Dare to Love the Guy Next Door by Ellie Hall
1
Paisley
Things you don’t want to have to say when walking out of a bathroom...naked:
“I cannot believe what just happened.” (I’ll get to that in a sec.)
“Nothing to see here. Move along.” (Nope. Nothing at all.)
“I am so sorry that you have to witness this.” (An elderly couple.)
“Please, look away, sir.” (The elderly man, craning over his shoulder as he passed in the hall.)
If you’re wondering how and why I’m walking out of a bathroom naked, let me explain. I’m at the fitness center at the hotel hosting the cast and crew of my fiancé’s latest movie. I wanted to get my pump on before I saw him—I read that it’s good for the arms and ego.
The truth is, I’m nothing like the women on set or Devona Carl, his costar, and the most beautiful woman on the planet. I’m not just saying that to be self-deprecating either. She won the popular vote. Jason, as in Jason Cobb, my fiancé (I know! I’m still pinching myself) was also voted sexiest man alive, so they’re like a celebrity power couple. Except they’re not a couple in real life—it’s just for the film.
As you can imagine, it’s a lot for me to live up to.
I could’ve changed in the locker room. However, because I’m now in the spotlight (not directly but by proximity because of Jason), I didn’t want to bare my lady parts in public. Everyone and their grandmother have a phone and today’s plans do not involve going viral on social media.
Imagine the headlines! The comments!
I already learned my lesson. Jason’s assistant called recently and asked me not to be seen shopping in the prepackaged snack and cookie aisle at the grocery store. Apparently, I ended up on a gossip page that had a strong opinion about my eating habits. Jason’s publicist didn’t want the association made between him and “unhealthy garbage” because a green dining delivery company recently endorsed him.
He and I will discuss how cookies are a food group after we get married. There is no way the Girl Scouts of America are being banned from my doorstep during their seasonal cookie drive.
Back to the being naked in the hall thing. I left my bag, filled with my change of clothes, on the bench in the locker room. I figured it would be secure because only people with a key have access.
Without checking the contents of my bag because I assumed they were exactly as I’d left them, I grabbed it and scooted to the bathroom in the hall for privacy.
The space was closet-sized so I undressed from my gym clothes and tucked them under my arm then opened my bag. You can imagine my panic when I opened it to BAG EMPTY.
Balanced on top of my sneakers because public bathroom floors are rife with germs, in my tizzy, I wobbled and my gym clothes slipped and dropped into the toilet. We’re not talking an oversized T-shirt and sweats. No, I was wearing a cute pair of lycra bike shorts and a cropped tank top with built in support. In other words, its bitsy teeny weeny gym clothes so I felt cute. What happened next? Before I could perform a rescue mission, the automatic flush function opted for that moment to turn on and sucked the only garments I had into the hotel's plumbing.
To say it was a series of unfortunate events is an understatement.
Also, my bag was mostly empty. The thief didn’t touch my keys, wallet, the half full container of mints, ketchup packets (fast-food restaurants never give me enough!), deodorant, a stapler (I somehow ended up walking out of the office with it and keep forgetting to return it)...this list is getting too long, but you get the picture.
In a hotel crawling with celebs, what I don’t understand is why someone would take my non-designer clothing. Seriously, it was an old pair of jeans (though they fit like a glove and I’d like them back, thank you very much!) and a shirt that says, “Your birthday present.” I had it specially made for Jason. It’s a joke. Kind of.
Today is Jason’s birthday, and I wanted to do something extra special since he has to work. I planned a surprise party complete with confetti in his favorite colors, live music, food (don’t worry, nothing prepackaged!) his friends, colleagues, and even his parents who I’ve only met once. My job as a lawyer pays the bills, but what really gives me gladness and giggles is party planning, organizing, decorating, and creating experiences and spaces people enjoy. My best friends always say I missed my calling.
But how am I going to do anything while standing here naked in a hallway?
To be fair, I’m hugging the brown plastic trash bin from the bathroom in front of me like a shield and holding my bag over my bum so no one sees my bits and bobs.
In case you’re wondering, the bathroom had a hand dryer only. No paper towels because you bet I would’ve fashioned myself a mummy-esque wrap.
To minimize exposure, I’m sticking close to the wall as I make my way toward the front desk.
I’d go to my room, but earlier when I checked in I was told it wasn’t ready—another reason I figured I’d check out the hotel amenities, so the lobby it is.
A mother and her young child approach. I hear them before I see them and squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe they won’t notice me and think I’m part of the hotel décor—this place is very posh and modern.
Them: Look at the statue of that woman, so lifelike.
Me: No, don’t look!
Them: Wow! She even talks.
They get closer. My eyes remain shut. At a sharp intake of breath, their footsteps beat a hasty retreat.
I continue and turn a corner in this maze-like corridor, following the signs for the lobby. Through the enormous windows overlooking Miami Beach, I have a flash of inspiration and wonder if I could repurpose my bag to look like a bathing suit. Blakely would know how to do something like that. I consider calling her, but that would mean setting my trashcan shield down and crouching behind it for cover. Nope. I won’t squat in the nude.
I’ve made it this far. I must press on!
Heavy footfalls and the flip-flop sound of a pair of sandals get near. Instead of hoping the person thinks I’m a decorative plant, I hustle down the hall. If I move fast enough, maybe they won’t notice me.
It’s not the most brilliant idea, but I have to strategize and have little to work with. This is my first experience with public nudity and definitely my last.
I cast my gaze down as if the plush carpeting is fascinating and scurry by.
The flip-flop sound goes silent.
I freeze. Why? I have a disorder called mortification magnetism. It’s when I know something embarrassing could happen and instead of running in the other direction to prevent it, I hesitate, lending the moment a chance to come apart. Yes, I made that up, but if you do this too, you know exactly what I mean.
Sensing eyes on me, I could do the smart thing and run in the other direction to prevent whatever embarrassing thing is about to happen. Instead, true to form, I hesitate and turn around.
First, I meet a pair of blue eyes that match the sky out the window. Close cropped hair. Eyebrows pinched together in concern.
“Uh, can I help you—?” Voice as deep as the ocean.
I regret not taking my long brown hair out of its ponytail and drape it over my shoulders mermaid-style to offer a little more concealment.
“Hotel employee? Lost item recovery specialist? CIA operative?” What not to say when you meet a handsome gentleman who could very well work with your fiancé...and relay this unfortunate moment to him over drinks after the shoot.
“So, I came across a woman in the hallway. She was naked and using a trash can to...”
Jason’s reply wouldn’t be genial laughter and a light-hearted joke, “That was my fiancée. She’s an avant-garde super model and that’s her latest look.” He wouldn’t play it off because his reputation means everything. No, I’d hear from his assistant. Probably his publicist herself this time. I get it, he has to look after his career.
I dog-swallow. “Oh, this... Just um—”
Blue Eyes repeats, “Can I help you?”
“Unless you’re willing to give me the shirt off your back, probably not. But thank you,” I say, starting to feel a little wobbly around the knees as the reality of my situation and having to go into the lobby hits me.
Without hesitating, Blue Eyes reaches a tan and muscular arm back, grips his T-shirt, and tugs it over his head, and then straightens it out. He holds it up between us.
My eyes must be so ridiculously wide right now. And not because of his amazingly sculpted abs and tan torso. Don’t be silly. I’m engaged. Rather, the fact that a perfect stranger literally gave me the shirt of his back.
“Thank you,” I say.
I wrap one arm more firmly around the trashcan to free my hand so I can take the shirt. I begin to lose my grip. My stomach drops as if I’m on the downhill part of a rollercoaster. That’s this day for you—already filled with ups and downs. But I have a sunny, positive personality. It can only get better. This little hiccup means the party will be perfect.
However, this moment is not. The trashcan slips slightly. Trust me, I will be bathing later. Scrubbing with bleach, actually.
Blue Eyes isn’t sure where to put the shirt and we do an awkward dance of me trying to grab it while not releasing the bin.
“Ah, please just tuck it under my chin. I’m not distracted. I mean, this is a disaster, but truly, thank you for coming to my rescue.” Except it sounds like I swallowed a frog because of how my chin is tucked toward my chest so I don’t drop the shirt into the trashcan.
“My pleasure.” He stands there for another awkward moment.
“Um, thanks,” I repeat, imagining I look very much like the emoji with its teeth pressed together in a grimace instead of the smile of appreciation that I’m trying for.
He still doesn’t move.
I nudge my head a little, hinting that he be on his way.
“Oh, right.” He thumbs behind him and thank goodness those flip-flops start flipping and flopping as he disappears down the hall.
Was I distracted by those abs? Yes, anyone would be. They were a work of art and I have three friends in need of their Forever Marriage Match. I think he and Blakely could work, although I can’t imagine her going for a guy in sandals.
Hmm. Mila? He seems too nice. She’d need someone with enough grit to weather her stormy personality.
As for Daisy, there could be something there, but she’s not leaving northern New Hampshire anytime soon, and he looks like he spends a fair time in the sun.
I sigh, then startle, remembering exactly where I am and why I’m naked. With deep regret, I crouch down, huddle behind the trash bin, and hastily tug the shirt over my head.
The scent of sunblock, sunshine, and sea salt carries me to the summers of my youth. I breathe deep before my head pops through the shirtcollar.
I straighten, give my trashcan and ally a salute for its service then race down the hallway to the lobby. Thankfully, it’s relatively empty except for a fleet of what look like professional yoyo-ers who dare not look away from their yoyos as they practice.
The woman behind the desk greets me with a smile as if there’s nothing strange about a woman who checked in an hour and a half ago wearing a normal outfit, now returns donning an oversized man’s T-shirt. It’s teal in case you’re wondering and I think it’s a surfing brand because there’s a wave on it, but that’s irrelevant.
“I’d like to report a theft.” I thrust my pointer finger in the air.
She blinks a few times before asking a few questions.
A half-hour later, my clothing is not recovered, but they have upgraded me to a suite where my luggage waits for me.
After practically taking a scouring pad to my skin, I moisturize and get ready for the party. Instead of my custom shirt, I wear a sundress—it’s cuter than my other outfit, anyway. Likely, photos of Jason and me will make their rounds on social media and celeb websites.
Excited jitters fill me as I hurry to the seventh-floor patio I reserved for the party. It has a stunning view of the beach and Atlantic. I’ve timed Jason’s arrival so the confetti will drop as he enters at sunset. Then I’ll pop out of a cake—I’ve always wanted to do that. At the thought of how happy he’s going to be, I bounce a little.
After meeting with my co-conspirators—Jason’s assistant, the caterers, hotel event coordinator, and band, I get a tutorial on how the cake-popping part will go from a kid with the rental company. I was going to DIY it, but couldn’t figure out how to get the layers in my luggage.
“The countdown is on. T-Minus Five minutes.”
No reply. The rental company kid’s boredom does not match my enthusiasm.
“Have you tried this before?” I ask, crouching down in the cake. “It’s much better than stooping behind a trashcan, I can promise you that.”
“No, ma’am,” he says as he lowers the top tier over my head.
“Hmm. I thought it would smell like cake in here.” But I don’t think he hears me.
Cracks between the cake layers let in a little bit of light as I’m wheeled into position. The hushed whispering of guests and the waves lapping gently from the ocean make what would otherwise be a claustrophobic moment bearable.
The hard part was coming up with the ruse to get Jason here. I decided it was best to get his agent in on it. He agreed to send Jason a text to meet with a social media influencer for a quick but extremely valuable interview out here on the patio.
I click my phone to check the time. Four minutes.
Breathe, Paisley, breathe. It’s really stuffy in here and they should add fragrance of some sort. It smells like gym socks—it’s not time to think about the little mishap from earlier.
My stomach flutters. Three minutes.
The timing for this thing is important because we have to coordinate the dropping of the confetti with me leaping joyfully from the cake.
The door opens. A female laughs. Someone lets out a moan or a groan? I can’t really tell because everything is muffled inside the cake.
A male voice, unmistakably Jason’s says, “I’ve been waiting for a moment alone with you all day.”
Well, hon, we’re not alone.But he’s three minutes early?
This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. I pop out of the cake, fling over my head, and shout, “Surprise.”
Everyone echoes as they appear from their hiding places.
The confetti belatedly flutters from above.
But in the moment between me coming out of the cake and now, I saw something that’s more of a surprise to me than this party is to Jason.
He’s kissing his costar, Devona Carl, but the cameras aren’t rolling and this is not a movie set.
The fluttering in my stomach turns into knots, tight, cramping knots. I feel like I might be sick.
At that exact moment, the humid Miami sky decides to open up with a rain shower.
Murmurs from the guests about Jason and Devona’s affair meet my ears as they run for cover. Phone cameras click, capturing this moment of sheer humiliation. But there must be a mistake.
I blink a few times, brushing away the damp confetti sticking to my skin and the tears from my eyes.
“Jason?” I ask not at all liking the pleading sound in my voice. “Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”
Standing under the overhang by the door, Devona wears her usual smug smile as she clings to his arm and remains perfectly dry.
“I was going to tell you the next time we saw each other. It’s over, baby.” Those dimples I once thought were so adorable are the last thing I want to see as he offers me an apologetic smile.
Three things race through my head and bottleneck like a nasty traffic jam.
- Jumping out of the cake wasn’t as fun as I’d expected.
- Rain was not in the forecast.
- I am no longer engaged to Jason Cobb.
I go to tear the ring off my finger, but it’s stuck on my knuckle—I often retain water after flying. Devona’s lip curls, likely in judgment if she saw the photos of me shopping for Chips Ahoy.
In a moment of reckoning, I have a choice to make. Bursting into tears is not an option. However, I could walk out the door with my head held high. Or I could pick up the actual cake, now soggy, and throw it in Jason’s face.
I go with the second option. Only, possibly for the first time in Jason’s career, there isn’t anyone here to capture the moment on camera.
But the look he gives me isn’t one I’ll soon forget.
