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7

ELLA

When I wake up in the king-sized bed after a solid snooze, I stretch and half expect birds to be chirping and the sun to stream through the window like in the opening scene of a fairytale movie.

After a moment of disorientation, I remember that I’m in the Ruby Room and should get my sleepy butt moving before I’m caught in a guest suite, fired, and then have to lash together a raft or swim back to the mainland.

It must be raining because I hear the trickle of water. If only I could stay in bed for a little while, maybe order room service, and read until I’m ready to get up. Now, that’s what I call luxury.

Until I didn’t have a real bed, never mind a roof over my head, I took a mattress and sheets for granted.

Then I bolt upright. Despite the blackout curtains, it’s not raining.

No, that’s the sound of the shower.

The guest who reserved this room is here.

Blood rushes in my ears .

I’m going to be caught.

And possibly arrested.

If Slater finds me, he’ll probably have me arrested or kicked off the island.

This is technically US soil, but maybe they have different rules and I’ll have to walk a plank or worse. What could be worse? I don’t know, but I need to get out of here. Now.

The sound of spraying water stops.

I hope whoever is in there has a long and intricate post-shower ritual, involving lots of products and grooming. But their belongings were here and unless they brought additional items, all I saw was a shaving kit.

This is bad. Very bad.

Sniffing the air, I catch a whiff of wet dog. I spot the silhouette of the mongrel guarding the door.

I swallow thickly and whisper, “Nice doggy.”

Calculating my options for escape, I scramble to get out of bed but am tangled in the sheets. My shorts are twisted around my waist and my tank top strap won’t stay up.

Looking left and right, I consider where I could hide. There’s a wardrobe, the voluminous floor-to-ceiling draperies, or maybe I could fit in one of the oversized dresser drawers. The balcony door is too far away. The dog is still in front of the other one.

What am I going to do?

The dog’s glowing eyes stare at me as if wondering whether I’d be tasty. Okay, that’s a bit dramatic. On second glance, from what little I can see, he actually has a cutely expressive puppy face. If this were any other circumstance, I’d give him all the scratchies and belly rubs—I always wanted a dog, but Paula, my stepmom, was allergic.

Time to make a mad dash for the door and hope I don’t get bitten. But the sheet is like a squid and locks around my ankle. I careen over the side of the bed. Thankfully, my landing is relatively soft atop several of the throw pillows on the floor.

A warm gust of steam billows from the bathroom, and a man emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist.

I’m looking at him upside down, which would be silly if I weren’t so stupid. I should never have risked staying in here.

He has well-defined shoulders and a chest etched from stone. Drops of water drip from his brown hair.

My pulse bangs against my chest.

His attention abruptly shifts from the bureau to me. I’ve been spotted. He goes still.

Most people would freeze or flee, but instead, I slowly shift to sitting, blinking rapidly and repeatedly because I cannot believe my eyes.

The corners of his lips lift in an amused grin. “My, my, my. What do we have here?”

My cheeks flame.

Not only am I not a resort guest, but this is supremely embarrassing. All things considered, I kind of feel like a creeper given our brief yet storied history.

But it’s definitely him .

Same dark brown hair, strong jaw, full lips, and toned muscles—this time glistening from the shower.

I’d never forget his low rumbly voice with the subtlest southern accent like he started in Texas but hasn’t been back in a while. The first time we spoke, I thought of Mathew McConaughey. It’s the kind of voice for late nights in a pool under the stars.

It’s Jack who I locked eyes with at the Beachside before Slater danced into my life.

Jack, who I saw the following year, jogging like he was trying to outrun something.

Last year, Jack who got his Jeep stuck in the dunes, resulting in us spending an evening together that ended with a kiss that I still feel faintly on my lips.

Jack who I told myself to forget about.

Scrambling, I say, “This is not what it looks like.”

He takes a few steps closer, reaching for a light switch.

The dog yips as if telling his person that he did a good job guarding me and should get a treat. I wrinkle my nose at him. Okay, fine, I give the puppy dog puppy-dog eyes because I’m mush when it comes to furry animals and maybe I want him to side with me.

As the light flashes on, I wave my hands frantically. “No, please, no artificial light this early. We have to center ourselves with the circadian rhythms from the sun,” I say, parroting a conversation I overheard between two designer women wearing designer sunglasses in the lobby one morning.

He exhales shortly as though debating with himself.

From the slit of light coming through the shaft from the bathroom door, I see that he must not have used the shaving supplies because he sports second-day stubble. In fact, he looks like he’s had a rocky time.

“This looks like quite the Goldilocks and the Three Bears situation.” His tone is flirty despite the circumstances.

The dog barks as if he agrees.

I smooth my hair because I cannot fathom the bedhead I’m sporting right now. My hair was already long when I was stranded here, but now the She-Squatches of the world would admire it. Thankfully, I usually keep it tucked under the wig.

“I, um, was locked out of my room. This one was open so?—”

His forehead wrinkles. “The front desk would’ve let you into your room.”

“Um, right. It was late. Late nights, am I right?” If this were a play, I’d give a monologue right now. Instead, I make a face because my late nights are only a result of not having a decent place to sleep. Usually. This week notwithstanding, thanks to the no-show guest. Until now.

He licks his lips and bites the bottom one as if not convinced. “Or was this bed just right?” He presses his palm to the mattress, testing it. Closer now, his manly, soapy scent fills my nose.

It was one thing to see him emerge from the shower, all handsome and fresh. It’s another entirely to be this close to his tawny skin, brawny build, and breathing the same air again.

Thinking about him, even though I knew it was a wild fantasy that we’d ever see each other again was a silly, fairytale wish, and carried me through some long and desperate days.

Oh, but morning breath. I press my lips together, hoping it’s not dragon-slaying level bad.

Slowly, too slowly, because words are hard right now, I say, “Yeah. I kick when I sleep and my sister was not about that so, yeah, that’s why, um, yeah … my imaginary sister.” I trail off because I don’t want to be a lying liar face.

However, there’s something else too. Something of dig me a grave and roll me in now-concern. The flash of recognition I expect from Jack isn’t there, considering the last time we saw each other. His hair was dripping with water from the pool. His lips were on mine. I tried on his watch. It was my own version of winning the lottery.

Thinking back, we’d talked about pretending to be someone else that night—so maybe he envisioned me as his dream girl and not a swamp monster who’d just invaded the island village. I’ve never had someone officially rate my morning look, but I assure you, there would be no stars awarded.

I make the snap decision not to reveal my identity, aka Jasmin, because my humiliation is already complete.

Checking to make sure there isn’t drool crust on my cheek, I get to my feet and adjust the strap of my tank top. Technically, it’s not my tank top, but it belonged to a guest in room one-fifty-seven from October. The print features sparkly little pumpkins, bats, and ghosts, which is very off-season in January, but it fits. Mostly. I fix the strap again.

Arms folded across his chest, Jack taps his chin. “It doesn’t seem like you’re a super fan and I need to call security, but how is this going to go? Bark Wahlburger, any ideas?” He looks at the pup for a moment.

I blink a few times. “You named your dog Bark Wahlburger?”

He shifts as though uncomfortable. “Yeah, well, it was his idea. Mostly.”

Laughter bubbles out of me. “Bark Wahlburger. Like Mark Wahlberg of Marky Mark of Funky Bunch fame?”

“Or the star of numerous feature action films.” He squares his shoulders as if to say that he and his dog, Bark Wahlburger, are tough guys.

My stomach clenches with laughter. “Bark Wahlburger. Like cheeseburger?” I ask, wondering if (hoping) that’ll jog his memory.

“He named himself, but don’t try to distract me. This is serious.” His serious expression mirrors his tone and sucks the humor out of the room.

Clutching my hands together, I all but drop to my knees. “Please, whatever you do, don’t call security. I’ll just gather my things and be on my way. You never have to see me again.”

I scramble, trying to find my stuff under the pile of decorative pillows. Or did I leave it on the chair? I was so exhausted last night, that I can’t remember much more than flopping into bed with a yawn and a prayer of appreciation for a warm, dry place to sleep.

Scrubbing his hand through his hair, Jack looks confused as if that’s not what he expected to hear. “Wait, who set this up to, well, I don’t know, to woo me?”

I incline my head, not sure if I heard him correctly. Could I be mistaken, and he has a lookalike? Despite this state of affairs, especially with my hair, I never felt more like myself than with Jack that night. The surge inside, magnetizing me to him even now, despite the awkwardness of the situation, tells me it’s the same guy.

And he doesn’t remember me.