Chapter 14

14

ELLA

As I find my way back to the main section of the resort building and the spa wing, I pass a familiar face. Forgetting I’m not wearing a wig, I wave and say, “Good morning, Edwina.”

She offers a friendly but somewhat vacant smile—the kind we all use when interacting with guests.

Jack did mention in his note that I could charge anything I wanted to the room, so before I go to the spa, I stop by the gift shop. I’ve heard guests rave about how silky these confections are.

Pointing to the largest gift box, I select an assortment of chocolates, scoot back to Edwina’s hallway, and leave the box tucked in her cart with a note that says, Thank you for being a friend. Don’t leave these in the sun. Trust me.

It almost feels like a goodbye, but I’ll be back in my hallway, pushing my cart later this week.

I don’t know what Jack’s request to wear his jersey entails, but I doubt it’ll lift me out of poverty or provide me with a sustainable income to pay off my father’s medical bills and put down first, last, and security on an apartment .

Just saying. It’s a hunch.

The notion fills my body with tension so when I get to the spa, I inquire about a massage.

“Appointment?” asks Brandy, the woman behind the desk. She’s friends with Yvonne. In this place, the people who work behind counters think they’re better than the rest of us. I don’t create the rules. I just suffer as a result of them.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t make one.”

“Room number, please?” She makes a subtle little cluck with her tongue.

Clearing my throat, I say, “The Jewel Suite.”

Her lips drop slightly as if she doesn’t believe me and she clicks away on the keyboard. “Name, please.”

“Ella?” I say as if I don’t know my own name.

She reviews something and then says, “Right this way, Mrs. Bouchelle.”

I nearly choke. Jack doesn’t know my last name, so he listed me as a relation. His sister? His wife?

“Can I offer you some water?” Brandy asks, all smiles now.

I lightly tap my chest. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

Forget the fact that I don’t have an appointment. I don’t even have a body. The next sixty minutes turn me into a relaxed puddle—after I convince myself that Jack merely added a last name to the account because he had to or because only members of his family with that last name have access to the Jewel Suite. Surely, it was just a matter of protocol.

“However, he did ask me to wear his jersey,” I whisper through the little head hole in the massage table.

“What was that, love?” the British masseur asks.

“Um, do you know much about hockey?”

“About as much as the next bloke. Footy is my thing. ”

I take that to mean soccer. “What does it mean when a player asks a woman to wear his jersey.”

“Everything,” he responds while pounding on my back.

I try to ask a follow-up question, but my voice comes out in a reverberating echo.

After the massage, I have two skin treatments, one for exfoliating and the other for brightening, followed by a manicure and pedicure. I’m practically a new woman.

I tell myself I was long overdue. If I’m going to go to this wealthy hockey star’s game, I should upgrade from Flotsam and Jetsam to Fangirl in a Jersey.

But I haven’t decided how to answer Jack’s proposal. I need more information.

Now, it’s time for a haircut. The stylist who introduces himself as L’artiste , and hails from France, picks through my hair as if afraid that I have lice. I don’t, even though I have found sand on my scalp, but that’s a result of often sleeping on the beach.

With an accent, he says, “It’s been a while since you tended to this, eh?”

“Almost two years.”

L’artiste tsks, and then without so much as asking whether I’d like a trim or other service, he brings me to the sink and goes to town, washing, brushing, snipping, and scoffing.

“Not too much. I like my hair long.” I think. I mean, I don’t really know. It’s not top of mind these days. It’s a vestige of the life I once led when my girlfriends and I would get ready for a night out, get appetizers at a restaurant, take a trip to the movies, or during senior year spring break, visit a place like this.

Plus, maybe if it were shorter, it would be easier to put on the wig without worrying about pieces falling out.

He swats my hand away when I try to itch my nose, which makes me have to wiggle it for the next two minutes to get it to stop tickling from the little hairs flying around.

“ Non fussing.”

I’m about to explain when he grandly spins me in the chair so I can face the massive mirror.

L’artiste says, “Et voilà.”

I gasp. He dusted the ends and blew my hair dry in a voluminous and silky style that almost makes me forget about the sun and salt damage.

“You like?”

“Very, very much. Merci .”

For the first time in a long time, I look like me. Running my fingers through my hair, I feel like me.

L’artiste shrugs like it was no big deal.

To me, it means so much I want to hug him, but he’s still holding the sharp scissors, so I smile and thank him again.

As I wander back toward the suite, trying to stick to the lesser trafficked areas so I don’t risk losing my job, I wonder what else a guest would do if they had a couple of hours free before dinner.

When I was here with Charity and Tiana, we went parasailing and snorkeling, took a charter boat to watch for dolphins, and, of course, lounged at the pool.

But I don’t want to risk ruining my hair just yet, so I do what a twenty-seven-year-old who is more tired than she should be would do.

I take a nap.

It turns out, a long nap because when I blink open my eyes, I only have a half hour before I’m supposed to meet Jack. I wonder what he’s been doing all day.

After putting on a Gucci mid-length sundress with a macramé bodice and a flowing skirt, I do a ’fit check. Looking good, all things considered. I add a pearl necklace and a pair of Valentino high heel sandals to complete the outfit.

As I pop in a pair of hoop earrings, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Despite the abundant sleep of the last twenty-four hours and the facial, my eyes are baggier than they were two years ago.

Would I look more rested if I agreed to wear Jack’s jersey to one of his games? I don’t know the answer to that because I don’t fully understand the question, but it’s time to meet him … and thank him profusely for the generosity of today.

When I reach the mermaid fountain, I toss in a coin, hoping that everything goes swimmingly tonight. No pun intended. When I pass the front desk, Yvonne squints at me as if uncertain whether she recognizes me from our encounter with Jack or from somewhere else.

I pick up my pace and nearly collide with a potted Bird of Paradise, then I spot Jack standing just outside the Sapphire Sea Restaurant. He wears slacks and a dress shirt. The top two buttons are open and the sleeves are folded.

Where’s my fainting couch? I need to lie down and cool off.

His eyes follow me as I approach. I try to remain cool, maybe a little aloof like many of the women here, but my grin blossoms and then blooms the closer I get.

He says, “You look lovely.”

“Why, thank you. My kind benefactor sent me to the spa today.”

“Kind benefactor? Do you mean secret admirer?” His lips twitch with a smile.

Playing coy, I arch an eyebrow.

“What I’m really asking is, is there competition?”

“Do I have a boyfriend?” I snort a laugh without waiting for him to answer. “Nope. ”

But I do wonder about his playboy reputation. He can wine and dine me here, and then we may never see each other again. Though, we are on a three-year, once-a-year streak.

The restaurant’s main floor is sunken with several terraces surrounding it like concentric circles in a pool when a stone is dropped in. Dim bands of light illuminate each ring, lending to the illusion that we’re floating. I cannot imagine having to carry trays of food and not fall. But I shouldn’t be thinking about work as the hostess guides us to a table on the upper level.

Like a gentleman, Jack gestures for me to sit first. The menu is an electronic tablet, also glowing around the edges. He doesn’t look at it. But there are no prices, just three options: sea, land, and air.

Leaning on the table with his hands clasped, highlighting his powerful forearms, he asks, “You’re smiling. How was your day?”

“Sublime, but it may have been more fun if you were with me.” Doubt pricks holes in my mind about the billionaire son’s visits and weekend flings. I ask, “Was your day sublime too? What did you do?”

He wears a lazy grin. “So sublime. I worked out and napped.”

“Me too. Well, the napping part. It was overdue.”

“You’re a napper?”

“Is that a professional description? Like a plumber or a hockey player?”

He chuckles. “Naps are underrated.”

Our conversation flows easily through appetizers and the meal. I’m stuffed, but cannot pass up what the server describes as Pieces of Neapolitan Paradise for dessert with a combination of luscious chocolate, creamy vanilla, and fresh strawberry.

When the server brings it with two forks, Jack clinks mine with his and says, “To wearing hockey jerseys. ”

“I didn’t agree.” Yet.

“I hope you do.”

We both glance at the plate between us with a lower layer of what looks like a waffle cone wafer topped with three ice cream orbs—one brown, one white, and the third pink—and numerous other geometric edible gem and ocean-related shapes sprinkled with gold flecks all arranged in a gravity-defying architectural array of sweet confection.

“How do we eat this?” I ask.

Jack chuckles. “Not neatly.”

I glance around, thankful that I haven’t been spotted as an imposter and been kicked out. “This place seems to prize good table manners.”

His lips tease a smile. “It’s dim. I think we can get away with anything we want.”

He winks. Even without a cell phone, I get a notification to be on alert. Yvonne told Minka that he winked at her.

But I cannot resist dessert. We dig in, demolishing the piece of edible art.

I anticipate he’s awaiting my answer about the jersey—that all this leads to that . So I ask, “All I have to do is wear the jersey? What’s the catch?”

“Come with me to the game, wear the jersey. End of story.”

I hesitate.

“You have something there.” Jack reaches across the table and brushes his pinky across the edge of my lip.

I squinch up because I’m painfully good at embarrassing myself. But his gaze meets mine. He licks his finger. “Strawberry.”

My internal player-flirt-fling flags and sirens go off, but being on the receiving end of this kind of attention feels way better than a thumbs-up and heart-likes dopamine hit—not that I’ve even glimpsed social media in months .

“Thanks,” I say, my voice squeaky.

“My pleasure,” he replies.

Our gazes drift together, no doubt both of us recalling the kiss in the pool last year. The kiss last night.

Clearing his throat, Jack says, “As I said, if you wear my jersey, I’ll compensate you for your time.”

I’m afraid to ask how much, but considering my bank account is in the single digits, any amount could help.

Instead of answering just yet, I take the last bite of dessert. Jack watches me and then leans across the table and places his lips on mine as if he wanted that bite, too.

He’s a hockey pro, but he could also include professional flirt on his resume.

After dinner, arms linked, we walk along the resort’s lantern-lit pathways. I almost forget that I’m not on vacation and this is where I work. When we reach a little nook overlooking the water, sparkling in the moonlight, I decide to take a risk. Well, two.

“Yes,” I say boldly.

He turns to me. “Yes, you’ll wear my jersey to the game?”

I nod, then take the second risk and grip the fold of his shirt where it buttons, knowing that I might regret this the next time I wake up, having slept in the cabana storage building.

Jack’s lips quirk with a smile, making my pulse flutter. He closes the remaining space between us and our lips brush. My fingers trace their way up his chest and then slide along his jaw. His hands press into my lower back, tugging me closer.

The push of his mouth to mine is soft yet strong, demanding yet yielding.

“If this is what a fling feels like, I’ll have another, sir.”

A chuckle comes from his throat, meaning I said that out loud. His rough palm strokes my hair and then drops to my neck as he kisses his way toward my ear and back again, sending tingles through me.

Jack’s kiss is perfect and warm and everything I didn’t know I wanted. If only my life were different, I wasn’t the help, and all of this meant something. Something real.