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This is your first grown-up vacation,Morgan, I berate myself,so try to act like a grown-up.
“Now,” the manager continues, “Mirago is a beautiful island but most of the land is still undeveloped. As guests of this island, we are not allowed to venture beyond our clearly designated areas. These areas are marked with white fencing and are shown here on the map.”
He gestures to a small map on the hotel brochure, too far away and small to make much sense of anyway.
“Please stay within the demarcated boundaries because we have little to no notice when storms pop up, for starters. And then there are the wild animals. Not to mention the protected areas, which are not only dangerous, but also fragile. Trespassing can result in hefty fines and even expulsion from the island.”
The man scans the crowd, sounding more like a haunted house tour guide than a hotel manager as he tries to instill a proper sense of fear into us.
“There is no cell reception on the island, so if you get caught in a swell or get lost, you may be on your own. We may not even know that there’s a guest in danger.”
Jeez, this is quite the lecture about behaving, I snort to myself, ready to heed his many warnings but growing impatient with the theatrics of it all.
But the other guests are nodding enthusiastically at the strange list of rules. I glance down at the welcome packet the bouncy receptionist gave me along with my room key.
Maybe I did miss something?
“Now, have no fear!” the manager booms happily, replacing the doom and gloom with over-the-top pep. “Our resort is several acres with a full suite of amenities for your enjoyment, including several pools, tennis courts, the spa—and well, more activities than I can list.” The manager beams widely, his expression clearly an overt attempt to get us not to panic over the dangers of the world beyond the resort’s boundaries. “The beach is accessible, of course, but please make sure you don’t accidentally wander beyond our property.”
A few guests murmur. I frown.
I can’t just go find my own beach? I wonder to myself. I’m too shy to ask the question out loud. Besides, I don’t want the manager to think that I’m some kind of troublemaker.
“Welcome to La Mirage. We hope your experience will be magical,” he says, wrapping up his speech.
The manager gives a small bow and then shoos us away like school kids. I frown but say nothing. I grab my over-stuffed suitcase—thanks to Tanya’s pestering, I’ve broughtwaymore cute clothes than I had originally planned— and roll it toward the now-packed elevator.
I eye a family of five already squeezed inside the posh lift: each person has bag, there are two massive strollers, one crying baby, one screaming toddler, and two bickering tweens.
“I’ll take the next one,” I murmur and take a decided step back.
As the doors ding closed, I glance at my room key and then at the door that leads to the stairs.
What are two flights of stairs?
Exactly two flights later, I’m cursing Tanya and her powers of persuasion as I drag my bag up the final step.
“I am never, ever taking packing advice from a woman with six boyfriends ever again,” I mutter as I roll the bag into the hallway toward my room. “I bet she never has to carry a damn thing since she basically has six porters.”
But them my grumpy attitude vanishes when I key open the door to my room because it’s gorgeous—better than the photos promised it would be. The walls are painted a soft sea-foam green with hints of pink, and gold accents give the space an air of sophistication.
I peek out onto the mini-veranda, delighted to see that I have a stunning sea view. Birds frolic on the beach beyond the resort’s walls and I briefly wonder if the manager’s warning about the dangers of the island are really that serious.
A quick look over to my far left and I can see the edge of the hotel’s pools—vibrant and beckoning.
“Screw unpacking, I want to swim!”
Dramatically, I draw the curtains closed and then turn to face my behemoth of a bag. Grunting, I heft my suitcase onto a luggage rack and unzip it.
I eye the pile of tiny swimsuits.
“And why the heck did I need so many swimsuits for a week-long stay?”
I hold up a flimsy orange two-piece and eye it thoughtfully.
I haven’t spotted too many single guys so far, but I was on one small bus of what I am certain is just one of many.
Kids on the other hand…I spotted a lot of kids.
