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Low elevator music filled the room, which was full with men of fifty-five and over. I wondered at what point in time, exactly, Cruz Costello had morphed from a dashing Q1 with steel buns to a Floridian pensioner.
“Did you know constantly reading the news is almost as detrimental to your heart as smoking?” I blurted. Because saying stupid stuff had always been easier than apologizing.
He didn’t look up from the iPad, swiping his finger across it to turn a page.
“I didn’t know that, because it’s not true. Cite your source.”
“Southern Belle magazine.”
“Allow me to be skeptical. Is this your version of an apology?” His words rippled through me.
Dang, he had a good, low voice.
“If I’m going to apologize, so should you.”
He looked up, lounging back on the plush, brown recliner he was occupying, a puff of his undiluted woody scent invading my nostrils, making everything under my naval tingle.
“What for?”
“Telling Brendan we were cousins, and married, and carrying STDs. In that exact order.”
“Fair enough,” he surprised me by saying. “You go first.”
I closed my eyes.
I wasn’t four anymore.
Then why was it so hard to apologize?
Your sister’s happiness is on the line. Now’s not the time to have pride.
“Sorry I booked us the wrong tickets. I truly, truly didn’t mean to.”
“In that case, I apologize for embarrassing you in front of your little friend, but reserve the right to do it again when provoked, on the grounds it was more fun than I’ve had in years.” He motioned toward the chair next to him. “Coffee?”
“Please.” I sat down, feeling a little awkward.
The truth was, I wasn’t used to being served. I’d always been the one doing the serving. Nonetheless, a waitress from the attached coffee shop came to take my order—a flat white and a French-sounding pastry I couldn’t pronounce, but could point out on the menu.
It occurred to me that I had to pay for my food, and I hated myself for not sticking with free breakfast, served earlier, or the free twenty-four-hour buffet on the lido deck I had too much pride to bail to.
But I had the tip money from yesterday in my purse, so I wouldn’t have to tally it up on my monthly Excel sheet. I could still get Bear his video game at the end of the month. Maybe.
“So. Did you get lucky yesterday?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
“If by lucky you mean I didn’t have to spend the night with you, then yes.”
“Did you spend it with someone else?” I asked casually.
“Yes.”
Okay, that was not supposed to hurt. Certainly not the way it did. I was tangled in tight vines of jealousy that suffocated me.
“Nice. Is she from our neck of the woods?”
“Unsure.” Cruz flipped another page on the iPad. “She was a fifty-year-old Prada saleswoman who secretly rented me her top bunk on the staff deck and opted to sleep with your Brendan, making a hundred-percent profit margin.”
Holy clap.
