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CHAPTERSEVEN
Kate
Rushing water sliding through rusty old pipes serves as my alarm clock.
Sunlight beams through the half-covered window beside me. I groan when I sit, shielding my eyes against the light. It’s hot as hell, and to top it off, the mattress springs of the old motel bed jabbed my hip, back, and legs all night.
I sniff the air. “What is that smell?”
It’s like cheese and feet made a baby and left the afterbirth in my room.
At this point, I’m not even sure I want to know the source. What Idoknow is that Seashell Inn is home sweet home for the duration of my trip—the time frame of which remains undecided.
A mouse scurries from one corner of my room to the next, and I clutch the paper-thin sheets to my chest.
“It’s fine. This is fine. She totally did not crawl up here last night and possibly lay babies in my hair.”
I shake my matted locks for good measure, not bothering to check even if she did. For the low price of eighty dollars a night, I think I can accommodate my new roomie.
With Mrs. Mouse hiding out of sight, I stand and shuffle toward the bathroom. It’s impossibly small and missing a door. The mirror is one of those sheets of metal that hardly gives a reflection—but I’ll take the minor blessing considering how pitiful I must look.
Due to lack of funds, I’ll have to cancel the spa day I had planned. But I decide that’s okay. I’ll just get some sugar and coconut oil from the store later for a homemade scrub, fill the tub up, and… I pull the see-through plastic shower curtain back to reveal a shallow bathtub marred with scratches and stains that have likely been there since the Seashell’s opening.
“Oh-kay.” Tugging the curtain back where it was before, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Scratch the bath.”
I could just head to the beach instead. Nothing says relaxation and affordability like lying on the sand and listening to the ocean.
I fill my palms with the lukewarm faucet water and rinse my mouth of the remnants of last night’s alcohol.
What was I thinking, going to a bar all alone?
I was trying to avoid the gnawing anxiety that is Thad, that’s what.
And I know exactly who’s to blame for the half-empty six-pack sitting on the floor.
Nothing says guilt drinking like chugging beers in bed.
But was it guilt, or was it something else entirely?
Grabbing my trusty scrunchie, I pull my hair up, tug free some strands, and replay my late night.
I gulped a beer for every vivid vision of tangled limbs and fresh cologne until the ache that spread through my middle gradually subsided.
I’ve never needed one of those horoscope charts more in my life. Isn’t there a moon phase or constellation that’s supposed guide me through shit like this?
When I plop down on the bed, I reach for my phone and see that it’s nine in the morning. But the time isn’t what has my brows furrowing.
It’s the OneDate app with a bright red bubble and ten new notifications that has my blood pumping. I downloaded it late one night on a whim, thinking someday, I might just get around to dating again.
Since initially setting up my profile, I haven’t bothered re-opening the app, yet my feed is refreshed as if I’ve recently scrolled through it.
“Dear God.”
I open my inbox with shaky hands. A few messages are from some guys back home in Georgia, and the others are from guys who have tagged their location on the island and in turn ended up in my que.
“No way,” I breathe when I see a familiar face. A ruggedly handsome, unforgettable-even-with-three-piña-coladas-and-two-White-Russians face.
Mrs. Mouse reappears, getting a little too close to my feet for comfort, but I’m too stunned to move. Damon’s name sits at the tippy top of my inbox, neatly italicized beside a green dot that indicates he’s read whatever my last message was.
