Page 103 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“Because they post cooking videos on Instagram all the time. They loved Mexican, Spanish, Portuguese and Costa Rican food,” she answers.

That would explain the avocado lie he told at the beginning of all of this.

“Nope,” Donovan shakes his head. “I can’t do it,” he says, walking ahead of us on the tarmac.

“But Donovan,” Scarlett calls out.

“No can do.”

“They’re from Argentina,” she adds.

“Mum’s the word,” he says, picking up the pace.

“A great-grandmother’s recipe!”

“My lips are sealed!”

“Beef tallow dough…”

“I can’t hear you!”

Donovan takes off with Scarlett hot on his trail, and I just laugh.

After we get to the hotel, Donovan disappears into the lobby, pretending he has things to do. I’m pretty sure he’s just trying not to think about Argentinian empanadas.

Scarlett heads to the room, hoping to take a bath and maybe a nap, which is perfect for me because I have some business to take care of. Business that I decide to take care of at the pool bar.

We are at the Crescent Palms, another Bale Resort along the beach line of luxury resorts. It wasn’t one of the hotels I planned to stop at; we already had a pretty hefty lineup for someone who doesn’t enjoy traveling. Actually, I didn’t enjoy traveling, but I was feeling a little spontaneous. And after seeing her suffer so much with getting sick and dealing with Conrad’s bullshit, I decided we could both use a little more fun.

“Alright,” I say as I sit with my phone and my drink at the bar. “First things first. House of Blues.”

It was on her bucket list. Visit the House of Blues. As I stare at the notebook, flipping through the pages which are decorated like a mix between a passport and a scrapbook, and while it’s an interesting peek inside her soul, it’s also starting to feel a little invasive that I still have it. It also doesn’t give me any specification on which House of Blues she wanted to visit or what she’d want to see while she was there.

“Well,” I say, pushing it aside and pulling up my phone again. “I guess we are going to…Morgan Wade,” I say, snagging two tickets.

I don’t know who Morgan Wade is, and I’m not even sure if Scarlett knows. But I think she’ll like it. At the end of the day, if she didn’t include who or what she wants to see, then it’ll have to do. We are only here for one night and she’s who’s playing.

“Morgan Wade it is,” I say, before glancing at the notebook again before closing it up.

“Working hard or hardly working?” Donovan asks, and I shove the book in my bag.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” I say, making a point of trailing my eyes down his beachy outfit.

“Listen, this was not part of the itinerary,” Donovan says as he takes a seat on the stool next to me and glances over the drink menu. “As far as I am concerned, if you are sitting at a bar by the pool reading a book, then I am off the clock.”

“Fair enough,” I say, and he looks back at me. “Speaking of that…what were you reading?”

“Oh nothing. Just a travel book,” I lie. Well, actually, it’s not really a lie. It is a book about travel. Just very specific and personal to one person.

Donovan is still studying me. Waiting. Eventually, he stares long enough that I give in. I know him well enough to know that he’s not going to leave me alone until I tell him the truth. And he knows me well enough to know that if he waits long enough, I’ll crack under the pressure.

I sigh and pull the notebook back out of my bag.

“Since when do you journal?” he asks, and I unravel it, splaying it open to the first page. “Since when do you have a bucket list?”

“I don’t,” I sigh again. “It’s not mine,”

“I didn’t think so,” he says. “It’s not really something you do. And neither is falling in love in NYC–wait. Is that Scarlett’s?” he whispers.