The Unhoneymooners by Christina Lauren
chapter nine
Once we’re back on solid ground, most of his color returns, but rather than push our luck—or risk having to dine with Sophie and Billy—we decide to turn in early and order room service.
Although he takes his dinner in the living room, and I take mine in the bedroom, it occurs to me somewhere between my first bite of ravioli and my fourth episode of GLOW that I could have sent Ethan back to the hotel and gone out myself. I could have done a hundred different things without even leaving the hotel grounds, and yet here I am, back in the room at night because Ethan had a rough day. At least now I’m only a room away if he needs someone.
Needs someone . . . like me? I want to point at and tease myself and this new tenderness for thinking Ethan would seek me out as a source of comfort at any time other than when we’re trapped on a boat. He wouldn’t, and that’s not what we’re here for anyway!
But as soon as I start shadowboxing myself into a mental froth about needing to enjoy my vacation and not slide into liking this guy who has only been quasi-friendly to me in paradise but never in real life—I remember what it felt like underwater at the crater, how his front felt all along my back up on the deck of the boat, how it felt to run my fingers through his hair. My heartbeat goes all haywire thinking about how his breathing started to sync with the pace of my nails scratching lightly over his scalp.
And then I burst out laughing remembering our naked Twister in the Bathroom of Doom.
“Are you laughing about the bathroom?” he calls from the other room.
“I will be laughing about the bathroom until the end of time.”
“Same.”
I find myself smiling in the direction of the living room, and realize that staying firmly on Team I Hate Ethan Thomas is going to be more work than it may be worth.
• • •
MORNING COMES TO THE ISLAND in a slow, blurry brightening of the sky. Yesterday morning, the cool overnight humidity was gradually burned off by sunshine, but not today. Today, it rains.
It’s chilly as I shuffle out of the bedroom in search of coffee. The suite is still pretty dark, but Ethan is awake. He’s stretched along the full length of the sofa bed with a thick book open in front of him. He wisely leaves me alone until the caffeine has had time to work its way into my system.
Eventually, I make my way into the living room. “What are your plans today?” I’m still in my pajamas but feeling much more human.
“You’re looking at it.” He closes the book, resting it on his chest. The image is immediately filed in my braincyclopedia as an Ethan Posture, and subcategorized as Surprisingly Hot. “But preferably at the pool with an alcoholic beverage in my hand.”
In unison, we frown at the window. Fat drops shake the palm fronds outside, and rain runs softly down the balcony door.
“I wanted to paddleboard . . .” I wilt.
He picks the book back up. “Doesn’t look like that’ll happen.”
My knee-jerk instinct is to glare at him, but he’s not even looking at me anymore. I grab the hotel guidebook from the TV stand. There has to be something I can do in the rain; Ethan and I are capable of spending time together outside, but there would be bloodshed if we both hung around in this suite all day.
I pull the phone closer and open the directory in front of me. Ethan moves to my side and reads the list of activities over my shoulder. His presence is already—suddenly—like an enormous cast of heat moving around the room and now he’s standing shoulder to shoulder with me. My voice grows wavery as I read down the list.
“Zip-lining . . . helicopter . . . hike . . . submarine . . . kayaking . . . off-roading . . . bike ride . . .”
He stops me before I can get to the next one. “Ooh. Paintball.”
I look at him blankly. Paintball always struck me as something that gun-obsessed, testosterone-fueled frat boys did. Ethan doesn’t really seem the type. “You’ve played paintball?”
“No,” he says, “but it looks fun. How hard can it be?”
“That feels like a dangerous taunt to the universe, Ethan.”
“The universe doesn’t care about my paintball game, Olive.”
“My dad gave me a flare gun once when I took a road trip in college with a boyfriend. It went off in the trunk and set our luggage on fire while we were swimming in a river. We had to go to a local Walmart to buy clothes—keep in mind, all we had were our wet bathing suits—and it was this tiny town, like seriously just populated by the creepy people from Deliverance. I have never felt more like someone’s future dinner than I did walking through the aisles trying to find new underwear.”
He studies me for several long seconds. “You have a lot of stories like this, don’t you?”
“You have no idea.” I glance at the window again. “But seriously. If it’s been raining all night, won’t it be all muddy?”
He leans against the counter. “So you’d only want to be covered in paint, but definitely not mud?”
“I think the goal is to not get covered in paint.”
“You are incapable of not arguing with me,” he says, “and it is so aggravating.”
“Weren’t you just arguing with me about being covered in paint but not mud?”
He growls, but I see him fighting a smile.
I point across the room. “Why don’t you go over to the minibar and work out that aggravation?”
Ethan leans back in, closer than before. He smells unbelievably good, and it is unbelievably annoying. “Let’s do paintball today.”
Turning the page, I shake my head. “Hard nope.”
“Come on,” he wheedles. “You can pick what we do after.”
“Why do you even want to hang out with me? We don’t like each other.”
He grins. “You are clearly not thinking about this strategically. You’ll get to shoot me with paint pellets.”
A video game montage scrolls through my head: my gun spitting out a stream of Skittle-green paintballs, green splatters landing in bursts all across the front of Ethan’s vest. And finally, the kill shot—a giant green splat right over his groin. “You know what? I’ll go ahead and make us some reservations.”
• • •
THE HOTEL ARRANGES A BUS to take us to the paintball field. We stop in front of an industrial building fronted by a parking lot on one side, with forest all around. It isn’t outright raining—more like a steady, misty drizzle—and oh yeah, it’s muddy.
Inside, the office is small and smells like—you guessed it—dirt and paint. A big and tall white dude in a hybrid floral/camouflage Hawaiian shirt with a name tag that reads HOGG stands behind the counter to welcome us. He and Ethan discuss the various options for play, but I’m barely listening. Above the counter the walls are covered with helmets and body armor, goggles and gloves. A poster hangs next to another door and reads: STAY CALM AND RELOAD. There are also guns, lots of them.
It’s probably a bad time to realize I’ve never held a gun before, let alone shot one.
Hogg moves to a back room and Ethan turns to me, pointing to a wall with a list of names and rankings—players who have won some sort of paintball war. “This seems pretty intense.”
I point to the other side of the room, and a sign that says WARNING: MY BALLS MIGHT HIT YOU IN THE FACE. “The word I think Hogg was going for is ‘classy.’ ” I pick up an empty paintball gun made to resemble a rifle. “Do you remember that scene in 9 to 5 where Jane Fonda is dressed in safari gear and goes through the office looking for Mr. Hart?”
“No,” Ethan says, tilting his head up at the gear on the walls, sweetly oblivious. “Why?”
I grin when he looks down at me. “No reason.” Pointing to the wall, I ask, “Have you ever shot a gun before?”
Minnesota has some pretty avid sport hunters and who knows? Maybe Ethan is one of them.
He nods and then falls silent while my brain goes down a crazy tunnel, imagining the tragedy of a zebra head mounted on his living room wall. Or a lion. Oh my God, what if he’s one of those horrible people who goes to Africa and hunts rhinos?
My fury at this version of Ethan Thomas starts to return in its full, heated glory, but then he adds, “Just at the shooting range with Dane a couple times, though. It’s more his thing than mine.” He does a double take when he sees my face. “What?”
I pull in a hulking lungful of air, realizing I just did what I always seem to do, which is to immediately dive into the worst-case scenario. “Before you clarified that, I had an image of you in a safari hat with your foot propped up on a dead giraffe.”
“Stop that,” he says. “Gross.”
I shrug, wincing. “It’s just how I’m built.”
“Just get to know me, then. Give me the benefit of the doubt.”
He says these words calmly, almost offhand, and then frowns down at a belt buckle on the counter that reads, The first rule of gun safety: Don’t piss me off.
But I’m still reeling in the deep enormity of his insight—and how exposed I suddenly feel—when Hogg returns, thick arms loaded with gear. He hands us each a pair of camouflage coveralls and gloves, a helmet, and a set of goggles. The gun is plastic and very lightweight, with a long barrel and a plastic hopper affixed to the top where the paintballs are stored. But everything else is heavy. I try to imagine running in this and can’t.
Ethan inspects his gear and leans over the counter. “Do you have any, uh, protection?”
“Protection?”
The tops of Ethan’s ears turn red, and I know in that moment that he is a mind reader and saw my imaginary green paint splats all over his junk. He stares at Hogg meaningfully, but Hogg just shakes his head with a laugh.
“Don’t worry about it, big fella. You’re gonna be just fine.”
I pat his shoulder. “Yeah, big fella. I’ve got your back.”
• • •
THE GAME TAKES PLACE ON five acres of dense forest. Dozens of wooden shelters lead off into the tree line, bundles of logs are scattered for cover, and a few bridges stretch overhead, spanning the length between trees. We’re instructed to gather, along with other players, beneath a large metal overhang. The rain is more mist than droplets now, but there’s a damp chill in the air and I feel my shoulders inch up toward my ears beneath my baggy coveralls.
Ethan glances down at me, and from behind his goggles his eyes crinkle in mirth. He’s barely stopped laughing since I stepped out of the changing stall.
“You look like a cartoon,” he said.
“I mean, it’s super flattering on you, too,” I shoot back. But as far as comebacks go, it’s pretty limp given that Ethan actually does look pretty great in the camo paintball get-up. He has this sexy-soldier thing happening that I did not expect to be into, but apparently I am.
“Elmer Fudd,” he adds. “Hunting wabbits.”
“Would you shut up?”
“You’re like a pathetic Private Benjamin.”
“Private Benjamin is already pretty pathetic.”
Ethan is gleeful. “I know!”
Blessed be: our instructor, Bob, approaches. He is short but solid and paces in front of our group like a general readying his troops. One immediately gets the sense that Bob wanted to be a cop but it didn’t work out.
He tells us we’ll be playing a version called death match. It sounds both great and terrible: our group of about twenty is split up into two teams, and we essentially just run around shooting each other until everyone on one team is eliminated.
“Each player has five lives,” he says, eyeing each of us shrewdly as he passes. “Once you’re hit you’ll lock your weapon, attach the barrel cover, and return to camp.” He points to a small building wrapped in protective fencing; a scribbled sign reading BASE CAMP hangs overhead. “You’ll stay there until your wait time is up, then return to the game.”
Ethan leans in, his words warm against my ear. “No hard feelings when I take you out immediately, right?”
I look up at him. His hair is damp from the humidity, and he’s biting back a grin. He’s literally biting his lip, and for a breathy moment I want to reach out and tug it free.
But I’m mostly glad he doesn’t assume that we’re going to be working together today.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I say.
“There are some hard and fast rules,” Bob continues. “Safety first. If you think it’s dumb, don’t do it. Goggles on, always. Anytime your gun is not in use, you are to keep it locked and the barrel covered. That includes if you’ve been hit and are exiting the field.”
Someone claps just behind me and I look over my shoulder. A tall, heavyset bald man is nodding along with the instructor and practically vibrating with energy. He’s also shirtless, which seems . . . odd, and wearing a utility belt with canisters of extra paint and supplies. I share a quizzical look with Ethan.
“You’ve played before?” Ethan surmises.
“As often as I can,” the man says. “Clancy.” He reaches out, shaking Ethan’s hand.
“Ethan.” He points to me, and I wave. “Her name’s Skittle.”
“Actually,” I say, glaring up at him, “it’s—”
“You must be pretty good then,” Ethan says to Clancy.
Clancy folds hairy arms across his chest. “I’ve hit prestige in Call of Duty about twelve times, so I’ll let you be the judge.”
I can’t resist. “If you don’t mind my asking, why aren’t you wearing a shirt? Won’t it hurt to be hit?”
“The pain is part of the experience,” Clancy explains. Ethan nods like this makes a hell of a lot of sense, but I know him well enough by now to see the amusement in his eyes.
“Any tips for newbies?” I ask.
Clancy is clearly delighted to have been asked. “Use the trees—they’re better than flat surfaces because you can move around them, real slinky. For lookout, always bend at the waist.” He illustrates for us, popping up and down a few times. “Keeps the rest of your body protected. Don’t, and you’ll know what it feels like to take a power ball to your biscuits at two hundred and seventy feet per second.” He blinks over to me. “No offense, Skittle.”
I wave him off. “No one likes being hit in the biscuits.”
He nods, continuing. “Most important, never, ever go prone. Hit the ground, and you’re a dead man.”
People around us clap as Bob finishes and begins to divide us up into two teams. Ethan and I deflate a little when we both end up on Team Thunder. This means, sadly, I will not be hunting him through the forest. His dismay deepens when he sees the opposing team: a small handful of adults and a group of seven fourteen-year-old boys here for a birthday party.
“Hold up,” Ethan says, motioning in their direction. “We can’t shoot at a bunch of kids.”
One with braces and a backward cap steps forward. “Who’re you calling a kid? You scared, Grandpa?”
Ethan grins easily. “If your mom drove you here, you’re a kid.”
His friends snicker in the background, egging him on. “Actually, your mom drove me here. Took my dick in the back seat.”
At this, Ethan lets out a bursting laugh. “Yeah, that sounds exactly like something Barb Thomas would do.” He turns away.
“Look at him hiding like a little bitch,” the kid says.
Bob steps in and levels a glare at the teen. “Watch your mouth.” He turns to Ethan. “Save it for the field.”
“I think Bob just gave me permission to take out that little asshole,” Ethan says in wonder, lowering his goggles.
“Ethan, he’s scrawny.”
“Means I won’t waste much ammo on him.”
I put a hand on his arm. “You may be taking this a little too seriously.”
He grins over at me and winks so I can see he’s just having fun. Something flutters alive in my rib cage. Playful Ethan is the newest evolution in my traveling partner, and I am completely here for it.
• • •
“I FEEL LIKE I SHOULD have paid closer attention to the rules.” Ethan is panting at my side, mud-streaked and splattered with purple paint. We both are. Spoiler alert: paintball fucking hurts. “Is there a time limit for this game?” He pulls out his phone and starts Googling, groaning when the service is spotty.
I roll my head back against the wooden shelter and squint up into the sky. Our team’s original plan was to divide up and hide near the bunkers, assigning a few defenders to stay in the neutral territory and cover advancing attackers. I’m not really sure where that plan went wrong, but at some point there was an ill-advised ambush and there are only like four of us remaining. Everyone on the opposing team—including all the teenage shit-talkers—is still in.
Now Ethan and I are trapped behind a dilapidated wall, being hunted from all sides by children who are way more cutthroat than we expected. “Are they still out there?” I ask.
Ethan stretches to see over the barricade and immediately drops back down again. “Yeah.”
“How many?”
“I only saw two. I don’t think they know where we are.” He crawls to look out the other side and quickly gives up. “One of them is pretty far away, the other is just hanging out on the bridge. I say we wait. Someone will come by and draw his attention sooner or later, and we can run for that stand of trees over there.”
A few seconds pass, filled with the sound of distant screams and the occasional eruption of paintballs. This is about as far from the real world as I can imagine. I can’t believe I’m enjoying myself.
“Maybe we should try to outrun them,” I say. I don’t relish the thought of taking more paintballs to the ass, but it’s cold and damp where we’re hunkered, and my thighs are starting to do the shaky cramp dance. “We might be able to get away. You’re surprisingly not terrible at this.”
He glances at me and then squints back out to the woods. “You have the agility of a boulder. We should probably stay put.”
I reach out and kick him, tickled when he grunts in feigned pain.
Because we’re just squatting here, hiding from a group of aggressive pubescent boys, I’m tempted to strike up conversation, but hesitate, immediately second-guessing myself. Do I want to get to know Ethan? I used to think I already knew the most important thing about him—that he’s a judgmental dude who has a thing against curvy women eating high-calorie State Fair food. But I’ve also learned that:
1. He does something math-y for work.
2. To my knowledge, he’s had one girlfriend in the time since I first met him two and a half years ago.
3. He is very good at frowning (but also great at smiling).
4. He insists he doesn’t mind sharing food; he just does not eat at buffets.
5. He often takes his younger brother on expensive, adventurous trips.
The rest of the list slides into my thoughts, uninvited.
6. He’s actually hilarious.
7. He gets seasick.
8. He seems to be made of muscle; must confirm somehow that there are actual organs inside his torso.
9. He’s competitive but not in a scary way.
10. He can be exceedingly charming if bribed with a comfortable mattress.
11. He thinks I always look great.
12. He remembered my shirt from the third time we met.
13. From what I can tell, he has a nice penis in those pants.
Why am I thinking about Ethan’s penis? Super gross.
Obviously, I came here with what I thought was a pretty clear picture of who he was, but I have to admit that version seems to be crumbling.
“Well, since we’ve got some time to kill,” I say, and move from more of a squat to a sit, “can I ask you a totally personal and invasive question?”
He rubs at the spot on his leg. “If it means you won’t kick me again, yes.”
“What happened between you and Sophie? Also, how did you two happen in the first place? She is very . . . hmm, 90210. And you seem more . . .”
Ethan closes his eyes and then leans to look outside the barricade. “Maybe we should just run for it—”
I pull him back. “We have one more life each, and I’m using you as a human shield if we leave. Talk.”
He takes a deep breath and blows his cheeks out as he exhales. “We were together for about two years,” he says. “I was living in Chicago at the time, if you remember, and went to the Twin Cities to visit Dane. I stopped by his office and she worked in the same building. I saw her in the parking lot. She’d dropped a box full of papers, and I helped her pick them up.”
“That sounds like an incredibly clichéd beginning to a movie.”
To my surprise, he laughs at this.
“And you moved there?” I ask. “Just like that.”
“It wasn’t ‘just like that.’ ” He reaches to wipe some mud from his face, and I like the gesture, the way I can tell it comes from vulnerability during this conversation more than vanity. In a weird burst of awareness, I register this is the first time I’m really talking to Ethan. “It was after a few months, and I’d had a standing job offer in the Cities for a while. Once I was back in Minneapolis, we decided, you know, why not? It made sense to move in together.”
I pull my jaw closed once I register that it’s been hanging open. “Wow. It takes me a few months to decide if I like a new shampoo enough to stick with it.”
Ethan laughs, but it’s not a particularly happy sound and makes something squeeze inside my chest.
“What happened?” I ask.
“She didn’t cheat or anything that I know of. We got an apartment in Loring Park, and things were good. Really good.” He meets my eyes for a brief pulse, almost like he’s not sure I’ll believe him. “I was going to propose on the Fourth of July.”
I lift a brow in question at the specific date, and he reaches up to scratch his neck, embarrassed. “I thought it might be cool to do it while the fireworks were going off.”
“Ah, a grand gesture. I’m not sure I would have pegged you as the type.”
He laugh-groans. “I got that far, if that’s what you’re wondering. A friend was having a barbecue, and we went over to his place, hung out for a while, then I took her up to the roof and proposed. She cried and we hugged, but it registered later that she never actually said yes. Afterward we went back inside and started to help him clean up. Sophie said she wasn’t feeling great and would meet me at home. When I got there, she was gone.”
“Wait, you mean like gone gone?”
He nods. “Yep. All her stuff was gone. She’d packed up and left me a note on a dry-erase board in our kitchen.”
My brows come together. “A dry-erase board?”
“ ‘I don’t think we should get married. Sorry.’ That’s what she said. Sorry. Like she was telling me she splattered tomato sauce on my favorite shirt. You know I cleaned that board a hundred times and those damn words never went away? And I don’t mean that in a metaphorical sense. She used a Sharpie, not a dry-erase marker, and it literally stained the words into the board.”
“Oof. That’s awful. Why not just burn the board?”
He shrugs with a self-deprecating grin. “I’m cheap.”
This makes me laugh, but I sober quickly at the thought of being dumped that way. “You grand-gestured, and she dry-erase-boarded you? God, no offense, but Sophie is a giant dick.”
This time when he laughs, it’s louder, lighter, and the smile reaches his eyes. “None taken. It was a dick thing to do, even if I’m glad she did it. I thought we were happy, but the truth is, our relationship lived on the surface. I don’t think it would have worked much longer.” He pauses. “I just wanted to be settled, maybe. I think I grand-gestured for the wrong person. I realize I need someone I can talk to, and she doesn’t really like to go too deep.”
This doesn’t entirely mesh with my image of him as a jet-setting daredevil, but then again, neither did the vision of him on the plane, clutching the armrests. Now I have new Ethan Facts to add to the list.
14. He’s frugal.
15. He’s introspective.
16. As much as he would probably deny it now, he’s a romantic.
I wonder whether there are two very different sides of Ethan, or I’ve just never looked much deeper than what Dane and Ami have told me about him all this time.
Remembering the way he froze when he saw Sophie on our way back to the hotel, I ask, “Had you seen each other since then? Before—”
“Before dinner with Charlie and Molly? Nope. She still lives in Minneapolis. I know that. But I never saw her around. I definitely didn’t know she was engaged.”
“How do you feel about it?”
He taps his finger on the edge of a stick and stares off into the distance. “I’m not sure. You know what I realized on the boat? We broke up in July. She said they met while he was stocking school supplies. That’s August? Maybe September? She waited a month. I was such a mess after—like big time. I think a part of me thought we might actually get back together until I saw her at the hotel, and it all hit me at once that I was being totally delusional.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, simply.
He nods, smiling at the ground. “Thanks. It sucked, but I’m better now.”
Better now doesn’t necessarily mean over her, but I’m kept from asking for clarification when shots ring through the air, too close for comfort. We both jump, and Ethan pushes himself up to peek over the edge while I stumble to stand next to him. “What’s happening?”
“I’m not sure . . .” He moves from one side of the enclosure to the other, watching, his finger resting on the trigger.
I clutch my own gun to my side, and my heart is pounding in my ears. It’s just a game, and I could technically surrender at any time, but my body doesn’t seem to know that it isn’t real.
“How many shots do you have left?” he asks.
I was a little trigger-happy at the start of the game, firing off in random bursts without really focusing on aim. My gun feels light. “Not many.” I peek inside the hopper, where four yellow balls roll around in the plastic canister. “Four.”
Ethan opens up his own hopper and drops two more into my gun. Footsteps pound on the dirt. It’s Clancy, still shirtless and nothing more than a pasty, skin-colored blur. He fires off a shot and ducks behind a tree. “Run!” he shouts.
Ethan reaches for my sleeve, tugging me away from the wall and pointing toward the woods. “Go!”
I break into a sprint, feet pounding against the wet ground. I’m not sure if he’s behind me but I race for the next tree and duck behind it. Ethan slides to a stop across the clearing and looks back. A single player is just wandering around.
“It’s that big, mouthy kid,” he whispers, grinning. “Look at him all alone.”
I peer into the woods around us, uneasy. “Maybe he’s waiting for someone.”
“Or maybe he’s lost. Kids are dumb.”
“My ten-year-old cousin built a robot cat out of some gum, a couple of screws, and a Coke can,” I tell him. “Kids these days are way smarter than we were. Let’s go.”
Ethan shakes his head. “Let’s take him out first. He only has one life left.”
“We only have one life left.”
“It’s a game, the object is to win.”
“We have to sit down the entire drive back. My bruised ass doesn’t care if we win.”
“Let’s give it two minutes. If we can’t get a shot, we’ll run.”
I reluctantly agree and Ethan motions for us to cut through the trees and surprise him on the other side. I follow closely, watching the woods and keeping my steps quiet. But Ethan is right, there’s nobody else around.
When we reach the edge of the small clearing, the kid is still there, just hanging out, poking at sticks with his gun. Ethan leans in, his mouth next to my ear. “He’s got a fucking headphone in. How cocky do you have to be to listen to music in the middle of a war zone?”
I pull back to see his face. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
His smile is wide. “Oh, yeah.”
Ethan lifts his gun, silently creeping forward with me at his side.
We’re two steps into the clearing when the kid looks up with a sneer, lips curled around a set of heavy braces. He raises his middle finger, and only then do I realize it’s a trap. We don’t turn in time to see his buddy come from behind us, but the next thing I know, my entire ass is purple.
• • •
“I CAN’T BELIEVE HE FLIPPED us off before his buddy shot us,” Ethan growls. “Smug little shit.”
We’re in the relaxation room of the hotel spa, waiting to be called back, and dressed in matching white robes. We are both so sore we didn’t even balk when we remembered what the couple part of a couple’s massage entails: being naked and oiled up in the same room together.
The door opens and a smiling dark-haired woman walks in. We follow her down a long, dimly lit hall to an even darker room. A sunken hot tub bubbles in the center; steam rises invitingly.
Ethan and I make eye contact and then immediately look away. I clutch at my robe, aware that I’m not wearing anything underneath. I thought we’d head straight for the massage tables, enduring only a few quick moments of awkward maneuvering while we slipped under our respective sheets.
“I thought we were just scheduled for massages?” I say.
“Your package comes with time in the whirlpool for a presoak, and then your therapists will meet you.” Her voice is feathery and calm. “Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas?”
Instinct has me opening my mouth to correct her, but Ethan swoops in.
“I think we’re good,” he says, and smiles his megawatt smile. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy.” She bows, and then quietly closes the door behind her.
The hot tub gurgles between us.
His smile slips away and he looks up at me, grim. “I’m not wearing anything under here,” Gesturing to the ties of his robe, he adds, “I assume you’re equally—”
“Yep.”
He considers the steaming water, and his longing is nearly palpable. “Look,” he says, at length. “Do what you’ve got to do, but I can hardly walk. I’m getting in.”
The words are barely out before he tugs at the tie and I get a flash of bare chest. Turning abruptly, I’m suddenly very interested in the table of snacks and bottled waters against the wall. There’s some shuffling and the sound of fabric falling to the ground before he moans, deep and low, “Holy shiiiiiiit.” The sound is like a tuning fork, and a shiver rockets through my body. “Olivier, you have to get in.”
I pick up a little cup of dried fruit, take a nibble. “I’m good.”
“We’re both adults here, and you can’t even see anything. Look.”
I turn and reluctantly glance over my shoulder. He’s right, the bubbling water reaches just below his shoulders, but it’s still a problem. Who knew I had such a thing for collarbones? His mouth tugs up into a smile and he leans back, stretching his arms across the sides and sighing dramatically. “God, this feels amazing.”
Every one of my bruises and sore muscles practically whimpers in reply. The steam is like a set of fingers luring me in. Bubbles, jets, and the subtle scent of lavender everywhere.
Naked collarbones.
“Fine,” I say, “but close your eyes.” He does, but I bet he can still peek. “And cover them, too.” He cups his palm across his eyes, grinning. “With both hands.”
Once he’s sufficiently blinded, I wrestle out of my robe. “When I signed up for this honeymoon, I had no idea it would involve so much nudity.”
Ethan laughs from behind his hands, and I dip my foot into the water. Warmth engulfs me—it’s almost too hot—and I hiss as I sink deeper into the water. It feels unreal, the heat and bubbles all along my skin.
I let out a shaky breath. “Oh God, this feels so good.”
His back straightens.
“You can look. I’m decent,” I say.
He lowers his hands, expression wary. “That’s debatable.”
Jets pulse against my shoulders and the bottoms of my feet. My head lolls to the side. “This feels so good, I don’t even care what you say.”
“Well then, I wish I had the energy to say something really bright.”
I snort out a laugh. I feel drunk. “I am so glad I’m allergic to shellfish.”
Ethan sinks lower into the water. “I know we’re paying the price, but did you have fun today?”
Maybe it’s the fact that the hot water has left me more Jell-O than sore muscles and bruises, but I actually did. “Even considering I had to throw away my favorite tennis shoes and can barely sit? Yeah, I did. You?”
“I did. Actually, aside from the whole Sophie thing, this vacation hasn’t been completely terrible.”
I peek at him through one eye. “Whoa, easy on the flattery.”
“You know what I mean. I thought I’d hang by myself at the pool, eat too much, and head home with a tan. I thought I’d tolerate you.”
“I feel like I should be offended by that, but . . . same, really.”
“Which is why it’s so crazy to be here.” Ethan motions around us before stretching to reach a pair of bottled waters on the ledge of the tub. My eyes follow the movement, the way the muscles of his back bunch and then lengthen, the way droplets of water roll off his skin. So much skin. “God, your sister would freak if she could see us now.”
I blink back to attention, reaching for the bottle he hands me. “My sister?”
“Yeah.”
“My sister thinks you’re cool.”
“She . . . really?”
“Yeah. She hates all the trips you and Dane go on, but she doesn’t get my Ethan hate.”
“Huh,” he says, considering this.
“But don’t worry, I’m not going to tell her I’ve enjoyed small snippets of your company. A smug Ami is the worst Ami.”
“You don’t think she’ll be able to tell? Don’t you guys have some kind of twin telepathy or something?”
I laugh as I twist open my water. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”
“What’s it like having a twin?”
“What’s it’s like not having a twin?” I reply, and he laughs.
“Touché.”
Ethan must be warm because he slides back a little before moving to a different bench inside the hot tub, one that’s a little higher and leaves more skin exposed to the air.
The problem, you see, is that it also leaves more skin exposed to me.
A lot more.
I see shoulders, collarbones, chest . . . and when he reaches up to push his hair off his forehead, I’m shown several inches of abs below his nipples.
“Have you guys always been so . . .” He trails off, waving a lazy hand like I know what he’s asking.
And I do. “Different? Yeah. According to my mom, since we were babies. Which is good, because trying to keep up with Ami would have driven me insane by now.”
“She’s definitely a lot. Is it weird now that she’s married?”
“It’s been different since she met Dane, but that was bound to happen, you know? Ami’s life is plugging along like it’s supposed to. I’m the one who stalled out somewhere.”
“But that’s all about to change. That’s got to be exciting.”
“It is.” It’s strange to be talking about this stuff with Ethan, but his questions seem genuine, his interest sincere. He makes me want to talk, to ask questions. “You know, I don’t think I know what you do for a living. Something with math? You showed up to Ami’s birthday party in a suit and tie, but I just assumed you’d evicted some orphans or put small mom-and-pop shops out of business.”
Ethan rolls his eyes. “I’m a digital identification planner for a research company.”
“That sounds made up. Like in Father of the Bride when she tells Steve Martin that her fiancé is an independent communications consultant, and he says that’s code for ‘unemployed.’ ”
He laughs over the top of his water bottle. “We can’t all have jobs as self-explanatory as ‘drug dealer.’ ”
“Har, har.”
“Specifically,” he says, “I specialize in budgetary analysis and breakdown, but in simple terms I tell my company how much each of our clients should spend on digital advertising.”
“Is that fancy for ‘Boost this Facebook post! Put that much on Twitter!’?”
“Yes, Olive” he says dryly. “That’s often what it is. Mostly, you’re right, it’s a lot of math.”
I scrunch up my face. “Hard pass.”
He lets loose a shy smile that rattles my bones. “Honestly? I’ve always loved geeking out about numbers and data, but this is next level.”
“And you seriously dig it?”
He shrugs, lifting a distractingly muscular shoulder. “I always wanted a job where I could just play around with numbers all day, looking at them in different ways, try to crack algorithms and anticipate patterns—this job lets me do all of that. I know it sounds super geeky, but I genuinely enjoy it.”
Huh. My job has always just been a job. I love talking science, but I don’t always love the sales aspect of the position. Basically, I tolerate it because it’s what I’ve been trained to do and I’m good at it. But Ethan talking about his job is surprisingly hot. Or maybe it’s just the water, which continues to bubble between us. The heat is making me drowsy, slightly light-headed.
Careful to keep the boobage below the surface, I reach for a towel. “I feel like I’m melting,” I say.
Ethan hums in agreement. “I’ll get out first and let the therapists know we’re ready.”
“Sounds good.”
He uses his finger to indicate that I should turn around. “Not that we haven’t seen everything already,” he says. I hear him drying off, and the image of it does weird, electric things to my body. “The Bathroom of Doom sort of took care of that.”
“I feel like I should apologize,” I say. “You did throw up directly afterward.”
He laughs quietly, under his breath. “As if that would be my reaction to seeing you naked, Olive.”
The door opens and closes again. When I turn to ask him what he meant, he’s gone.
• • •
ETHAN DOESN’T COME BACK TO get me, and as soon as Diana, our new massage therapist, leads me down to the couples’ massage room, I see why. He seems to be frozen in horror, staring at the massage table.
“What’s with you?” I ask out of the corner of my mouth as Diana walks across the room to dim the lights.
“Do you see two tables in here?” he whispers back.
I look back and don’t get what he’s saying until— Oh. “Wait,” I say, looking up at him. “I thought we were each getting a massage?”
Diana smiles calmly. “You will, of course. But since I’ll be teaching you, and you’ll be practicing on each other, we can only do one at a time.”
My head whips up to Ethan, and we share the exact same thought, I know it: Oh, hell no.
Diana mistakes our terror for something else, because she laughs lightly, saying, “Don’t worry. Many couples are nervous when they come in, but I’ll show you some different techniques and then leave you to practice them, so you don’t feel like you’re being graded or supervised.”
Is this a brothel? I want to ask, but of course don’t. Barely. Ethan stares bleakly at the table again.
“Now,” Diana says, walking around the table to lift the sheet for one of us to climb under, “which of you would like to learn first, and which wants to receive the massage?”
Ethan’s answering silence has to mean that he’s doing the same mental calculation I am: Do we have to stay?
Particularly given his exit line about reacting to seeing me naked, I have no idea how this question shakes down in Ethan’s brain, but given my newfound fascination with his collarbones, chest hair, and abdominals, I’m actually tempted to go through with it. And I’m wondering whether it would be easier to receive a massage first so I don’t have to touch him and pretend to be unaffected. That said, one look at his enormous, strong hands and I’m not sure having those fingers oil-slicked and rubbing all over my naked back would be that much easier.
“I’ll learn first,” I say, just as Ethan says, “I’ll massage her first.”
Our wide eyes meet.
“No,” I say, “you can climb in. I’ll, um, do the rubbing.”
He laughs uncomfortably. “Seriously, it’s cool. I’ll massage first.”
“I’m going to grab some towels,” Diana says gently, “and give you time to decide.”
Once she’s gone, I turn to him. “Get in the sheets, Elmo.”
“I’d really rather do the . . .” He mimes squeezing, like he’s going to honk my boobs.
“I don’t think there will be any of that.”
“No, I just mean—” He growls, wiping a hand down his face. “Just get on the table. I’ll turn around so you can slip in. Naked, or whatever.”
It’s dim in here, but I can tell he’s blushing. “Are you—oh, my God, Ethan, are you worried about getting a boner on the table?”
He lifts his chin, swallowing. It’s a good five seconds before he answers. “Actually, yeah.”
And with that one single word, my heart gives an aching jab against my breastbone. His response was so honest and real that my throat becomes tight at the thought of teasing him.
“Oh,” I say, and lick my lips. My mouth is suddenly so dry. I look over at the table and feel my skin grow a little clammy. “Okay. I’ll get in the sheets. Just—I mean, just don’t make fun of my body.”
He goes totally silent, totally still, before whispering an impassioned “I would never do that.”
“I mean, sure,” I say, feeling acutely the way my voice comes out a little strangled, “except when you have.”
He opens his mouth to reply, brow furrowed in deep concern, but Diana returns with her stack of towels. Ethan huffs out an incredulous breath through his nose, and even when I look away, I can tell he’s trying to get my eyes back on his face. I’ve always appreciated my body—I even sort of like my new curves—but I don’t want to be in a position where I feel like anyone has to touch me and doesn’t want to.
Then again, if I don’t trust him and don’t want him touching me, I could just tell Diana we aren’t up for this today.
So why don’t I?
Is the truth that I really, really want Ethan’s hands on me?
And if he doesn’t want to, he can tell her himself, right?
I look at him, searching for any sign that he’s uncomfortable, but his sweet blush is gone, and instead he wears a look of heated determination. Our eyes meet for one . . . two . . . three seconds, and then his gaze drops to my lips, to my neck, and down the entire length of my body. His brow quirks, lips part a little, and I catch how his breathing picks up. When he meets my eyes again, I hear what he’s trying to tell me: I like what I see.
Flushed, I fumble with the tie of my robe; we’re supposed to be married, which means we’re supposed to know what the other looks like naked, and although we definitely got flashes in the bathroom on the boat, I’m not sure I’m ready for Ethan to get such a lingering, steady look when I drop the robe and hop up on the table. Thankfully, as Diana holds the sheet up and turns her face away to give me privacy, Ethan also makes a show of fiddling with his robe tie. Quickly, I drop my robe and scurry into the warm, soft cocoon.
“We’ll start with you facedown,” she says in a gentle, soothing voice. “Ethan, come stand on this side of the table.”
I roll onto my stomach as gracefully as I can, fitting my head into the foam face rest. I am shaking, excited, nervous, and so warm all over that the pleasure of the heated blankets has quickly worn off and I want to kick them to the floor.
Diana is talking softly to Ethan, about how to fold back the sheet, laughing about how if we do this at home there’s no need for the same kind of modesty. He laughs, too; charming, breezy Ethan is back, and I admit it is easier like this, staring at the floor instead of making eye contact with the man I still hate but also suddenly want to fuck into a coma.
I hear a pump, then the wet sound of oil on hands, Diana’s quiet “About this much,” and then, “I start here.”
Her hands come over my shoulders, kneading gently at first and then with pressure. She talks through what she’s doing, explaining how to move away from the point of muscle insertion, spanning the length and shape of the muscle. She explains where to apply pressure, where to avoid tender places. I’m starting to unwind, to fall deeper into the mattress, and then she gives a gentle prompt: “Now you try.”
More oil. A shifting of bodies beside the table, and a deep, shaking breath.
And then the heat of Ethan’s hands comes over my back, following the path of Diana’s, and I am melting, biting my lips to keep a moan inside. His hands are huge, stronger even than hers—a professional—and when he reaches up with a gentle finger to sweep a strand of my hair off my neck, it feels like a kiss.
“This okay?” he asks quietly.
I swallow before speaking. “Yeah . . . It’s good.”
I feel the way he pauses, and then works lower at her encouragement, shifting the sheet away to expose my lower back. Even with the awareness that Diana is standing beside him, I don’t think I’ve ever been this warm or this turned on. His hands stroke my skin, fingers kneading, slick and warm.
“Now,” Diana says, “when you get to the backside, remember: push together, don’t spread.”
I cough out an incredulous laugh into the face cradle, grabbing a fistful of the sheets. Beside me, with his hands hovering just above my tailbone, Ethan laughs under his breath. “Um. Noted.”
Carefully, he folds the sheets down to my upper thighs. I’ve had massages before, so of course I’ve had my butt massaged by professionals . . . but I have never felt more exposed in my life than I do right now.
Strangely, I don’t hate it.
More oil, more slick sounds of hands rubbing together, and then those enormous hands come down on my backside, pressing the heels into the muscle, doing just as Diana instructs. Behind my closed lids, my eyes roll back in pleasure. Who knew a butt massage could be so awesome? It’s so good, in fact, that I forget to be self-conscious, and instead let out a near-moan, “Who knew you were so good at this?”
Ethan’s laugh is a deep, rumbling sound that sends vibrations through me.
“Oh, I’m sure you knew whether he was good with his hands,” Diana says playfully, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her to scram and leave us to our brothel room in peace.
He makes his way down my legs, to my feet. I’m ticklish, and it’s sweet the way he’s careful, but steadies me, wordlessly reassuring me that I can trust him. He works his way back up, and then down each arm, massaging my palms, and to the end of each fingertip before he slides them carefully back under the blankets.
“Great job, Ethan,” Diana says. “You still with us, Olive?”
I moan.
“Think you could massage him now?” Diana says with laughter in her voice.
I moan again, longer. I’m not sure I can move yet. And if I did, it would be to roll over and pull Ethan under the blankets with me. The heavy ache low in my belly isn’t going to go away on its own.
“That’s usually the way this goes,” she says.
“Totally fine with me,” Ethan says, and it could be my mushy brain, but his voice sounds deeper, slower, like thick, warm honey. Like maybe he’s a little turned on, too.
“The best thing about this,” Diana says, “is that now you can teach her, too.” I feel bodies shift behind me, and she sounds farther away, close to the door when she says, “I’ll leave you two to swap if you like, or you can feel free to head back to the spa for another warm soak.”
I sense when she’s gone, but the silence somehow feels fuller.
After a few long beats, Ethan carefully asks, “You okay?”
Somehow, I manage a slurred “Ohmygod.”
“Is that a good ‘oh my God’ or a bad ‘oh my God’?”
“Good.”
He laughs, and it’s that same maddening, amazing sound again. “Excellent.”
“Don’t get smug.”
I sense him coming nearer, and feel his breath on my neck. “Oh, Olivia. I just had my hands all over you, and you’re so relaxed you can barely speak.” He steps away, and then his voice comes from a distance, like he’s walked to the door: “You’d better believe I will be smug as hell.”
