Page 6

6

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

FULTON

G iven my history, I thought the plane ride went fairly well. No screams from the soon-to-be-departed as the plane bursts into flames and nosedives into the Pacific Ocean. No annoying child kicking the back of my seat. No appearance of bodily fluids to permeate the already-musty cabin. A charter plane would’ve been ideal, but Coach is a stickler against us using it outside of hockey-related emergencies. Plus, first class isn’t a bad alternative at all.

Everything’s going according to plan. And I miraculously managed to fish a date out of it! I seriously don’t know how I did that. Everything’s been a blur since we left the airport.

Carrying Shiloh’s backpack on my shoulder, I trundle behind her like a lost puppy as we enter the hotel’s main lobby, and the ostentatious extravagance of it all sloughs off my prior confidence. I don’t know why I expected it to be far more low-key—I frequent fancy places all the time for work.

The interior is grandiose, washed in a sunset-orange film that scalds the pinkening sky and seeps in from a wall-less back—one that showcases an aqua, bioluminescent-looking inlet sandwiched between a ring of saw-toothed mountains. The floor is glossy and pristine, and hazy ceiling lights coruscate off the flickering flame of a smokeless, propane fire pit situated in the middle of the foyer. To add to the decadence, seating areas constructed from mesquite wood and bohemian cushions line the main walkway, complete with miniature candles on each lacquered table.

Off-white, ceramic vases are scattered throughout the area, as well as tall monsteras that add a pop of color to the otherwise monochromic background. And palm trees of varying sizes sway down near the weather-beaten dock, inviting weary travelers to sink their feet into the fine silt that composes a golden shore. It’s constantly being eaten away by white-capped waves, the symphony of running water crashing beyond a tropical cabana. There are even small flocks of wild chickens running around outside.

This will be the perfect environment to get closer to Shiloh: long walks on the beach, late-night swims, the tastiest, most flavorful food money can buy. I mean, who wouldn’t want to vacation in Cabo for three weeks?

Baby Eda’s fast asleep on Kit’s shoulder, and the rest of the crew is in good spirits. Shiloh and I watch as everyone retrieves their separate room keys, bidding farewell for the rest of the night.

Gage and Cali are giggling like a couple of troublemakers; Hayes has Aeris in some kind of hug chokehold as enviable love surrounds the two of them like a second skin; Bristol’s whispering something into Lila’s neck while she laughs with her full chest; and Casen’s standing at the edge of the overlook with Josie.

I can’t really tell if Shiloh’s as nervous as I am. She blearily rubs at her eyes, stifling a yawn into her arm out of politeness. God, she looks stunning. I mean, she always does, but it’s hard to believe that I’m really this lucky to have her here with me.

We’re the last ones to sign in, and grogginess chokes my windpipe when I voice our presence. “Reservation under Cazzarelli.”

The receptionist—a middle-aged man dressed in a flashy Hawaiian shirt with a (questionably) tasteful amount of chest on display—checks us in, handing off the room key with a smile.

“Enjoy your stay. Breakfast is from six thirty a.m. to nine thirty a.m. You’re free to indulge in our pool and sauna from ten a.m. to eight p.m. Room service is twenty-four-seven, and there are a handful of local activities in the pamphlet located in your room’s nightstand. If you’re interested in catching some decent waves, might I suggest taking advantage of the early-morning tide. You might also be able to see some of the natural wildlife if you’re lucky.”

“Thank you,” I say, my fingers curling around the plastic card with the cherry-red hibiscus printed on the front.

“It’s so beautiful here,” Shiloh whispers in awe, trailing behind me as we pass a wide hallway fringed with intricately designed doors. “I’ve never been out of the States before.”

“Never?” I ask, looking down at her and camouflaging a smile while I talk to what’s essentially the top of her head.

“Nope. Work has always been the top priority for my family. And, I mean, we’ve lived in Riverside for so long that we don’t really crave adventure anywhere else.”

Something unidentifiable sours in my stomach at the prospect of Shiloh being tethered to her job like some kind of herding dog, and it takes a few sensible brain cells for me to bite my tongue. “I feel that. Traveling can be a lot.”

We’ve been maneuvering through a labyrinth of identical hallways before she stops in her tracks, her pupils blown wide underneath the dying haze of the orange-tinted sconces. “Sometimes I feel like running away, even though I’m content with where I’m at. It’s this…inherent urge I get. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she whispers shamefully .

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” I blurt out a little too intensely.

I’m so close to her that I can see the faint shine of tears pricking at her eyes—can see the uncertain way her chest balloons with a tightly held breath. I may suck at reading social cues, but when it comes to Shiloh, I can read her as easily as a book.

I nudge her to keep walking, offering her some privacy as I turn my attention toward the flawless, hardwood floors. My sneakers make this awful squeaking noise with every step. “I know being in control is important to you, but maybe your conscience needs a break from all of that responsibility.”

Shiloh’s face screws up like she hates the bitter taste of the truth. It’s cloying even from here, a noxious poison coursing through her veins, but the real, long-working disease is the regret that lurks beneath.

“Doesn’t everyone fantasize about running away at some point in their life?” she volleys.

My heart rabbits in my chest. “I think it’s different for you, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I can see the pain in your eyes.”

I must’ve caught her off guard because her shoulders immediately curl inwards, her confidence liquefying right in front of me, and her stature crumbles into debris, a juxtaposition to the steady plinth I know it to be. She doesn’t rebut my statement—doesn’t try to convince me otherwise. All she does is nod toward the giant 304 on our hotel door with half her previous enthusiasm.

What the fuck, Fulton? Way to make her feel like shit. Who says something like that? This is obviously a sensitive subject for her. She didn’t agree to your weird psychoanalysis. Just shut up before you say something you really can’t come back from.

I hold the key up to the card reader and watch the little green light blink to life, then I shoulder the door open for Shiloh. And if I thought making some unwarranted comment about her work life was bad, the sight that beholds us makes my idiocy look like a fucking cake walk. Because despite the room being big enough to house an entire hockey team, the interior designer decided that a single, king-sized bed would be fitting instead of two queen-sized ones.

One bed.

There’s…there’s only one bed .

Shiloh’s jaw practically falls to the ground, and I don’t know why, but I feel the need to cover the suggestive eyesore with my body. “It’s not what it looks like!”

She crosses her arms over her chest, looking far more amused than I expected. “It looks like you booked us a room with a single bed.”

I comb my hand through the front of my hair, my eyes frantically zipping from the comfy complication in our room to the foreboding exit, and I engage in an internal tug-of-war about whether to confront the receptionist over the clear mistake here. “Of course I didn’t! Something must’ve gotten mixed up. I don’t want to sleep with you!”

Before I realize what I just said— lied —about, there’s a divot between Shiloh’s rucked brows. “You don’t want to sleep with me?” she repeats in a low bravado, unaware, or hyperaware, of the fact that she’s the most irresistible thing in the entire country.

Cabo’s decently hotter than California, but not enough to make me sweat from every exposed orifice. Anxiety steamrolls over me and tightens my throat, my conviction coming out half-bitten and half-believing. “No! I just mean…um…I just don’t want you to think…”

Oh, God. What does she think? Does she think I’m just another hotshot hockey player trying to use my fame and money to get into her pants? Shiloh’s way more than some roll in the sheets. But if I tell her that, I’m implying that I’m not interested in rolling around, and I mean, it’s not like I was actively thinking about it, but…

No, Fulton! Think with the other head.

Shiloh sets her backpack on the armchair, then begins to empty out her personal toiletries in neat little rows. “Relax, Fulton. I’m just messing with you, okay? I don’t think you masterminded this whole thing to get your dick wet.”

I’m not sure if I should be mortified that the topic of my… manhood …is currently in discussion.

I watch as she disappears into the bathroom with her belongings, taking plenty of time to organize her things for quicker access. And after a few minutes of rummaging, she breaks out her carry-on and switches her attention to her travel-sized closet, tucking preplanned outfits into one of the drawers.

I’ve never known someone to be so tidy.

The room is objectively stunning if you can get past the lack of privacy. A sliding balcony overlooks the tepid waters outside, bordered by a cinch of nude-toned curtains. The sun’s fading rays billow in from the giant looking glass, rendering any artificial lighting useless as the space is promptly submerged in a projection of pink radiance. And a heavy bedspread of burnt sienna sprawls over the king-sized mattress, matching the tasseled throw pillows that rest against a mesquite headboard.

The asymmetrical coffee table looks like it’s been carved from a chunk of driftwood, and it’s accompanied by a sectional sofa cloaked in a thin, ivory blanket. The greenery inside is as abundant as the natural vegetation popcorned along the rocky mountainside, ranging from potted snake plants to Mexican flame vines that dangle from the ceiling. Last but not least, there’s a rug compiled of geometric shapes, and a seventy-inch television hangs on one of the walls.

She starts to strip off her oversized sweatshirt, and I’m too late to avert my eyes when a chunk of it snags on her shoulder, revealing a sinful sliver of her toned stomach.

When I gulp, heat razes my (probably) reddening cheeks. Either the fumes of pina colada-scented candles are getting to my head, or I’ve been inhaling too much of Shiloh’s perfume, because I’m no longer damning the hotel for messing up our room.

“Aren’t you hot?” she asks me.

I nod, and my belly does a backflip.

“I can turn the air-conditioning on, but I’d probably suggest removing a layer just to be safe.”

Removing a layer? Removing a layer. REMOVING A LAYER?

Granted, I do have a layer that can be removed, but this seems… fuck , this seems like I’m skirting a cliffside with no guard rails, no parachute, and absolutely no care for the endless drop below.

I shuck off my own hoodie, immediately feeling a chill whisper over the length of my arms. I try to ignore the heated sensation of Shiloh’s gaze trailing over my now-exposed body. I’m not insanely ripped like some of my other teammates, but I have some honorable muscle definition. Nice arms, nice quads, a hint of abs. I’m not… insecure …about my physique, per se, but I know it’s not everybody’s type. Girls like the six-foot-five mountains that can throw them around like rag dolls, and I, well, look like the nerdy kid you used to babysit.

She gathers her frizzy hair to one side of her shoulder, dragging her fingers through the tangles. And the whole time, while she’s doing something as mundane as fixing her hair, I’ve been staring at her unabashedly.

“The humidity messes up my hair sometimes. Perks of being Vietnamese,” she huffs frustratedly.

I think her hair looks beautiful. Hell, I could stare at her for an eternity, and it wouldn’t be long enough. Of course, I’ve already surpassed the creep-o-meter, so maybe it’s best to keep that comment to myself.

After salvaging her hairmergency, Shiloh plops onto the bed. “You don’t snore, do you?”

“Uh, I don’t think I do.”

“You don’t sleepwalk?”

“Not since I was eleven.”

“You’re not a serial cuddler? Do I need to form the Great Wall of China?”

A weak laugh putters out of me, more to diffuse the tension brewing in my chest than to convey amusement. “I think I can control myself,” I lie, taking a seat next to her.

Being this close to her whets my appetite—the one dead set on tasting the salt of her sweat, the one aching to hold her soft, supple frame against my hard one. It’s not a part of me I’m proud of, okay? It’s like this darker, shunned version of me that should never see the light of day because of the disastrous things that could happen if I abandon my chivalry.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t,” she says, those words like a false trigger against my temple.

Head thrown back, the hollow of her throat bared to the ceiling, her breasts heave with an inhale, and I have half a mind to insert a tiny shred of distance between our bodies. The mattress dips with my weight as Shiloh peels one eye open to peek at me.

“Are we meeting up with everyone else for dinner?” Her voice loses some of its teasing edge, yet I’m still wrapped around her goddamn pinky finger.

“I think everyone’s pretty beat. I don’t imagine Eda would fare well in a restaurant tonight.”

“You’re not tired, are you?” she follows up, straightening her spine and letting her hair swing back over her shoulder in a pendulum-like motion.

I apply a mask of (hopefully believable) indifference, though she’s got my pulse charging like a racehorse. “Not at all.”

A mischievous grin plays on Shiloh’s lips, and I’m ninety-nine percent certain that I’m about to get way more than I bargained for on this trip.

“How far do you think the nearest grocery store is?”