How to Honeymoon Alone

I’m broken out of my reverie by a familiar voice.

“-no, that won’t do. You know it won’t. Those papers need to be airtight if they’ll want a-”

It’s Phillip, the disturber of the peace and stealer of tables. He’s walking across the white-sand beach with a phone in hand and headphones in his ears.

I watch him stroll to the end of The Winter Resort’s stretch of beach. He turns on his heel at the perimeter and begins heading back, bare feet leaving footprints along the shoreline.

There’s an air of annoyance about him. Even in the distance and with sunglasses on, his face looks tense. Seems he’s graduated from answering emails at dinner to making work calls on a Caribbean beach.

I curl my legs up and return to the notes app on my phone. There’s something about him marching back and forth, hands gesturing, that triggers my imagination.

Maybe he can be the manager of the resort in my story. There’s a secret, something he’s keeping from the guests and staff…

Or maybe he’s a high-profile visitor who fled from New York or London where his business has just collapsed? He has to be a suspect, for sure.

I catch a snippet of his conversation as he passes me. “Briggs, that’s not my problem. It’s yours. You’re the one the client requested, though I can’t understand…”

This happens three more times. It gets more amusing with every pass. He’s going to make a great base to build a character on. Grumpy and rich, and with a large secret that comes out at the very end. Maybe it will be one that’ll affect the two main characters and their romance…

He stops right In front of my chair. His back is to me, and he’s staring out at the horizon.

“…okay. Send over the paperwork and I’ll read through it… yeah. Bye.”

He turns around in my direction and halts at seeing me.

I give him a small smile and raise my hand in hello. Grump or not, he’s now a part of my cast of characters.

He’s statue-still for a second before he nods in greeting. It’s a curt clip of his head as if we’re business acquaintances passing by one another in a hallway. Then, he flips his phone around in his hands and strides back across the beach, toward the bungalows. I watch his retreating back disappear between the luxury villas and the jet-setting denizens who stay there.

That’s one part of the resort I still have to explore.

I reach for my lemonade and take a long sip. Two weeks here might not be so difficult after all.

It’s the next morning, and I’m back to finish my survey of the breakfast buffet. My conclusions… The fruit is a must, especially mangoes grown here on the island. And, as good as they are, the waffles aren’t worth the space on the plate, not when the cooked-to-order pancakes are fluffy as a cloud. By the end of my trip here I’ll have my breakfasts down to an exact science.

I eat on the resort’s patio. It overlooks the crystal-clear, blue waters, with gently swaying palm trees casting a cooling shade over the space. I’ve been sitting here a while now, eating and reading the first of the three books I brought with me on this trip. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m also watching the other guests.

The sisters from yesterday are back, and while they aren’t arguing over breakfast, there’s a certain sharpness in their movements. Of course, I don’t know if they’re sisters. I don’t know anything about them at all, and that gives my imagination plenty of space to spin fanciful stories.

The secretive businessman-who-might-be-the-villain-in-my-new-story doesn’t show up.

The morning is pleasantly warm, but humidity is still present, and I’m forced to corral my long hair into a braid. Little tendrils escape around my face, curling in a way they never care to do back home. With my dark eyes and light-brown hair, one might think I tan well, but there’s always a pinky stage before I reach any kind of summer tan.

As the morning moseys into midday, I change into a bikini and a cover-up, and grab my beach bag and guidebook. As I head through the lobby, I take a deep breath of the citrusy scent that always lingers in the hotel’s common areas. Five-star service right there. My first booked excursion is tomorrow, and I want to make sure I know exactly what to expect.

There’s a line at the front desk, so I take my place behind a couple with huge bags that are likely checking in. I don’t mind the wait. I only want to confirm the pickup spot tomorrow, to make sure I don’t miss my snorkeling cruise.

An annoyed sigh sounds behind me. Apparently, not everyone’s okay with the wait. I glance over my shoulder.

It’s Phillip Meyer.

He hasn’t noticed me yet. His gaze is laser-focused above my head at the single attendant working at the front desk.

I can’t help myself.

“In a hurry?” I ask.

His focus shifts to me, jaw clenched tight. But then his eyes clear in recognition. “Hello, Eden. I didn’t see you.”

“Hiya.”

“You’d think a place like this would have two receptionists.”Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“Maybe they do,” I say calmly. “Maybe one got sick or had to step out for an important call…”

He’s quiet for a moment like he hadn’t expected a real answer. “Yes. I suppose so.”

“Are you checking out? I think there are boxes over there where you can leave your key card. You know, if you’re in a hurry.”

“I’m not checking out.”

“Oh, okay.” I shift my guidebook over, gripping it with both hands, and search for something to say.

He beats me to it. “You aren’t either, are you?”

“No.”

“Thought so. No bags,” he says and looks down between us. His gaze stops on my hands. “Is that a guidebook?”

I glance down at it and the colorful Post-it notes that stick up among the pages. “Oh, yes. I’ve been reading up on the island.”

“I’ll say.” His lips curve in one corner. “How long are you planning on staying? Two months?”

“Two weeks,” I say. “But it never hurts to be prepared. Those who fail to plan-”

“Plan to fail,” he cuts in. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Oh? Where’s your guidebook, then?”

He holds up his phone. “The accumulated wealth of human knowledge, right at my fingertips, and probably more up to date than a book.”

“You do seem very attached to your phone,” I say in a brilliant retort. It’s my wittiest moment to date.

But he just snorts. “The disease of the modern age. What are you in line for, then? Is your Wi-Fi also shit?”

“No, it works. Is that why you’re here?”

He nods. “Seems like the network doesn’t reach all the way to the bungalows, at least not reliably. I was on a video call for work this morning, and it kept cutting in and out.”