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Got. Got a lot of airplay.
“Is it stupid,” she begins, and her cheeks go pink, “to take a nap?”
“You tired out from all that dancing today?” I ask, and I immediately regret it. Her smile falters. “I mean, your tango skills are impressive.”
She graciously moves past my accidental reference to the less pleasant part of our day. She chews the inside of her lip before admitting, “I didn’t sleep much last night.” She extracts the lipstick from my hand and sets it back on the desk. “You in? For this nap situation?”
I survey the room again, consider that Maggie could walk in at any moment, and contemplate if it would be better or far worse to suggest we go to my room.
“Relax, Dawson,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m not going to try to seduce you. That would be weird.”
“Why would it be weird?” I cringe as soon as the words come out. I’m okay with being straightforward in relationships and general communication, but that felt just plain forward, like why would it be weird to seduce me?, and I’m relieved when her smile reaches her eyes.
“Because. We’re going to have an audience.”
Lying so close, I can smell her fruity shampoo. Mango? Papaya? Something tropical. Mixed with the scent of her skin, an intoxicating combination of coconut sunscreen and sea salt, she’s like a Caribbean cocktail, and damn, I could be drunk on her.
By some magic stroke of luck, there was a large daybed available in The Retreat. Rain still dances off the glass ceiling above us, and the constant thrum of the hot tub jets and pool equipment helps drown out the sound of people’s voices. There’s a fair amount of activity here, but Gwen tuned it out and drifted off to sleep a few minutes after we arrived.
My arm’s asleep under the weight of her head on my shoulder, but I don’t want to move; she’s tucked into my side, her arm like a seatbelt across my chest and stomach. Every few minutes her fingers twitch, tickling the bare patch of skin she created for herself at my waist. I breathe her in and brush wayward hairs from her cheek.
She’s not what I was expecting—not after that first meeting, just a few yards from where we lie now. It was fun to mess with her that day, because she seemed so miserable and I didn’t care if I pissed her off. But things have changed since then, and now, frankly, I want to piss her off. And I want to make her laugh. I want all her passion, good and bad, because it would mean she cares the way I do.
Gwen stirs, and I can see that she’s watching her own fingers trace the subtle v-cut on my side.
“Welcome back.” Without thinking, I press my lips to the top of her head and freeze. This is how mornings are supposed to be, and lazy, rainy Saturdays, and hard days and good days and movie nights and making up. And despite the fact that we’re surrounded by strangers, this feels like the most natural, most quietly intimate thing in the world.
She stretches her legs, pointing and flexing her toes over the edge of the day bed. “How long was I out?”
I shrug, or attempt to, considering the arm that’s asleep. “Maybe thirty, forty minutes?”
“Oh.” She glides her thumb across my skin. “Do we need to be getting ready for dinner?”
To check my watch I have to pull my arm tighter around her. She adjusts with the movement and presses closer to my side. Between her body heat and the room’s humid air, I’m regretting the sweatshirt I pulled on after my shower. “We probably should soon, yeah.”
“Okay.” She lies there a moment longer, not tearing herself away like I expect her to. “This is nice, right?” She twists her head to look up at me, and I expect her to smile, but her eyes are tinged with sadness. It catches me off guard.
“Yeah,” I say, wondering what’s behind the sudden shift from her gentle touches to this new emotion.
She closes her eyes and exhales, and when she sits up, she’s herself again. “I’m going to change. Meet you at dinner?”
I nod. “Sure. I’ll see you there.” And before I can even slide into my flip-flops, Gwen is gone.
Gwendolyn
It won’t work.
He’s too nice, and it’s too easy, and that’s not how these things work. So it won’t work. It can’t.
It’s the refrain I repeat the whole way down to my deck and to my suite, and I gulp the fresh air when I throw open the balcony door.
“You alright, dear?”
I hadn’t realized Gram was sitting there, but now I’m stuck. I’m hyperventilating, and it’s not the first time she’s seen it, and she’s going to want to go into Fixer Mode. Except she doesn’t. At least not right away.
I lower myself into a seat and tuck my knees to my chest. “I didn’t think I’d actually like him, Gram.”
Sometimes it’s best just to rip off the Band-Aid. The admission is easy: clearly I like the guy, or why the kissing and the dancing and the snuggling? But the realization is hard: I don’t trust it to work out, which sucks, because clearly I like the guy.
