Must Love Otters (14 page)

I look up the beach and a straggler raccoon sits staring at me, noshing on something. Something brown and not at all food-like. Holy shit. He’s eating … money?

“Roger, the new Canadian hundreds smell like maple syrup,” Ryan says. “Looks like you’ve been robbed by nature’s original bandits.” Roger’s face is very, very far from looking amused at this particular moment. Oh God, Hollie, don’t laugh.

But seriously, the fat raccoon eating the money because it smells like maple syrup?

“What kind of a country makes their money smell like pancakes?” I ask. And then I lose it. Fall backward off the log onto the hard beach. I can’t not laugh. I try to right myself, remembering immediately that my ankle is still fucked up. “Roger … oh, Roger, I am so sorry for laughing.”

He looks between Ryan and me, dumbfounded. I’m not sure what to expect—in the very few days I’ve known this man, I have no idea how he reacts when he’s mad. And then his face, it softens. A smile breaks. He laughs too.

“Sorry about this, man,” Ryan says, kneeling to clean up. More bills are tucked under the basket, red fifties untouched by the enterprising raccoons. “Here …” Ryan reaches into his back pocket and hands over the hundreds Roger gave him a few hours ago.

“No, no, it’s all right. It’s my own fault. I should’ve left my billfold in the plane,” Rog says. And there you have it, folks—rich people call their wallets
billfolds
.

Ryan cleans up the dead food, empties the wine bottles; Roger shakes out and folds the soiled blanket. I’m still on the rocky beach when I see them. Candy bar wrappers. Ripped to hell by crafty raccoon hands. At least three wrappers, staggered up the beach toward the bushes, as if they were placed there.

On purpose.

Did Ryan
lure
the raccoons to our picnic? Because I know for a fact there were no Snickers bars in the picnic basket. Ryan skips up the sand and gathers the wrappers, and when our eyes meet, I’m sure that look is of guilt.

Roger carries the basket and my crutches toward the plane, giving me a moment alone with this scheming concierge. I balance delicately on one leg. “Did you—did you lure those raccoons to our picnic spot? With your candy bars?” I slap at his clutched hand, the wrappers in his closed fist.

“What?”

“You did, didn’t you … you left those candy bars for those little buggers to find us.”

“I did no such thing. I didn’t need to lure them anywhere. The Brie was stinky enough to attract wildlife from the next province.”

I point a finger in his face, inches from his bristly beard. “I. Don’t. Believe. You. Roger doesn’t
eat
garbage like candy bars. So they had to come from you. And you knew the money was in there and that it smelled like maple and that they would eat the money—”

A megawatt smile interrupts my conspiracy theorizing. “Believe what you want, otter girl.” Without missing a beat, he grabs and throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I pound on his rather solid back, and in response, I get a firm smack on the ass.

“Ow!”

“Behave,” he says. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you it’s not nice to hit?”

As he places me into the plane’s belly, I point at him again. “I’m onto you, Concierge Ryan.”

“Did I miss something?” Roger asks, one eyebrow flexed.

“Hollie was just telling me how much she loves Snickers bars,” Ryan says, slamming the plane’s door closed.

I hop around the room, dressing in yoga pants because they don’t hurt going over my stupid foot. To compensate for the haphazard wardrobe choices, I spend extra time on the face and hair, just in case I see darling Roger midmeeting. I have the whole day to psych myself up for our dinner date. I deserve to have my girl parts played with. Finally. And I’m confident—given earlier cursory gropings—Roger Dodger knows a lot of fun ways to play with said parts.

Two nights in a row, I’ve gone to bed with my virtue intact. Soon after arriving home from Brigand Bay, my hopes for a quiet dinner and not-so-quiet dessert were dashed when Roger announced he had a work-related function to attend. “Which is why I chartered our little excursion today. You’re not upset, are you?”

I shook my head, feeling sorry for myself. “What about tomorrow?” God, forty-eight hours in and already sounding clingy.

“Meetings all day, babe. How about an early dinner? That’ll give you time to recuperate a little, yes? You really should get off that ankle for a while.”

“Yeah. Sure. I guess …” Mental math: Tuesday night, sprained ankle, no nookie. Wednesday night, business dinner for business-y types, still no nookie.

“Let’s meet in the lobby at five, order dinner to be delivered, and then we can hobble upstairs to my suite and watch the sun go down. Sound good?” Roger kissed me hard, pulling my body against his. When I felt the strain against his chinos, I sensed victory.

My plan, however, did not work. Hands cupped around my cheeks, he whispered, “See you in twenty-four hours.”

“Unless you get done early … you can always pop by.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said and squeezed my ass.

I tried to wait up for him. Dinner arrived at my door—a huge, multicourse, expensive affair—complete with more flowers and a note that read, “With every bite, think of me. Xoxo, Roger.”

But the second glass of wine on top of a very full stomach, I had enough wherewithal to text my dad, thank him again and promise a call Thursday, and drift off.

In hindsight, I did need the rest. I slept like I haven’t in months—years?—no Yorkies licking my mouth or assailing me with their rancid farts. No Keith snoring or making that weird “puh” sound from his side of the bed. The romance. It overwhelms us, Precious.

And now it’s Thursday morning, bright and early, the sun is dancing through the gauzy drapes, and the wind is subtle and fresh. ’Tis a new day, another opportunity for me to embrace this big-girl life. The crutches and I are getting along a little better, even though the ankle still hurts like a mother. For the first time in countless days, the face in the three-mirrored bathroom vanity is smiling.

Wow. So
that’s
what that feels like.

Concierge Ryan is at the desk talking to some folks with luggage at their feet. I sloth it through the lobby, careful of every step. I’ve made enough of a fool of myself around these people for three lifetimes. And I want him to see me, see my radiant glow of “I am awesome and you’re not” and know that I’m watching his every move.

“Good morning, Miss Porter. I trust you had a restful evening,” Ryan says when the traffic has cleared.

“Like that’s any of your business.”

“It is my business. It’s my job to keep our guests happy.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Miss Betty appears from around the corner. “Oh, dear Hollie! How’s your ankle, darling?” she sings.

“A bit sore, Miss Betty. Thank you for asking.”

“And your chartered flight yesterday? Did you enjoy that?”

“Yes. Concierge Ryan is an excellent pilot. And so good with the local wildlife.” I give him a pointed look.

“Oh, really? You saw wildlife? You didn’t mention that, Ryan.”

“Just raccoons. Attracted by the Brie.”

“A right smelly cheese, that is. I tried to warn Mr. Swinyard that it might not be a good choice, but sometimes it’s best for me to just stay quiet,” she says. “Well, I’m off to grab some brekkie. Be back shortly.”

Swinyard. Roger’s last name. It dawns on me that I didn’t know that until this very second, and here I am, willing to show him my boobs. Well, now I know his name. Which makes me not a floozy. Right? Right! I’m a modern woman, an empowered She-Ra of the twenty-first century and I can have meaningless sex with anyone I want! Even men for whom I don’t know their last names.

“So, what is Hollie doing today? Any new plans to entertain us?” Ryan taps a Revelation Cove ballpoint pen against his lips. Again with that Cheshire smile.

“Har har.”

“We could get you on staff—pay you an entertainer’s rate. Better yet, I could moonlight as a bookie—‘what will Hollie do next’ could be our main game and guests could place bets on your hijinks. Wait! That’s what we call the game! Hollie’s Hijinks!”

“Did you graduate from third grade? Because I knew a kid exactly like you—when I was
eight
.”

Ryan laughs, clearly enamored by his own riveting sense of humor. “Let me see your foot.”

“Are you going to laugh at it?”

“Probably. But then I can wrap it for you so you can bear weight and get around a little better.” I stare at him as he leans on elbows on the marble countertop so we’re eye to eye.

“You have long eyelashes,” I say. “Freakishly long. Like a wolf.”

“All the better to see you with,” he snarls. “Come on. In the office with you.” He opens a small door I didn’t even realize was there. He has to duck to get through the narrow frame but the office behind is tiny and quaint, like I’ve just walked into some English granny’s tearoom. “Have a seat.” I do, settling on a sea-foam green chaise while he fumbles in an oversized medicine cabinet. It’s an antique icebox, repurposed to hold medical supplies. “This tape is professional-sports approved,” he says, tossing a few rolls my way.

Concierge Ryan, scissors and supplies acquired, kneels before me. “Oooh, that’s a good position for you. On your knees, at my disposal.”

“What would Her Highness of Hijinks have me do?” he teases. “Man, I hope you’ve shaved. I don’t want to bleed on you if I get poked.”

“Yeah, because last time I checked, I’m a porcupine.” I tug on my pant leg. The purple is settling into my skin rather nicely.

“That is a thing of beauty. My trainers would be so proud of you.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely. Can you skate?”

“Mostly on my face,” I say.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

I watch as he unspools a length of cushioned self-stick tape. He wraps my foot in a cloud-like pillow of cotton wool and sets to taping it in place. When he’s finished, it’s a masterpiece.

“Nicely done. Even the stethoscope-clad goober would’ve been impressed by this handiwork,” I say.

“Glad I could oblige, miss.” He scratches at his beard. It makes a mountain-man sound, all scratchy and rugged and … manly.

“Do you always wear the beard?”

“Playoffs, baby. Oh, man, we gotta have The Talk still, don’t we … if you watch any of the Stanley Cup games, you’ll notice all the guys have beards. It’s a superstition. Once your team is in the playoffs, you can’t shave until the team is either eliminated or wins the Cup.”

“So your team is still in it?”

“Nope. Got eliminated last night, actually.”

I place a hand on his shoulder. “You sure you’re gonna be okay, Concierge Ryan?”

“Talk about a smart-ass,” he chuckles. When he stands, his knee makes an ominous pop.

“Dude, sounds like someone else needs a wrap job.” I point at his leg. “Care to continue Roger’s story from the other night?”

“About the knee?”

“The very one.”

“Just not sure which story old Roger Dodger was feeding you …”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The tease is replaced with tension. “What is your deal with him?”

“Nothing,” he says, looking away as he cleans up his supplies. He’s not saying something, and I have no idea how to read him. Does he not like Roger? Does he know something about him I don’t know but maybe should? “You hungry?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah. I could eat.” Crutches tucked under my armpits, I touch my toes to the floor. The wrapping really helps. I can put a tiny bit of weight on the foot without wanting to vomit. “Hey,” I say. Ryan turns around, hand splayed on the open door. “This feels much better. Thank you.”

“Follow me.”

Into the kitchen. A guy in a tall white hat hollers orders at a crew of at least ten other cooks. It smells divine. Ryan finds a stool and plants me at the quieter end of one of the stainless tables. “Eggs okay?”

“Perfect.” I hope he can’t hear my stomach growling. All this fresh British Columbian air is turning me into an eating machine. “Scrambled is fine. Toast too. And I keep hearing about Miss Betty’s magical blackberry jam.”

“Coming right up,” Ryan says. The chef doesn’t seem to mind that the concierge intrudes upon his kitchen, using up two of his cooktop burners to make breakfast for some random guest. The relationships here are casual and friendly, like a giant family. I’m envious.

Within a few moments, Ryan slides a plate of fluffy eggs with green onion and fresh, diced tomato, two slices of decadent, thick toast, and fresh fruit. I’m going to try to remember to breathe while chewing.

“Omigod, so good,” I say, mouth full. “If this concierge thing doesn’t work out, you should totally cook. In fact, just quit and I’ll hire you. I hate cooking.”

“You can’t afford me,” Ryan laughs.

The kitchen is filled with the smells and sounds of any other busy restaurant kitchen, minus the screaming, demanding chef, the cowering sous chef and lower specimens relegated to stirring pots and washing plates. Something is simmering for later—the smells are so many, I don’t know where to begin—just imagine how hungry you’ve been on your hungriest day. Now think about all the favorite aromas that make your mouth water. That. Plus baking bread.

I can’t wait to see what’s on the dinner menu. And if I play my cards right, I might be on the dessert menu.

Ryan takes my plate just as I’m about to hoist it in front of my face and lick every remaining crumb. “Get enough?”

No
. “Yes,” I lie. “That was amazing.”

“They were eggs. You must’ve been really hungry.”

“Everything always tastes better when someone else prepares it.”

I follow him out of the kitchen, waving to the chef in quiet thanks for allowing us to interfere with his operation.

“What’s on your agenda today, Hollie Porter?” Ryan walks slowly next to my hop-skip gait, a toothpick bouncing across his lips.

“Dunno. Dancing is off the schedule. Miss Betty said something about books the other night. What about you?”

“Gotta check out the vineyard.”

“Does it involve long-distance walking?”

“Sometimes …” He looks at me sideways.

“Maybe I should keep you company.”

“Not sure if that’s such a good idea.”

“How come?”

Miss Betty sneaks behind the check-in counter with her own plate of breakfast goodies. “Miss Betty, Hollie wants to come with me out to the vineyards today.”

“Oh? But do you think that’s wise, given her … condition?” she says to him, nodding at me.

“Are you sober?” Ryan says.

“What?”

“Have you been drinking this morning?”

“God. No. I just had breakfast. You saw what I ate.”

Ryan turns to Miss Betty. “She’s not drunk right now.”

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t drunk when I tripped and did this!” I say, suddenly feeling like that boozer girl everyone whispers about.

“No one’s suggesting you were,” Ryan says.

“Then why are you asking if I’m drunk?”

“Miss Betty is concerned about your condition. I figured that’s what she meant.”

“You assumed
that
instead of thinking maybe she was talking about my ankle?”

“Well, you have hit that minibar pretty hard, judging by how much I saw left in there the other night. Plus, two of the three nights you’ve been with us, you’ve had some sort of … interesting event. Maybe you’re …” He tips his thumb into his mouth to simulate drinking.

“You know what? You’re impossible. Forget it.” I turn to Miss Betty. “I’ll need some books to read. And you have a spa here, correct? Maybe I’ll book a massage. Or a facial. Something completely sober people do.”

“Suit yourself.” Ryan slides behind the front desk and extracts a set of keys from a hook. He kisses Miss Betty on the cheek. She brushes him away.

“Your team lost. Time to get rid of that beard or I’ll call management,” she teases after him.

I’m glad to see him go, even though I notice—again—how nicely his slacks fit him. But it doesn’t matter. He’s an obnoxious mongrel who wouldn’t know how to treat a woman if she gave him an instruction manual with an audiobook and full-color illustrations. He has to be a total lost cause if he’s still single—he’s gotta be pushing thirty—and living this far from civilization? He’s probably doing womankind a favor keeping himself out of circulation.

Miss Betty shows me the “library,” i.e., a shelf of well-loved paperbacks other travelers have left behind. The choices are limited—vampire fare, a cheesy detective novel with a busty woman and a revolver on the cover, a few other titles I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve already read. So much for a day of literary escapism.

I grab one, something about forgotten kisses or maybe a butterfly, judging by the cover, and tuck it into the waistband of my yoga pants. Not like I have an extra hand. I don’t want to make an ass out of myself—again—so I decide a walking tour of the facility is in order, to get better acquainted with the lodge. Maybe find some secret spots to maul Roger in between courses at dinner tonight.

The pretty girl from the gift shop yesterday is at the spa’s front desk. “Hey, you’re the swimsuit girl. How’d it work out for you?”

“Fine. A little uptight for my taste, but it covered all the right parts.”

“How’s the ankle?”

“Sprained.”

“We heard about your fall.”

“You people need hobbies.”

“Safety first. Plus, when you live with the same people for months on end, news gets around. Gossip central. And things certainly got more interesting when you checked in.”