Page 2 of Rowan’s Renewal (DKAG Summer Shorts #6)

“ S o, how is it you managed to score yourself some vacation time when you only just started working here?” my colleague, Vince, teases good naturedly as we walk down a brightly lit hallway together.

Our shoes squeak on the linoleum floors, but they’re not really audible over the rest of the hustle and bustle around us. Machines beeping, low, murmured conversations, children crying, and occasionally someone calling out for assistance set the backdrop of the emergency department where we work.

“My leave was approved before I transferred,” I shrug. “I’ve been hanging out for this trip for a long-ass time, man.”

I originally booked it with my boyfriend.

Well, you know, before he told me he’d fallen out of love with me and thought we’d be better off as friends.

That had led to me packing my bags and leaving the apartment we’d shared, and requesting a transfer to a sister hospital, not really wanting to work with my ex anymore.

Because I booked the trip, I got to keep the tickets. Three weeks in Australia, culminating in one week at a ‘clothing optional, adults only, LGBTQ+ beach resort’ (per the brochure) sounded like the perfect way to get over my heartbreak.

I mean, isn’t that what people say now? That the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new?

I’m vers, so I’ll get on top, or under, or go sideways…I really don’t have a preference. As long as it isn’t with Jerry.

“And you’re going by yourself?” Vince asks, arching a dark eyebrow. He’s a big, gorgeous bear of a man, complete with a cuddly belly. But it’s his personality —always so concerned for everyone else— that really makes him attractive.

It’s a pity he’s taken. I would have offered for him to come with me, otherwise.

Get it? Come with me?

Dear God, I need to get laid.

“I am,” I nod, grinning. “I love the idea of getting to explore by myself. I set the itinerary. I get to decide if the souvenirs I’m buying are too tacky. Just me.”

“I feel like there’s a story there,” Vince chuckles as we reach the triage station and reach for our respective clipboards.

“Jerry was an asshole,” I tell him, already flipping through the notes for my first case of the night, “that’s the whole story.”

He snorts. “That will win you a Pulitzer.”

I raise my middle finger with a laugh as we head in opposite directions.

Transferring jobs and moving halfway across the country following my breakup was a pain in the ass, but I’m making friends and settling in well…and I leave on vacation tomorrow, which is the cherry on top!

***

The first two weeks of my adventure seem to evaporate in the heat of the Australian sun.

I have made my way up the eastern coast, visiting Melbourne, then Sydney, then the Gold Coast and Brisbane, but the final week has been reserved for the pièce de résistance: an LGBTQ+ Adults Only beachfront resort on the Sunshine Coast.

The promotional materials are what really drew me in.

With its own private clothing-optional beach, a huge pool, brightly colored décor, and modern, recently renovated suites, the resort sounded like heaven.

After two weeks of non-stop exploration and travel, drinking cocktails and relaxing at a resort before I have to fly home is exactly what the doctor ordered.

(It’s me — I’m the doctor.)

When my Uber pulls to a stop outside the resort, nestled as it is in what seems to be its own tropical rainforest, I take a moment to smile up at the welcoming main building.

Painted white, the front doors are bi-folding, opened all the way to entice in the sea-breeze as well as guests.

From the curb, I can see the large wooden fan suspending from the vaulted ceilings, and the white floor tiles gleam enticingly, too.

It looks like a big, airy space filled with natural light — perfect for a coastal retreat like this one.

Climbing the five or so front stairs to enter the sprawling foyer, I feel instantly relaxed by how open and bright it is. They’ve brought the outside in as well, with large, leafy potted plants dotted around the space, really playing off the ‘rainforest meets beach’ aesthetic.

I already want to live here and never leave. Sadly, I’m only here for six nights before I have to fly back home.

Rolling my suitcase across the tiles towards the reception desk, I can’t help but check out the attractive man leaning over the distressed timber counter, talking quietly with the concierge.

The first thing I notice about him is his thick, dark brown hair and the few silvery streaks glinting in the early afternoon sunlight.

The next is his sharp, square jawline, emphasized by salt and pepper stubble.

Then my gaze travels over his strong shoulders and back, clothed as it is by a pale blue polo shirt.

Sadly, his probably perfect ass is hidden behind the waffle knit sweater wrapped around his waist, over the top of baggy beige cargo pants.

The poor guy has to be sweltering in an outfit like that. Even the polo shirt material looks too thick and non-breathable for the humidity here.

Sure enough, as I get closer, I can see the sheen of sweat on his pale forehead and under his pretty blue eyes, which seem bright against the contrast of the dark bags under them.

“…apologize, Mister Stratton,” the concierge says apologetically, their nose scrunching as they type frantically at their keyboard. “I don’t know how this could have happened. The system is supposed to prevent double bookings.”

The guy’s shoulders slump, and he hangs his head. There’s something almost heartbreaking in the expression on his face; like resignation and fear combined. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, and his (surprisingly American) voice is thick as he asks, “Where am I supposed to go?”

If his expression had been heartbreaking, the plaintive question is like a sucker punch.

Even the concierge’s face crumples.

“I’ve booked a two-bedroom suite,” the words leave my mouth before I can think the offer through. “I’m here for six nights. Would you like my second room for a few days? The whole time?”

The guy turns around to face me and he’s even more attractive front-on. With a perfectly straight nose dusted with freckles, bright blue (though tired) eyes, and full lips, it takes me more than a few seconds to comprehend the fact that he is speaking.

“—dn’t possibly…”

“Please,” I insist, offering him what I hope is a charming smile.

“I, uh, originally booked this trip with my boyfriend and…” I trail off, not thinking it necessary to explain why we had wanted a second bedroom on hand.

“Well, we broke up and plans changed. I was going to see if I could downgrade to a single or a studio, but I’m guessing that’s not an option. ”

“We’re booked solid, I’m afraid,” the concierge nods. Then they turn back to the stranger I’ve just invited to share my room. “We will refund your booking immediately. And, should you take Mister…?”

“Park,” I supply helpfully, “Aaron Park.”

They type away on their keyboard again, smiling softly. “If you should take Mister Park up on his offer, I will make sure the booking is upgraded to include complimentary hire of all motorized and non-motorized watersports equipment and daily breakfast for you both.”

The stranger chews his bottom lip and squirms for a moment. There’s a flash of something undefinable over his face before he swallows and nods. “If you’re sure it won’t be a problem…”

“I can’t see why it would be. I wasn’t going to use the second room, so I’m glad it isn’t going to waste.”

He shuffles on his feet, a blush dusting his cheeks as he averts his gaze. “Thank you. I…” he clears his throat. “Thanks. I, um, I’m staying the six nights, too. Then flying back home after that.”

I smile. “Home as in America, or…?”

“Oh, yeah. America.” He grimaces. “I’m not looking forward to that return flight. The one to get here was bad enough.” To punctuate the sentiment, he reaches for his large, black, hard-shelled rolling suitcase, his fingers flexing over the handle.

“Anyway,” the concierge interrupts, “I’ve got you both checked in to room four-oh-seven.

” They lean forward and hand us each a room key before running through the layout of the resort, detailing the pool and jacuzzi hours, where to hire kayaks, jet skis and snorkeling gear, and what time the on-site restaurant serves its buffet breakfast.

My roommate for the week seems to become increasingly fidgety the longer the concierge speaks. He all but heaves a sigh of relief when we’re finally directed towards the elevator, seemingly in a rush to get to the room.

Away from the desk, it feels a little more awkward to be heading towards a hotel room I will be sharing with a complete stranger, but I don’t regret my offer.

Even though the second bedroom won’t be used as the playroom-slash-nursery away from home Jerry and I had planned on, I am glad someone is going to make use of it.

Especially when the sweet stranger seemed almost on the verge of tears with the booking snafu.

I’ve always been a sucker for a sweet Boy in need of a rescue, I guess. That’s the Daddy in me, and it’s been too long since I last let him out to play.

Maybe when I get back home, I’ll visit the local kink club I’ve heard about. I’ve hooked up a couple of times on this holiday, and it has been great, but my need to nurture and connect on a deeper level clearly needs to be satisfied just as badly.

“So, roomie,” I joke to ease some of the awkwardness as we wait for the elevator, “I’m Aaron.”

His shoulders are tense, but the sheepish smile on his face is adorable.

“Shit. Sorry. I didn’t think to introduce myself.

I’m Rowan. Rowan Stratton.” He extends the hand not gripping his suitcase like a lifeline and I shake it.

He shifts uncomfortably and cringes a little. “Thanks again for the rescue.”

“Seriously,” I laugh just as the elevator doors swing open and a gaggle of cute, giggly twinks spill out, brushing past us as they talk loudly in broad Australian accents about finding the bar, “you don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you didn’t think I’m some weirdo freak for offering.”

“I’ll be honest,” he leans against the mirrored wall of the elevator, full lips drawing into a tiny smirk, “I’m half expecting you to harvest my organs or something. Hot young guys aren’t usually lining up at my door, you know?”

“I’m thirty-two, hardly a spring chicken,” I chuckle. “But I am a doctor, so the organ harvesting is a plausible side-hustle…”

“Thirty-two seems forever ago for me,” his tone is wistful, and his smile is soft. Then his lips quirk into something a little rueful and wry. “I just turned forty-one. So, yeah, you’re young.”

The elevator lets us off on the fourth floor and we make our way to room seven. Rowan swipes his key and pushes the door open, throwing a hasty apology over his shoulder as he bustles forward and starts glancing into doorways.

With an exhaled “Oh, thank God,” he pushes into one of the rooms, dragging his suitcase with him, shutting and locking the door behind him with an audible click.

After my own quick perusal of the apartment, I realize he must be in the bathroom.

I guess that’s what all the fidgeting was about.

I want to smack myself upside the head. I’ve seen enough potty dances in my time, after all. Both as a doctor and as an age play Daddy.

I guess I wasn’t completely projecting after all.