How to Honeymoon Alone

“Okay, perfect. We can meet in the lobby?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not sure how we’d-oh.” I look across at the security guard approaching with a flashlight. He shines it toward the pool, and I fall silent. My rebellion was short-lived, and I’m instantly filled with regret. I hate breaking the rules.

The guard sighs, the sound audible across the quiet pool area. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask you two to get out of the pool,” he calls. “No swimming allowed after 8 p. m.”

The flashlight flicks across the water until it illuminates us. Me-arms crossed over my wet bralette. Phillip-calmly treading water close by.

“Please,” he repeats.

“I’m sorry!” I shout, swimming as fast as I can toward the ladder. “We won’t do it again, I promise.”

“Good,” the guard says. He looks pointedly away from me. “Have a good evening now, ma’am. Sir.”

“Thank you, you, too.” I pull myself out of the pool to the man’s rapidly disappearing back.

The night air is warm, but I still reach for my bathrobe, sweeping it around me. The elastic in my underwear is doing a heroic job of supporting clothes that were never meant to be worn wet, and I’m not in the mood to challenge it further.

Phillip gets out of the pool behind me. He reaches for his towel and starts to dry his hair in quick, hard movements.Contentt bel0ngs to N0ve/lDrâ/ma.O(r)g!

“We got off pretty easy,” I say with an embarrassed chuckle.

He loops the towel around his neck and shoots me an amused look. “How awful did it feel to get scolded?”

I grimace. “Terrible.”

He chuckles. “You survived. We didn’t harm anyone. It’s all good, Eden.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Oh, damn!”

“What?”

“I should have asked him about my key card!”

“There should be someone at the front desk. Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

“Aren’t the bungalows in the other direction?”

“Yes,” he says and heads past me toward the lobby. “But you have a hot date you need to make it to.”

I scoop up my abandoned clothes. “Oh, that’s right. My bed.”

“What were you doing out, anyway? Why’d you lock yourself out?”

“I went to the vending machines for a late-night snack.”

His eyebrows pull together. “There are vending machines?”

“Um, yes. In the main part of the hotel, anyway, with the standard rooms,” I say.

“Right.” He holds the lobby door open for me. I must look like a drowned rat, with half-wet hair and waterdrops running down my legs. I’m leaving small puddles on the floor as I cross toward the check-in desk.

Beside me, Phillip walks through the lobby like his wet skin is a pressed suit, completely unbothered. I keep my eyes away from the long form of his body and the well-toned physique that now makes perfect sense. Competitive swimmer, indeed.

The receptionist is back, and she immediately hides the phone she’d been scrolling on when she sees us. “Good evening. Did you two go for a midnight swim?”

“Yes,” Phillip says. “In the ocean.”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. The man is smooth.

Five minutes later I have a spare key, and the lady wishes us a good night. Phillip gives me a farewell nod.

“Enjoy your date,” he says, fully within earshot of the receptionist. Judging by the glint in his eye, he knows that had embarrassed me, too.

“Uh… thanks. See you tomorrow.”

His mouth curves. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close. “Until tomorrow, Eden.”

“One of those?” Phillip says. He’s standing beside me on the road as a route taxi whizzes past. The minivan looks packed. It’s Friday night, and the route we’re taking is a super popular one.

“Yes.”

“Let’s take a taxi,” he says. “A real taxi.”

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, because damn it, I’m nervous. This is my idea and my initiative. I’m excited and hesitant, of course, but it’s a heady mix all the same.

Phillip is standing beside me, all silent judgment at my plan. He’s in navy slacks and a blue linen button-down, like we’re going to a sit-down restaurant, even if the sleeves are rolled up and his top button undone.

He also looks handsome. Masculine in a way Caleb rarely was, with his sailing shoes firmly planted on the cracked sidewalk.

“We can take a real taxi home,” I say. “But this is part of the experience.”

The next route taxi stops, and a guy jumps out of the front seat. He opens the sliding door to a minivan packed with Bajans and tourists alike. Loud soca music blasts out of a hidden speaker.

“There’s no space,” Phillip says.

“Oh, there sure is! Yes please!” the guy says and pulls down a foldable seat from the wall. Three people are already seated next to it. “Gentleman first!”

Phillip sits, hesitancy in his movements. The guy beside us gestures for me to hop on in after him. But there’s no space.

“Um, where, exactly?”

“On his lap!” the guy says.

On the street around us, someone honks. We must be holding up traffic.

I get in, crouching to avoid hitting my head on the vehicle’s roof and leaning over Phillip. I can’t sit on his lap, can I? The guy pulls the sliding door closed and jumps back onto the front seat. A second later the route taxi starts moving again, pulling out on the trafficked road to the heavy beats of music.