Must Love Otters (12 page)

“It’s just for fun.”

“Is it?”

My smile dissolves. “What business is it of yours?”

“None. I’m just making conversation.”

“About my love life?”

“No, no, I’m just messin’ with you. Don’t get your knickers in a knot. Well, if you’re wearing any. I never know with you.”

“Do you harass all your guests, or did I just win this lottery?” I lean over his concierge desk counter and grab one of the resort brochures. “You need to add this to your marketing stuff—‘Concierge Ryan is here to make sure you never live down your dumb mistakes.’”

“Aww, Hollie Porter, it’s all in good fun. Don’t be so sensitive.”

“I thought men liked sensitive women.”

“Roger seems to.”

I squint at him. “Do I detect jealousy from the gentleman?”

Ryan smiles and shakes his head. “Let’s just say I’ve worked here a while, and I think you should be careful. Don’t give up the prize to the first horse across the finish line.”

“What, no hockey metaphor?”

“I can conjure one if you want it.”

“Roger tells me you’re a hockey player. Or were. What happened? You get chased off the ice because you were chasing the coach’s daughter?”

The look on his face darkens, the smile evaporating.
Shit
. Maybe it did have something to do with a woman.

“You have a pleasant evening, Hollie Porter.” Ryan walks away, without looking back, without a parting joke.

Hollie, you’re an asshole.

The little black dress fits—just barely. I guess the breakup diet hasn’t kicked in yet. But because my heart isn’t shattered into forty-two pieces and embedded in my chest wall, I should be careful that this breakup diet doesn’t go in the wrong direction, as in, I’m having so much fun being broken up that I balloon like a blue whale in a krill swarm.

God, my chin doesn’t look like a blue whale’s, does it? I examine every angle in the mirror. No double chin. Yet. Nurse Bob has one. Granted, he’s fifty-two and likes his beef jerky too much, but still.

Wide bracelet to cover Oliver Otter. Matching earrings. Drop of perfume behind each ear. Thank you,
Cosmo
, for teaching me how to be a girl. My poor father.

A knock sounds at the door.

I grab my stuffed otters and give them a kiss. “Wish me luck,” I whisper.

Roger’s cologne wafts through the open doorway like a sex cloud. He oozes pheromones. If my girl parts were in charge—and the wrestling match between sex and sanity begins as soon as Roger and his bouquet of flowers cross the threshold—I’d strip off his clothes and see just how much mojo I’ve still got.

But I’m a civilized girl with a personal moral code to uphold and not nearly enough alcohol left in my bloodstream to make me this brave.

“You look beautiful,” Roger says, stepping close. He kisses the end of my nose.

“Thank you.”

“Anything in here pass for a vase?” He wiggles the bouquet in front of me.

I grab the pottery vase/pitcher from the small dining corner table. “These are lovely. Where’d you get them?”

“My sources must remain protected.”

As I fill the vase with water, Roger sneaks in behind and wraps arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.

“How is it you’re single, Miss Porter?”

“How do you know that I am?” I tease.

“Because you don’t seem the type. And no ring.”

I don’t want to have the
I just broke up with a knob
conversation. Roger smells and looks too good to waste a single moment talking about Keith and his Yorkies. “Just lucky, I guess.” Pitcher’s full. I’m not sure if I should move. He hasn’t yet.

“Lucky for me.” He turns me around, taking the filled vessel from my hands and setting it on the counter. He’s not as reserved as he was in the pool, one hand on my cheek pulling me toward him, another on my lower back, precariously close to the top of my ass. My heart’s stampeding with enough vigor, I’m sure he can hear it—or see it through the low cut of the dress.

He doesn’t bother to look but instead kisses me, harder and deeper than the soft tease of earlier. It’s hot, yeah, but seriously, if he keeps going, he’ll discover I had my tonsils removed.

When he pulls away for a breath, he’s wearing more lipstick than I am. I laugh and reach for a tissue.

“You’ve got …” I twirl a finger around his lips and move so he can see in the mirror.

“I suppose we should eat,” he says. “You seem hungry.” Judging by the fact that he’s speaking to my scant cleavage, I don’t think he’s referring to my stomach.

And I am hungry. Indeed, he is hot. If I get drunk tonight, I will probably show him the remarkable landscaping I’ve done on the panty tarantula. She’s more like a panty daddy-long-legs now. But I need to behave. Remember that men like Roger
can
have any woman they want, and I don’t need to be that easy vacation lay he won’t remember to call next week when the floatplane carries him back to his own version of real life. But do I want him to call me?

What
is
it you want, Hols?

He doesn’t order for me this time, which is good—he chooses the lamb, something I refuse to eat. One strike against Rog. There’s no conceivable reason why human beings should eat baby animals. This includes sheep and cows. I’m not an environmentalist, but I have issues with eating baby
anythings
.

I go for something cliché, given the environment—smoked salmon, although I may live to regret it if I can’t get to a bottle of Listerine soon. Maybe just more whisky. Dinner on a date is about so much more than a satisfying meal. One has to consider a number of factors: too much onion or garlic? Bad for kissing. Too much greenery or carbs? Fodder for the fart factory. Too spicy? Could be looking at embarrassing bowel upset. I also avoid green tea and anything caramel. Both have resulted in disastrous ends to first dates when my stomach decided that such ingredients are offensive and should be expelled through the lower route immediately, without delay. Nothing says romance like taking an explosive shit in some stranger’s bathroom.

“We should eat. Might need our strength for later.” Roger gestures toward the door. My gut flip-flops.
Strength for later …

I’m nervous throughout the entire meal. I do my best to be clever and adorable, even when Miss Betty walks past the table, lips pursed at Roger, not a word spoken. Does she not approve? Does she think I’m a naughty girl because I’m sitting in this rather revealing dress with the only pair of sexy shoes I own, purchased solely because Moonstar the Non-sister had her business launch and emailed me specifically to tell me it was semiformal and Converse would thus not be allowed through the door? They’re
cupcakes
, psycho. Who needs heels for cupcakes? Apparently Moonstar.

Roger’s talking, but I’m only hearing half of what he says. Not because he’s not interesting—although he does talk about work quite a bit—but because I can only think about what will happen once the plates have been cleared. I jab at the asparagus spears with my shiny fork and shovel in a few meager bites of couscous, wondering if I am really ready to get naked with someone I only met twenty-four hours ago.

And then I remember he’s already seen me naked. Which is awkward.

Maybe it’s one of those stories we’ll laugh about in a few years while aboard his private yacht, sailing through the Caribbean. Probably a not-safe-for-our-kids story. Kids. Kids?

Whoa. This is not right. I’m already planning our future.

I need another glass of wine.

Midsentence, he pauses and pulls a phone out of his pocket. “Oh, hey, I gotta take this. You okay if I excuse myself for a sec?”

“The wine and I will be just fine,” I say, topping up my glass. The bottle feels light. Might need a new one soon.

A sec turns into ten minutes, and I’ve finished glass number two, pouring number three from the bottle I went ahead and ordered, my nervous and anxious and antsy giving way to mellow and tingly and daring.

But now I have to pee. And I have to try to look completely stable en route to the bathroom so Roger doesn’t think I’m a drunkard.

When he returns to the table, I quietly announce that it’s my turn for a moment away. “Ladies’ room.” As I stand, Roger does too. Chivalry is not dead!

I feel loose, like my joints are held together with rubber bands. Is the wine stronger here in Canada? It’s not a bad feeling, I’ll admit, but I’m afraid my inhibitions might be taking a little siesta, especially as I examine myself in the bathroom mirror, posing this way and that to find my best angle for seduction. My left side is definitely stronger. That boob is bigger too. “Sexy beast, yo,” I say to my reflection.

Back through the lobby, I don’t notice those two little carpeted stairs until the heel of my shoe snags, and by then, I’m ass up on the ground, ankle screaming at me that it’s not supposed to bend that way.

The pain surges strong enough that I almost reintroduce the evening’s wine selection to the floor. Several hotel staff rush to my sprawled form.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Thank you. Dummy me, I just tripped,” I say to the sweet-faced boys as I pull my dress down to make sure everything’s covered. “No, I’m sure. I’m a bonehead.” The two lads gently help me up but the twisted foot is very much not interested in cooperating. Shit. This can’t be good.

Down I go again. “Maybe you guys can help me to a chair?” Miss Betty rounds the corner.

“Oh, dear! What happened?”

“I just stumbled. I’m used to wearing flat shoes,” I laugh because I’m so embarrassed and I don’t want to cry. Even though crying is very probable. The pain …
the pain
.

“Oh, Hollie, you poor thing. Is anything hurt? Can you stand?”

“Seems I may have twisted something,” I say, feeling stupid. Again. “I’m sure it’ll be fine in a minute. I’d really like to get off the floor.”

Concierge Ryan materializes from the kitchen.

Why is he always here when I’m making a fool of myself?

“Ryan, oh, good. Seems Hollie took a spill. That ankle looks angry already,” Miss Betty says. A small crowd is now gathering around the broken, drunken girl.

“Up you go.” Ryan kneels and scoops me off the floor. One of the boys hands Miss Betty my shoe. She holds it as if it’s hazardous material.

“Put me down,” I say.

“Not until we see if you’ve broken something.” He carts me over to a couch in the sitting area on the opposite side of the lobby.

“It’s not broken. I’m just a dumb-ass who shouldn’t wear heels. And I know what a break feels and sounds like. I’d be screaming my head off.”

“Probably, but a sprain can be bad news too, sometimes worse.” As he sets me down, he asks Miss Betty for scissors and the young staff member for ice. Lots of ice.

“Why do you need scissors?”

“May have to cut off the foot.”

“You’re a child.”

“Your stockings. Unless you think you can ease them down on your own, right here.”

“What, because I like being naked in public? Is that where you’re going with this?” He shrugs and smiles but says nothing. “Cut them. There’s already a hole in the toe.” I wiggle my big toe and wince against the lightning bolt shooting up my leg. “Shit, can you go tell Roger that I’m out here? I don’t want him to think I’ve run away.”

“Would that be a bad thing?”

“Ryan, please, just go tell him.”

“In a sec.”

Bullshit. I’ll go myself. I swing my legs over the side of the fancy leather settee. As soon as my throbbing foot hits the floor, the electric shock up my leg tells me I won’t be doing the two-step—or any other related physical activities—for the remainder of the evening.

“Sore?”

I nod, the tears making it hard for me to speak. Tears because it fucking hurts, tears because I feel like an asshat, because I was maybe going to have a careless nice of reckless sex with a hot stud of a man … and now I’m not and stupid Ryan had to be the one to rescue me.

I hate being rescued. It’s lame and weak and damsel-in-distressy and I’m not that girl.

Miss Betty hands over scissors and Ryan snips away at the sheer black stockings, careful to not touch the cold steel against my throbbing ankle. “Ooooh, pretty colors already.”

“Seriously?”

“Do you think it’s broken?” Miss Betty asks.

Ryan pushes and prods. “Ow! Stop!” I slap at him.

“Nah, but definitely a decent sprain,” Ryan answers.

“Should I call Dr. James?”

“You guys have a doctor here?” I ask.

“No, Dr. James lives three islands up. He’s our on-call guy during the summer months,” Ryan says. “He’s coming over later in the week. We can have him take a look if it’s still swollen.”

“And what the hell am I supposed to do until then?” I say.

“Ice, ibuprofen, rest, and wrap,” Ryan says.

“We have some crutches you can use, dear.” Miss Betty disappears again. I can’t even think about crutches. I feel nauseated again, my upper lip sweaty. Hot and cold flushes through me.

“I think I need to lie back for a minute,” I say.

“Are you going to throw up? This couch is really white, and that wine you were drinking was really red.”

“How do you know what color wine I was drinking?” I cover my eyes with the back of my arm, willing the spins to slow down. Goddammit, my ankle hurts. Fucking shoes. I shouldn’t have worn the shoes.

“Hollie?”

Ryan stands. “Hey, Roger. Yeah, our sneaky streaker here twisted the hell out of her ankle in those stripper shoes.”

“They are not stripper shoes.” They are, a little bit, but every girl needs a good pair of those. Mr. High-and-Mighty. “You’re a judgey asshole for a concierge. I’m a paying guest. You should be nicer to me.”

“And here I thought maybe she’d met some dashing young man in the lobby and abandoned me forever,” Roger says. I peek out long enough to see him leaning over my lower half. His eyes travel up my now un-stockinged leg and his finger extends to touch the balloon growing around my ankle.

“Jesus! Don’t touch it! It hurts!”

“Sorry. Wow, that looks bad. That might need something stronger than wine,” he says.

Miss Betty returns with not crutches but rather a wheelchair. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see multiple people standing around, looking curiously in my direction. Stupid doesn’t begin to touch how I’m feeling.

I force myself to sit up. “I need to go back to my room. We’re making a scene here.”

“This should be soaked in ice, Hollie. If there’s one thing I know, it’s this,” Ryan says.

“Yeah, Ryan, tell her about that knee of yours. It’s seen its share of scalpels and ice buckets, huh?” Roger says, slapping Ryan on the shoulder. Ryan’s return smile is tight.

“What’s wrong with your knee?” I ask.

“Nothing today,” Ryan says. The young staffer returns with enough ice to satiate a polar bear—a bucketful and two long icepacks.

“Last game he played with the Canucks, he got slammed into the boards. Poof. Bye-bye, knee.”

Ryan stands and glares at Roger for a beat. Miss Betty looks at Ryan and pushes Roger back so she can squeeze through. “No talking hockey. Hollie needs looking after. Roger, you go have the server pack up Hollie’s dinner so she can eat it in her room. Ryan, let’s get her upstairs and soak this ankle.”

In that weird moment, I’m glad for Miss Betty’s take-charge attitude. The pain is a lot and I don’t want to cry in front of all these strangers.

I submit to the wheelchair but only because there is no bloody way I can walk yet. My own personal entourage escorts me upstairs—Concierge Ryan pushing the wheelchair, Miss Betty carrying my shoes and purse, the young staffer with the ice.