Page 15 of Not Safe for Work

“Mind if I join you?” he asks.

The driver waves him in. “Not at all.”

I watch Rafe drop into the front seat and try not to be offended. This is weird, right? Who sits in the front of an Uber? Was he so over sitting next to me that he literally couldn’t stand it for the duration of this ride?

The driver pulls away from the curb, and immediately, Rafe strikes up a conversation, asking questions about the area, the man himself—who’s native to the island—and the problems plaguing Hawaii’s oversaturated tourism industry.

They laugh and joke like they’re old friends, and I hate how jealous I am that Rafe has such an easy rapport with this stranger. Maybe I’m envious of his gift that puts everyone at ease, or maybe I’m annoyed that he seems to have that effortless camaraderie with everyone but me.

Instead, he uses my name like it’s a swear word.

By the time we arrive at the hotel, they’re practically braiding each other’s hair while I’m stewing in annoyance. However, most of my ire melts away as we pull up into the circle in front of the sprawling white building.

Everything is gorgeous—even better than the photos. Massive fountains spray in graceful arcs, and tall marble columns stand sentinel on either side of massive glass doors. It’s stunning. It’s breathtaking.

A giddy smile spreads across my face, picturing three weeks of cocktails with paper umbrellas and the sea and the surf and all the fresh seafood I can eat.

After exiting the car, we roll our luggage along marble tiles through the ostentatious lobby. The soaring ceiling ends in a massive stained-glass dome that filters warm Hawaiian sun into prisms of colored light that dance across the floor.

We wait at the reception desk, and a smiling woman gestures us over.

Rafe and I step forward simultaneously, nearly colliding, and then grind to a halt.

“You go,” I say with a wave. “From this moment on, I don’t want to see you, hear you, or even remember you exist. Have a delightful time.”

Rafe presses his lips together, and I notice they’re rather plush and full, and I wonder what it would be like to—No. Stop. I don’t wonder anything.

“Ladies first,” he replies.

“That is so sexist.”

“Then I’ll go first.”

“No, you won’t.”

He makes an exasperated sound, and at this point, I don’t care who goes first, I just want to see how far I can push before he ends up rocking himself in a corner.

With one last glare tossed in his direction, I head for the desk and give the woman my name. Kalena (according to her nametag) taps away on her computer, the smile never leaving her face.

“Ah, we have you here for three weeks with WMC Purcell, Ms. Trishara Malik and Mr. Rafe Gallagher.” She looks up from her screen and gives me an owlish blink. “Will you be needing two keys?”

“Excuse me?” I ask, not sure what she’s getting at.

“Two keys? Usually, each guest likes to have one. I’m happy to create as many as you need.”

“There is only one guest,” I say, my pulse kicking up.

“We have you in the Orchid Suite for the duration of your stay for two people. You’ll love it. It has the best views in the hotel.” She pauses, indecision seeping into her expression as she watches me slowly dissolve into a pile of horrified silt. “I’ll get you two keys. You can always get more if you need them.”

My heart throbs in my throat.

Why does she keep talking about keys?

Why would I need so many keys?

“No, there’s been a mistake,” I finally gasp.

I notice Rafe standing a few feet away with another desk clerk also tapping at his keyboard, a line drawn between his brows.