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It’s bizarre having to keep the resort running at a time like this. We all want to be hunkered down in front of the TV, but there’s really no more news. For now, we’re not in the hurricane’s direct path, and we should be fine.
I manage to feel moderately useful for the next hour, directing guests toward various activities while keeping a (mostly) positive attitude in the face of chaos. Then Cole walks into the lobby from outside, with Todd and a few department heads. They’re properly outfitted in rain jackets and boots, though it doesn’t seem to have helped them much. Cole whips his hood off, and his black hair is sopping wet, dripping water down his face. His expression is stern; the worry lines on his forehead haven’t budged since last night. Did he even sleep?
I didn’t see him again after I fled the ballroom. I thought I maybe heard someone knock on my dorm door, but I didn’t answer it, of course. It was late, and I was already in bed midwallow, a bite of chocolate on its way to my mouth. If it was Lara and Camila, they would have called out to me through the door. And if it was Cole, well, I had nothing to say to him, so why bother? Still, I didn’t like the nagging feeling that someone might have been out there. So a few minutes later, in a fit of annoyance, I threw off my blankets and opened the door, only to find absolutely no one. The path surrounding my door was completely empty save for a little hoppy green frog.
“Did you knock?” I asked him.
Ribbit.
Now, Cole brushes his wet hair back with his hand (becoming evenmoredevastatingly handsome in the process, mind you), and then he speaks to the group with an authoritative edge. This morning’s version of Cole is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Soggy clothes aside, he’s clearly leading the charge. Meanwhile, Todd’s at the back of the group, trailing behind, trying to get something unstuck from the bottom of his rain boot. The group has stopped walking, but he hasn’t noticed. He collides into a passing guest, and the woman shoots him a death glare.
“You mind?!”
Cole’s giving directions to the group, pointing toward various parts of the resort.
Then he sees me, and he stalls midsentence.
I gulp and look away.
It’s shit timing too. All morning, I’ve had a group of people clustered around the excursion desk demanding something. But not now. Most everyone who wanted to catch a flight off the island has left to wait at the airport, and everyone who’s staying has settled down to an activity. There’s an eerie calm in the lobby now. We’re in the eye of the storm. Cole says something to the group, and then he breaks off to head toward me.
Oh brother.
Here we go.
Batten down the hatches! Gird your loins!
Why do I feel like I should be drawing a weapon? I have none, of course. There’re no pockets on these shorts, so where would I fit a rifle or a long sword, anyway?
Just to cover my bases, I pat around the bottom of the desk. Nothing. No,wait. Gum. Gross.
He reaches me, and I ignore my quaking knees. Before he can get started saying whatever it is he’s about to say that will undoubtedly be both witty and devastating, I cut him off at the pass. My heart simplycannot take it today. I should be back in my room convalescing after the events from yesterday, not standing here defenseless.
“Good morning, sir,” I say with a tone I reserve solely for difficult guests. It’s cheery and robotic. Coincidentally, exactly how I would like to keep my relationship with Cole moving forward. “If you’re interested in booking a flight off the island, it’s not too late. I can get you to Russia? Or perhaps Bangladesh? Algeria? We have a desk set up just over there with helpful staff who can assist you in calling the airlines. But if you’ll promise to leave the premises within the hour, I’ll personally fund your ticket myself.
“If,however, you’re intent on weathering the storm with us, please take a pamphlet to learn about the exciting activities the hotel has organized for the day. Most guests will be occupying themselves with arts and crafts, but for you? I could organize a special trip straight tohe—”
“Enough. You’ve made your point.”
I’m a short-circuiting Stepford wife as I force a laugh. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir. Would you like a pamphlet? Or perhaps a beverage? They’ve finished serving breakfast, but we have the most excellent coffee station—”
“Paige.”
I blink and it’s me again, feisty and hardened. The lobotomy didn’t take. “What?” I snap.
I’m forced to see him, then, really look at the man I’ve grown so accustomed to. From infancy, he never stood a chance of being easily palatable. His features are too pompous and severe. He has the nose of a haughty aristocrat. The cunning gaze of a ruthless titan of industry. He looks at you and you feel absolutely lacking in comparison. A nuisance.
But then, from certain angles, in the right lighting, there is a softness to him, I swear it. Take now, for instance. I know he’s imploring me to do something. Trust him? Yeah, right. That ship hassailed.
“Did you pack a bag this morning?” he asks.
I scowl at him. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business. We are not friends. We hate each other. You no longer have access to anypertinent information about me. Now, if you’ll excuse me”—I wave for him to step aside, likeBuh-bye. See ya—“you’re blocking the desk for all the guests who are patiently waiting in line.”
Never mind that the lobby is a deserted ghost town.
I take matters into my own hands.
“You there, sir! Can I assist you?!”
