She looks at me for a moment. “Straight through is fine.”
“Great.”
I put my hand back on the wheel. We drive the last two hours mostly in silence—Rose occasionally trying to fill it, and me counting the mile markers, wanting to get out of this car for a wholly different reason than yesterday. Feeling like I don’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.
Chapter 12: Rose
“We made it!” I yell, slapping the roof of the car as we clear the bridge. I don’t even have to fake the enthusiasm. As much as I really didn’t want to come, it feels like such an accomplishment that we’re finally on the island.
Logan says nothing, doesn’t seem to share my excitement. He’s been saying nothing for the last couple of hours, and the closer we got to the island, the worse it got—his hands wrapped around the wheel like he’s trying to keep himself anchored to it. Eyes on the road, no teasing glances like this morning, or, hell, even yesterday.
Everything about him has always gotten under my skin—but before this trip, I could manage it. A glimpse of him at a party, across a room, but I kept my distance. Or picked a fight. But now I know what his hands feel like. Now I know what his voice sounds like at three in the morning. I keep glancing at his profile—that tight, controlled expression, apologetic almost, like he’s bracing for something. Like we’re going to park, and he’s going to turn to me and take it all back. Tell me he regrets what we did. What we agreed to just this morning.
“The valet should be—” I point past the entrance. The booth is empty, the vinyl awning above it snapping in the storm.
The island sits off the coast of Georgia, close enough to the mainland that the bridge crossing was short and solid, despite the waves crashing against it. But something shifts the moment we’re on the other side of it. The air is hot and gray and sticks to everything. The rain is louder here than it was on the highway—the wind too, hammering against the windows in long, irregular bursts. We follow the drive through a copse of tropical trees whipping against the wind, and then the resort comes into view, like an unveiling—a massive, Spanish-Mediterranean structure with stucco walls and a red-tile roof. Ornate iron archways frame a sweeping staircase that climbs what looks like three or four levels above us.
“Damn,” I whisper, leaning forward to look out the window as Logan pulls the car into the turnaround lot. When he parks, something strange and heavy sits in the silence. Something tangible. His hands still rest on the wheel, sliding up and down the leather like he’s trying to decide something.
“You okay?” I ask, hating how tentative I sound. He’s been strange for hours—not cold, exactly, but careful, like he’s measuring everything between us, every word.
Last night was the best sex of my life. Not just the size of him, though I’d felt that all morning, that sore ache from taking someone so big. It was the spontaneity of it, the way it felt inevitable rather than impulsive. At the coffee shop this morning, and for a few hours after, things feltright. Being near him has always turned me on, but now I know what it can actually be like between us. This morning we agreed, like two reasonable adults, to keep it going for the rest of the trip—and Iwantthat.
He’d seemed sure then. Now I can’t read him at all, and I don’t know whether to push or give him room, or whether either of those things would even matter. I hate this feeling in my chest,this weird burning sensation in my heart, like I’ve made the whole thing up. Like he’s changed his mind.
He’s quiet and distant. I have this uncomfortable urge to say it’s okay, that I get it, no hard feelings. I’d smile and mean it, mostly, because it’s Logan, and Logan has never been someone I thought I’d get to keep.
I start, “Listen. We don’t have to—”
A knock on my window startles me, and I turn to find a man in a neon safety vest, a plastic-wrapped hat he holds to his head against the wind.
I glance over at Logan. I’m not sure why. Maybe just to have one more second—to appreciate that it’s been just us or even to say goodbye. But he’s already pushing open his door, and my heart sinks.
I catch their muffled voices through the glass. The resort worker steers Logan away while pulling my door open. I grab my backpack from the back seat while the man takes Logan’s luggage.
We hurry inside, beneath the open outdoor archway, and the storm cuts off behind us as the doors close. This is no lobby—nothing like the last two motels we stayed in. The ceilings soar up three stories, lit by three massive iron chandeliers strung along the length of the room, each one dripping with what looks like hundreds of candle-bulbs. At one end, a fireplace tall enough to stand in sits surrounded by tastefully spaced tufted couches and lounge chairs. On the opposite side, the front desk stretches wide in dark wood, backed by an elaborate tile mosaic. Tropical plants crowd every corner—bird of paradise, palms, and ferns—and above it all, a skylight the length of a swimming pool lets in the gray storm light, which somehow only makes the chandeliers burn warmer.
Logan grabs my hand and walks me to reception, and the simple act of it—his hand, warm and certain around mine—has me breathing a sigh of relief.
“We’re checking in, the Vega party.”
“Of course,” the man says. His name tag reads Marco. His smile is the practiced kind that takes years of customer service to perfect, and his eyes flicker briefly to my forehead—the bruise, probably—before returning to Logan without missing a beat. “We’re so relieved you made it safe and sound. You must be Logan, and Rosaria,” he says, pronouncing my name with a Spanish accent. “The rest of your party has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
He folds the key cards into leather booklets and walks us through the amenities, most of which are still running despite the hurricane. I’m only half-listening. Because at the edge of my attention, two workers have materialized and are waiting to take us to our separate rooms, and that unsteady gallop starts up in my chest again.
We’ve spent three days together, and I hadn’t prepared myself for this moment. I don’t even have a phone where he can call me and—
Logan’s hand finds the small of my back. When I look at him, his eyes are already on me—that look, the one from this morning, from last night. The one I’m realizing, in this lovely gray light, I’ve seen on him for longer than just the last few days. Something intensely tender. “I’ll come find you,” he says with a promise. “Check in, relax. I’ll see you soon.” He kisses my cheek, then turns to follow his guide up the left staircase. Mine gestures to the right.
I nod and follow him down the corridor—not up the stairs, as I’d expected. We pass beneath a series of archways, and I slow slightly to take it all in. I’ve been in beautiful buildings before; I grew up in them. But New York’s version of beautiful is all darkwood and old money. This is something else—bright and open, the storm light pouring through every gap.
“Are you staying here too, or do you have to drive in that? Is it okay that you’re here? Is it safe?” I ask as we pass a second entrance, hooking my thumb toward the sound of the wind.
He glances over, mildly surprised. “I’m not far,” he says. “Thank you.”
His politeness is slightly formal, like he wasn’t expecting to be asked. I don’t blame him. I’m mostly just talking to fill the silence—and to stop thinking about Logan’s hands on the steering wheel, sliding up and down the leather like he was working something out.
We continue toward the back of the building, past the restaurant, past a restroom, until we’re nearly at a door marked Employees Only, when we stop.
