, his hand close to my shoulder. “Eden.”

“Yes,” I say. “Phillip.”

“I didn’t decide to actually go through with this trip until the day before my flight.”

“Oh.”

“And I fully planned on blowing off half of the itinerary,” he says. His gaze drifts from me to the waves, and something works in his jaw. “Tell me something. When you checked in, did they congratulate you on your wedding?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Right. Well, they did the same to me. That’s why I was at the restaurant on my first night, crashing your table rather than ordering room service. I asked the staff to clear my bungalow of rose petals and celebratory champagne.” He shakes his head as if he’s dislodging a memory. “You’re not imposing. Not even a little bit. Do I strike you as a man who’d invite you along just to be nice?”

“Want an honest answer?”

“Always,” he says.

“No, you don’t.”

He nods. “Exactly. I’m not short on cash, either. So you’re not paying me back for anything.”

I find myself nodding. “Okay. But I have the guidebook.”

“Yes, you sure do.”

“And I’m not afraid to use it. I’ll pay you back in knowledge.”

His lips twitch. “You’re going to make me regret this, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” I say. “But I’ll make sure you learn a lot of useless trivia along the way.”

He runs a hand through his windblown hair. Around his eyes, laugh lines appear with his almost-smile. “Sounds like an ideal vacation,” he says.

The hotel is quiet as I make my way back to my room.

The vending machines down the hall are stocked with chocolate, and for days, I’ve stayed strong. But not tonight. It’s 11:30 p. m. and I should be asleep, but the movie on my computer is interesting, and the chocolate craving hit me hard after a full day of sun and an afternoon of sea fishing.

Armed with a packet of M&Ms in hand, my foraging is complete. I’ve hunted and gathered, and now return to my hotel door.

And I can’t open it.Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

The key card is not in the pockets of my fluffy bathrobe and it’s not tucked into the bralette I’m wearing under my T-shirt. It’s also conspicuously absent from the pockets of my cotton shorts.

I lean my head against the door. “Shit.”

It takes me another minute to swallow my pride. Once it’s gone down, tough as it is, I head to the elevators. Hopefully, most of the guests are either at the restaurant or in beds, and not lingering in the lobby, ready to judge me for my attire.

I tiptoe into the lobby in my flip-flops, which isn’t the easiest of feats.

It’s empty. There’s not a single person, employee or guest, in the spacious lobby of the Winter Resort. I tap my foot on the stone floor a few times before looking over the giant granite front desk. “Hello?”

It’s quiet as the grave.

I raise my voice. “Excuse me? Hello?”

Someone is probably taking the time for a little bathroom break, I think, walking around the lobby. Why did I have to wear my bathrobe out?

I push open the doors leading to the hotel garden. Might as well walk around a bit before coming back to see if anyone is manning the check-in desk. Or maybe they’re out here, enjoying a cigarette.

They’re not, but the air is pleasurably warm compared to the intense sun of the day. Well-placed lighting illuminates the meticulously sculpted garden with its low box hedges, palm trees, and tropical flowers. This place truly is stunning. The most beautiful resort I’ve ever visited.

I tie the belt of my bathrobe tighter and stroll along the colonnade. The path opens up to the outdoor hotel pool in the distance. The pool closes at 8 p. m., with a large sign informing guests that no swimming is allowed at night.

But I can hear splashes.

Too curious to resist, I walk down to investigate.

A man is swimming laps.

He cuts through the surface in a crawl, dark hair plastered to his head.

Odd that I should recognize the swimming style so easily. We’d only been on one snorkeling cruise together. But it’s definitely Phillip.

I sit down on one of the lounge chairs. They’re all empty, the area abandoned. Decorative lights illuminate the desk, and the sound of tropical nightlife is heavy in the air. I’ve learned from my guidebook that it’s not cicadas, as one might suspect from the sound, but tiny whistling frogs.

Phillip notices me halfway through another lap. He shifts mid-stroke and turns to tread water.

There’s a surprised look in his eyes.

I give a little wave. “Hello.”