Aaron
What does she even want? What’s she trying to do?
I can’t tell anymore.
What I can tell—what I do know for sure—is that she’s driving me fucking insane.
Here she is in this pink bit of material barely covering her.
It’s fucking difficult to keep thinking straight. Any second I expect my brain to take an extended vacation.
Who could blame me?
Trying to think straight is fucking torture, but it’s torture I need to get through in order to properly sell this proposal.
“So, you have to agree it’s a fucking brilliant idea, isn’t it?”
To my surprise, the argumentative artillery stays silent.
This is a woman with a vast stockpile of verbal weaponry, with very little hesitation to open fire at a moment’s notice.
Judging by most of her reactions so far and her expression right now, you’d think that this would be a prime time to let me have it.
But then again, this may just be the calm before the storm—the eye of this very locally centered hurricane.
I watch her moisten her lips slightly with the top of her tongue and subtly flip a few strands of hair from her forehand.
Her oceanic eyes are studying me closely. There’s such intensity behind them I feel as if she might steal my soul, or at least part of it, through her gaze.
I stare right back. I’ve got nothing to hide—let her study me.
At least she’ll get to check out my goods.
“Come on.” I think I’m on a roll. “Surely even you can see the sense in what I’m saying?”
“And by ‘even you can see the sense,’ you’re suggesting what, exactly?” Her hands are now resting on her hips. “That I pick up ideas slowly? A little stupid? Not the brightest bunny in the bunch?” She takes a deep breath. Here come the bullets.
“You’re going to start with the blonde jokes next, aren’t you?” Her chin sticks out, and I know I may have stepped in a puddle.
“Because you know, chances are, I’ve heard them before. But come on, give it your best shot. Surprise me.” She spits those words out at me. I feel myself flinch a little.
“Of course, that’s not what I mean,” I protest. “When I said even you, I just meant, you know…” That jumble of words doesn’t convey what I want it to.
“Come on, Macy. I’m talking about an arrangement that benefits both of us. Honestly, we’d be stupid not to take advantage of this. It would be like staying at this resort and rejecting half the perks even though they cost nothing extra—fuck, it’s not like that, it is that.”
This is fucking hard work. How come I can get a full house of some the world’s largest and temperamental fucking egos to work in harmony on a high-stress production, but I can’t get this one hard-headed fucking woman to agree to something which should be a no-fucking-brainer?
It’s not about that anymore. It’s about me. That’s why she’s not budging on this, because of the face attached to it—not that my classically chiseled face ever put anyone off before.
I’ve got my work cut out for me if I’m ever going to win over Macy the Stubborn, but for now, I’m honestly concerned with closing the deal on actually getting the vacation I’ve earned.
“What makes you think I want to do all those activities anyway? I mean, I’m perfectly happy just hanging out at the resort, on a tropical island, without doing any of those things you mentioned.”
I let out a rare sigh.
Of course, she’s got a fucking point.
But I’m not ready to give up quite yet. My oratory skills can’t be that fucking rusty all of a sudden. I know I’m burnt out, but fuck, this should be an easy fucking sell.
“Come on, Macy.” I feel confident about this, but I’m having trouble summoning much of it. “Imagine getting the chance to actually be deep into those sparkling blue waters, and to sail on the surface, and to get an actual massage to help finally ease out some fucking tension because, seriously, aren’t we both supposed to be here on vacation? I know I’ll be ready to get back to work a few days of this momentary break. How about you?”
My eyes are on her. I’m trying to gauge her reaction.
And I’m also looking for some flicker of recognition, since I just mentioned work, that she might know who I am.
Nothing.
For her next vacation, Macy should hit up Vegas and clean house at the World Series of Poker, because I’ve got no fucking idea what she’s thinking.
She wouldn’t even need a hat or sunglasses to hide her tells, because I see no tells at all, and her eyes are as silent as the rest of her.
I don’t know if I’m quite as poker-faced at the moment, even though my mind’s fucking racing.
And my mind usually does not do that shit. In fact, it’s fucking famous for being calm and effective, even when everyone else around me is freaking the fuck out.
The problem is, I’m starting to feel like I should be freaking out, and I’m not even close to being sure where that’s coming from. Still, no tells. She’s standing patiently and silently.
Suddenly, there’s the tiniest sparkle in her eyes, which seems to mean that she’s thought of a response she’s about to fling in my direction.
It might also mean she recognizes the obvious value in the idea, but we’ll have to wait and fucking see on that.
“I don’t understand why it needs to happen with you staying in the same suite.”
She might be fucking with me, or subtly telling me to get lost. But I explain anyway.
“I’ve told you why. We’ve been over this. It’s a package. For married couples, newlyweds. And there are no extra rooms to book—not in the resort, and I can guarantee not on the island, either. You know, spring break, ‘party! let’s all go wild!’ and so on into eternity.”
There’s the subtlest movement around Macy’s lips. I can’t tell if she’s pissed off or trying not to laugh.
There’s no way she’d let herself laugh or allow a respite in the stormy weather of this moment. I get the impression if I said the wall of this room’s painted white—which it is—she’d say, “No, that’s wallpaper, and it’s black.”
And I’ll admit, I kind of fucking love that.
What does this woman do for a living anyway? What’s her story? Those things are starting to interest me more than a quick vacation fling.
Well, maybe not more, but.
“Look, we can share the suite, but...” Macy’s next delayed response is interrupted by a hand rapping against the suite door.
We look at each other like we’re in the midst of a criminal conspiracy and the FBI just showed up with a warrant.
“Did you hear that?” she whispers, somewhat hilariously.
“Yeah, I heard the loud knocking at the door, if that’s what you’re asking about.”
She nods, looking deadly serious.
“You want to get that?” she asks. “Or, well, it’s my suite.”
Before I can respond, she’s heading for the door. Quickly, I catch up with her to ask a small question.
“Expecting someone?” Apart from some tangential connection to my hapless friend, I still don’t know this woman.
Or who she’s down here with.
It could be her boyfriend.
Or her husband. I mean, that’s fucking doubtful, but it would certainly make this vacation even more interesting than it’s been already.
Macy doesn’t answer, and she’s already opening the door anyway. I guess I’m about to discover the new twist to this whole St. Maarten odyssey.
As the door swings open with a soft creak, I fold my arms. There are few better ways to stand in the middle of a room in a bathrobe than with your arms folded. It’ll be quite the sight for whoever it is in the hallway.
“Welcome to our beautiful resort.”
If the short guy standing in the hallway—in a dress shirt and tie, wearing a gold name tag, with a silver serving cart in front of him—is Macy’s boyfriend, then he doesn’t look too upset to see me.
“Please accept this as a special gift of the management to congratulate the happy couple and wish you an enjoyable and memorable stay here.”
But seriously, folks. Macy looks downright shocked as the attendant wheels in our tray of swag.
I forget to even thank the guy as he leaves, because I’m too focused on watching Macy’s gorgeously animated face as she marvels at the champagne service, ornate tray of chocolates, and fresh rose petals arranged artily around the tray.
“A lot of work went into this,” she comments.
“I’ll say.” I take a few steps over and grab the gold champagne bottle. “This is Armand de Brignac Gold Brut. Not bad for a freebie.”
“What’re you doing?” she snaps as I work on the cork.
“Pouring the happy couple a glass of this delicious champagne that probably has a four-digit price tag.” I glide the cork smoothly from the bottle and start filling the crystal flutes on the tray.
Macy shrugs and pops a chocolate in her mouth.
“I guess we get the perks without having to put on a show,” she says with her mouth full.
Finished filling the flutes, I hand Macy her champagne.
“Might as well not break the illusion, though.”
Macy stares at me as she slowly takes the glass, and I make a toast. “To the happy couple.”
Macy silently takes a sip of her drink without reciprocating the toast.
Whatever, the champagne’s really good and dry. I might as well ruin it with some chocolate.
“What sorts of chocolates are there?”
I take a step toward her to get a look at the box.
“Is there something hard on the outside but with a soft, lovable center?”
I keep my voice playful and look at her meaningfully.
“Oh, is that supposed to be you or something?”
“Or creamy center. Whatever.”
Back to her old self, she simply shoves the box at me.
This is going to be one fucking amazing vacation. I can feel it in my bones.