Chapter Twenty-Two
For the rest of the night, I never get farther than three steps from Arthur’s side. He takes care of me. It’s really the only description for how he never lets my glass of flavored soda water get empty, and finds ways to draw me into every conversation he has, telling everyone who remotely asks how good I am at videography. “A natural,” he gushes to a stranger whose name I missed. “It’s like, she isn’t making ‘content.’ She makes art that people watch. She thinks about how things should look—the composition of things.” He gives me a sly smile. “She makes me look better than I deserve.”
“That’s high praise,” I say. “And higher-than-average self-awareness.”
He gives a loud laugh, and I don’t even worry about everyone looking over—does it matter when they’re watching because I’ve made him this incandescently happy? “See? So quick.” Arthur rakes a hand through his salt-waved hair and shakes his head, making the other guys laugh. “Smartest woman in the world, and she’s mine.”
It doesn’t feel like an act. I feel like his—like I belong here—by the time we meander to the seaside bed-and-breakfast flanking the beach. It isn’t the Ignition-mandated lodging, though Delaney swears up and down that it’s better if we crash “incognito.” She’s three sheets to the wind, held upright solely by Sarah andCameron. Regardless, we trust her. I would follow blackout-drunk Delaney into war.
Once we’re inside the coastal grandma house, the three of them disappear, on a mission to get Delaney into bed. The tiny old woman behind the makeshift concierge counter smiles when she sees them off, then goes back to murmuring as she looks for two more open rooms. At least, I assume that’s what Arthur asked for in Dutch. After a minute, she clicks her tongue and replies in an apologetic tone.
Arthur asks what sounds like a question.
She says a short answer.
He slowly turns to me. “She says almost all of the other rooms are full and they don’t have two available. But”—my heart drops to the floor; I know where this is going—“they have a larger suite with two twin beds. Would that be all right to split?”
Oh. “That’s… fine.”
We make our way up, silently walking side by side. The second the sweet old lady lets us into our room, I go straight to a paisley armchair and get to work undoing my sand-filled sneakers, having learned today why people buy and wear sandals. Also, why walking on sand is in itself a workout. My legs are exhausted.
There’s a muffled inhale. Arthur is by the doorway, a faint blush on his face as he politely stares at one of the two beds.
“I’m not…” I start, then stop. “I’m just taking my shoes off.”
He clears his throat. “I knew that.”
“Used to women getting undressed the second you’re alone with them?”
Very funny. Excellent joke for me to make at this exact moment. Arthur doesn’t reply as he strides over to where I’m seated and kneels down. “Let me help. Lift your leg?”
He’s still in his beach clothes, a faded shirt and loose jeans, andwould you look at that, here’s a new and highly specific kink I’ll hide from all future partners: shoe-untying. Shifting, I angle my knee so Arthur can get to my expertly knotted sneakers. It isn’t a good angle. Or maybe it’s an amazing one for him—I keep one hand on the chair and the other on the traitorous hem of my dress, which is determined to give Arthur a show.
He gets one knot picked apart, then laughs softly.
I can’t ask him what’s funny.
He helps me get the other one off, then goes to sit on the bed, the mattress squeaking beneath his weight. “So much better,” I sigh, stretching my legs out in front of myself like a satisfied cat. Because I am. Satisfied. Definitely ignoring his glance at my bare legs.
We’re quiet for a beat. Then Arthur asks, “You want to shower first, or should I?”
My satisfaction dies. Evading nudity at the literal nude beach, only to be covered in sand and thrown into a single room with Arthur is the definition of irony. “Could… could you? If you, if that’s—”
He saves me with a “For sure,” and then he’s back up, patting his thighs, and gone into the bathroom. After I hear the lock click, I regain some semblance of cognition. “I’ll shower in the morning!” I mumble-yell, counting on the thinness of the ancient Dutch walls to carry my voice. “Since my clothes are already sandy and… yeah.”
Another beat. “Okay,” he says, and yes, the walls arepaper-thin. With crystal clarity, I hear the squeaky hiss of the shower being turned on, and my imagination blasts me with a high-definition image of exactly what must be happening with Arthur, water, shower, naked. Jolted, I go to my bag and grab my shirt and shorts from earlier. Clothes. More layers will protect me. Being in cargoshorts when Arthur returns—damp and hopefully dressed and smelling like soap and sex and clean man—will keep me from asking why he referred to me as his girlfriend all night.
Angling my arm around my shoulder, I find the small metal zipper at the top of my dress and start to tug it down.
Only… the dress doesn’t unzip.
Thirty seconds of mad finger-scrambling, zipper-tugging, and shoulder-contorting pass. A pause. Another three minutes without any progress. The metal 1960s zipper isgluedin place. I’m going to die in this dress, or rip myself out of it. These are my only options.
Very aware that the shower is still running—for now—I go to the full-length mirror to survey the situation. The bright orange dress fits like a glove around my chest and hips, which I’d considered a positive omen for tonight and now feels like a sign I’d missed regarding my impending doom. No sleeves, which is nice. I’m not wearing a bra because again, bad omen, and also, no need. I give the front of the dress a yank, hoping that might dislodge the metal in the back.
Nope. The dress is now twisted toward my arm, and I let out a frustrated groan.
Moments later, the room goes silent.
