Must Love Otters (13 page)

They set me up on the small sofa, a little awkward because I’m still in the evening’s hot-date attire and the dress is not covering as much leg as I’d like. I hope Miss Betty doesn’t think I’m a hussy.

“On the count of three, we’re going to ease your foot into the bucket,” Ryan says. “You ready?”

Miss Betty, as if reading my mind, hands me a small knitted throw from the back of the sofa to cover my lower half. “You’re gonna be cold in a minute, sweetie.”

I relax as much as I can so Ryan can ease my leg downward, the ankle disappearing into the melting ice. I chomp down. I wish they would’ve given me a shot of whisky or at least a leather strap to bite on. When the tears start rolling down my cheeks, smearing the mascara and leaving visible tracks in the foundation, I feel a little exposed. Again.

Why is this becoming a pattern?
Revelation Cove—come here so we can expose you to yourself and the world.

“There, there, Hollie, it’ll be okay. You want to hold my hand?” Miss Betty sits next to me and wraps her warm, soft hand around mine. Ryan excuses the young staffer and moves into the bathroom closet.

“He has a nice butt. Too bad I hate him,” I say through the tears.

Miss Betty laughs at me. “Well, I don’t know about his bum, sweetie, but you don’t hate him. Ryan’s a good boy. Works hard. Never complains. He cares about the people who come to stay here.”

“I gotta take this out. It hurts so much …” I feel lightheaded again.

“No, no—keep it in the ice. It’ll go numb in a minute,” Ryan says, walking toward us, towels in hand. In one swift movement, he opens the minifridge and pulls out a few small bottles. “Drink this. Oh, and ibuprofen.” From his pocket he pulls one of those foil packets the doctor’s office hands out.

“I don’t think I should mix these.”

“It’s not gonna kill you to mix ibuprofen with a few ounces of whisky.”

“How do you know?”

“If it did, half the players in professional sports would be dead.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to drink.”

“We don’t do it before a game, but once we’re home and away from the trainers … sometimes whisky is the only thing that works.” He breaks the seal on a bottled water. “Chase it with this, if you’re so concerned. I wouldn’t steer you wrong, Hollie Porter.”

I swallow the tablets with the liquor and half the water. My belly is sloshy, which means eventually all the liquid consumed this evening is going to need an exit strategy. I start crying again.

“Awww, it’ll be okay,” Miss Betty coos. “Does it hurt so much?” She looks up at Ryan. “Maybe we should take her to the mainland, to a proper hospital.”

“No! I’m fine,” I snort. “I … this was supposed to be a fun getaway and I had to go and screw it up, just like I screw everything up.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Hollie. We’ll help you out. When the swelling goes down, Ryan here can tape up your ankle just like the pros do. Gotta get those boys back out on the ice, right, Ryan?” She smiles. He chuckles at her. I wonder how long they’ve known each other. They seem close. “And what else do you have to do but relax? I have lots of books and we can set you up downstairs so you’re not lonely.”

A knock at the door. Ryan’s face changes.

“Oh God, that’s probably Roger and I’m a mess.” The ankle is, surprisingly, less painful. Sort of numb, just like Ryan promised.

“Do you want me to send him on his merry way?” Ryan asks.

“No, it’s fine. Just … whatever. I don’t care at this point. Let him in. You guys have other guests to tend to. I’ll be fine.”

Ryan opens his mouth as if to say something but then doesn’t, moving to the door. Indeed it is Roger, my tinfoil-wrapped dinner in one hand, a bottle of red wine and two glasses in the other.

“How’s the patient?” he says, striding in territorially. “I brought medicine.” He waggles the wine bottle.

“She’s already had a shot of whisky and ibuprofen. Probably no more wine tonight,” Ryan says.

“Well, thanks for your esteemed opinion, Dr. Ryan,” Roger says, a smile on his face but an edge to his voice.

“That decision is up to Hollie,” Miss Betty says. “We’ll go now but I want you to phone down to the front desk if you need anything.” She pulls a pad of paper and pen from the nightstand. “Here’s my direct line, and here’s Ryan’s. Don’t be shy about asking for help. Oh, and I’ll send one of the bellhops upstairs with the crutches so you can get around the room.”

Miss Betty pats my cheek and then moves to the door. “Ryan?”

“You sure you’ll be okay?” he asks me.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for your help.”

“Ice machine’s down the hallway. I’m sure Roger here can get you a fresh bucket, right, Rog?”

“Sure, yeah, no problem.”

“Keep it elevated. I’ll come by in the morning and see if it can be wrapped until Dr. James arrives.”

“I’m sure we can cover it, Ryan. It’s not like she broke it,” Roger says dismissively. He doesn’t know me well enough yet to be speaking on my behalf.

“Thanks, you guys. I appreciate your help,” I say. Ryan nods and follows Miss Betty out the door. I’m again alone with Roger, which is what I wanted in the beginning of the evening, but everything has changed in the last hour or so and now I’m feeling very sorry for myself.

“You hungry?” He points at the plate resting atop the small dining table. “It’s probably still warm.”

“Not really, but thanks. Sorry I screwed up the evening.”

“What? Nah, you didn’t. We can hang out here. It’s nice. I haven’t seen these smaller rooms. Very quaint.”

“Yours is bigger?”

“I always book the suite on the top floor. Great views. We can go up there, if you want.” He puts a hand on the wheelchair, his eyes sparkling with mischief. I find it annoying given current circumstances.

“You know what, I’m actually in a lot of pain, so I don’t know if I’ll be the best company tonight.”

He sits next to me on the small couch, his hand on my knee. “I’m being a jerk. I get nervous when someone is injured. I’m used to being the person who can fix everything.” He grabs the icepacks. “Let’s do this—I can help you settle on the bed and we can order a movie, lady’s choice.”

That doesn’t sound too terrible. Although I’m not excited about pulling the ankle out of the bucket. Ryan was right—the numbing works. Then again, the wine and shot of whisky, not to mention the comedown from the adrenaline, is making me really tired.

I let Roger help me onto the bed, and as expected, the throbbing starts anew as soon as the freeze wears off. He cracks the icepacks and wraps the whole ankle with a towel to keep everything in place. I feel helpless. This is not my idea of a great first date.

“Roger, you don’t have to do this. I feel like an ass.”

“Don’t worry. I got no place to be.” He raids the couch cushions and sets up a nest on the bed. Throws the remote onto the duvet. “They’ve got pay-per-view.” He clicks through the guide, and I’m a little nervous when I see him heading into the adult channels.

“We could watch something naughty …” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. I’m guessing my response doesn’t meet with his expectation when he retreats into the lower digits.

“Wait—” He stops on the National Geographic Channel. “Perfect.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.” Damn, yeah. This is my vacation, and I will not allow some pervy new guy dictate my viewing menu.

“You’re a wildlife junkie, huh?” he says, smiling.

“I am, I guess.”

“Favorite critter?”

“Otters. You?”

“I’ve been to Africa and saw the big cats on a nature reserve in Kenya. That was pretty crazy. I like animals, but I’m so busy, I don’t have any of my own. Seems cruel to have a cat or dog I’m never home to take care of.”

“You should try fish. Good starter pets.”

“Oh, yeah? But who will feed ’em?”

“Your maid,” I tease. He laughs and stands to pour wine.

“How’s the ankle?” He hands me a glass. I likely won’t drink it because I actually do want to stay conscious—and clothed—tonight. One sip, and I give it to the nightstand.

“Comfortably numb.”

“You feel like a shoulder rub?”

“Would it be weird if I said no?”

“Not at all. Just trying to help the little patient.” He takes a healthy swig of his wine and settles into the cushions next to me. The drowsy is taking over, even with the documentary about Brutus the domesticated grizzly. I’ve seen it before but I love that bear. I want one. He and Chloe the Cougar could protect my family of otters from scary predators. We’d be our own wildlife sanctuary.

Two hours later, Roger is snoring next to me and I’m awakened from my own little impromptu nap by a pissed-off bladder. Oh, this is not going to go well. I’m still wearing the tiny black dress, not exactly great for hopping around, but what choice do I have? If I strip, darling Rog might take it as me wanting to see his parts naked too. The G-string and strapless bra aren’t unsightly by any means, but the evening hasn’t at all turned out the way I’d hoped, and I’m not feeling super sexy with the ballooning, purple ankle and eyes puffy from wine and tears.

But I have to pee. Or else I will die.

Worse, I could piss the bed and that will be the end of me at Revelation Cove.

I unwrap the towels around the now-tepid icepacks and am happy to note that the swelling has gone down somewhat. I can do this. I can hop to the toilet and do my business. I am not at all interested in having Roger watch me pee. Too much information, too soon.

One hop, two hops, three hops, floor.

I cringe and turn back to the bed. Roger is blissfully unaware that I have vacated the space next to him, so I’m off, on hands and knees, onto the very cold tile of the bathroom floor.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so much in love with a toilet.

My phone is sitting on the counter.
Don’t look at it, Hols. Leave it.

Of course, I pick it up. Keith has emailed. “TV’s out. Left next month’s rent too—until you can get a roommate. Polyester Patty said you have the stomach flu? But you’re not at home, so I hope you’re having fun wherever you are. I won’t narc on you. Love, Keith.”

Shit. I lied to my boss. Eighty-sixed my relationship. Skipped town. This Brave New Hollie isn’t working out the way I’d hoped.

“It’s been three days, Hol,” I whisper to myself. Three days. Only a million more to go before I figure out who I am.

The knock at the door comes early. I wake to find myself clothed and vaguely remember throwing my very unsexy pajamas on after the magical trip to the toilet. Roger is in his khakis but his shirt is off, revealing the tan pecs and abs I noted poolside. Before Roger, I’ve only ever seen flesh like that on magazine models. Pasty Keith wasn’t a sight for sore eyes in the bathing suit department.

Again with the comparisons.

Knock knock knock.

I try to stand. Remember immediately why that is a bad idea.

“Roger … Roger, can you get the door?” I nudge his shoulder. Grab a tissue to wipe eye boogers clean before he wakes to mascara blobbed around my eyes. And I’m going to need toothpaste before too much conversation happens.

“Huh? What? Heyyyy, good morning, beautiful,” he says. I can’t help but smile. No one’s ever woken up and said that to me. Perhaps Wednesday will be better.

“Can you get the door? Pretty please?”

“Sure, sure.” He jumps up but doesn’t bother with such a silly thing as covering his upper half. When the door opens, it swings wide enough for me to see the disapproval on Miss Betty’s face. I wave, hoping she will notice that I am in fact fully clothed in PJs embossed with baby otters and starfish. See? No boobies anywhere, Miss Betty!

She bobs her head politely but simply hands off a set of crutches.

Why do I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar? Damn Catholic relatives and their genetic guilt. I didn’t even
taste
the cookies. And it’s not lost on me that the cookies look delicious even after a lame night’s sleep in a stranger’s bed. He looks as good as he did when he zonked out last night.

That is so not fair.

Roger helps me adjust the crutches to the correct height. I sneak into the bathroom and rinse with a half-liter of mouthwash, followed by a quick slathering of lip gloss. Pull my hair into a messy, supermodel-ish bun. Roll the waistband of my PJs so a little tummy shows. Not perfect but neither is planting my face into the hardwoods on a first date. If he stayed the night without any action, he must be okay with not perfect.

Upon opening the bathroom door, my yay-this-guy-might-be-awesome is met with a dose of reality. He’s fully dressed, shoes on, phone against his ear, looking out the window. He hangs up and moves across the room, dimpled smile in place. “I have a surprise for you.”

“For … me?”

“How soon can you be ready?”

“Half hour? I just need to clean up a little …”

“Nothing here needs cleaning up. You’re radiant,” he coos as he steps closer. God, he smells so good. His lips brush mine. I’m surprised to find his breath minty. Again. Must have a secret stash somewhere. “I want to make last night up to you.”

“But you didn’t do anything—”

“I know. And I had so many things planned for you.” He kisses me again, longer, more intense. It overrides the throb screeching from my ankle. “I’ll meet you downstairs in thirty. Wear something comfortable.” His finger along my cheek sends shivers to all the right spots.

I practically chew the ibuprofen Ryan left in the bathroom. Face on, hair tamed, I’m in the lobby with moments to spare. Roger moves like a god from the dining area, a huge basket in hand, emanating confidence and health. Clearly he is a man who takes care of his body. Such a contrast from what I’m used to.

I pinch the side of my leg to make sure I’m awake. Not even the swelling around my toes is enough to convince me this is real, that rich, beautiful Roger is walking toward
me
with that basket, that glow, that look of warmth. All for me.

“You ready?”

“I don’t know. Where are we off to?” I try to peek into the basket. He taps my hand away.

“Come on, broken princess.” He opens the resort’s front door and we are assailed with the absolute glory of the mid-May sunshine. The sky is a sinful blue, not a cloud in sight, the scent of new growth heavy in the morning air. Roger leads the way, slow as I am on these ridiculous crutches, down the pathway and onto the docks. The doors of one of the float planes—a nicer one, not Miss Lily—sits open, a two-tiered step stool on the dock awaiting passengers.

“Where are we going?”

“Would you, Miss Porter, be my guest for an aerial tour of the local islands, followed by a delectable lunch on one of the many fantastic beaches?”

Eyes wide, I laugh. “Are you serious?”

He extends a hand to help me onto the plane. “Your presence would be a gift.”

No way this is real. But I’m going to go with it and pretend that it is until something loud and bloated with reality wakes me from the dream.

Which happens way faster than I expect. On board the floatplane, a far nicer model than the supply plane, I am met with the grin of our pilot. “Good morning, Hollie Porter,” Ryan says. A damp curl bobs haphazardly against his forehead.

Roger slides in after me, sitting very close, arranging the crutches along the plane’s floor. “Is he really the pilot?” I whisper.

“Are you displeased?” Roger says into my ear. It tickles. Of course I’m not displeased. I couldn’t care less if Concierge Ryan is flying the plane, as long as Roger keeps breathing into the side of my face like that. His breath is like … like sex-fairy dust. My mind races with the possibilities of landing on an island, ditching our beloved pilot, and exploring the wilder side of Roger’s nature.

“You kids ready?” Ryan says, his headset in place. I guess we don’t get headsets this time.

The takeoff is definitely smoother in this aircraft—remind me to take one of these planes home. No more Miss Lily. Hell, maybe by week’s end, alternate arrangements for transport home will be necessary.

Stop, Hollie.

You can take the girl out of the relationship but you can’t take the relationship out of the girl. Or something like that. This is dumb, thinking so far ahead. I need to be in the moment. Live in the moment. Enjoy the moment.

Because at
this
moment, Roger’s arm is wrapped around my shoulders, his hand is clutching mine, and I’m in a plane flying above some of the most spectacular landscape I have ever seen, next to one of the most spectacular male specimens I have ever had the pleasure of touching. My tummy is aflutter with nervous energy—the good kind, not the
shit I’m going to
hurl
kind. New romance! New adventures!

I feel like such a big girl right now. Look at me go.

Like a proper tour host, Concierge Ryan does a fine job detailing island histories—old First Nations settlements, long gone, fishing and hunting activities for locals and tourists alike, common wildlife, local lore. I let go of the initial awkward feeling and sink into Roger’s smile, his hard but supple body curled against mine, the attention he gives me every time I get excited about a herd of deer or a gaggle of Canada geese.

I could so live up here.

Ryan announces that he’s going to take us down onto a beach the locals call Brigand Bay. Just as with takeoff, this landing is smooth as silk. Despite Ryan being a pain in the ass, my faith is restored, especially when he pulls us along the shore and jumps out in waders to escort both of us onto dry land. I try not to notice how, when he carries me, it’s as if I weigh no more than a dandelion’s feathery seed before he hands me off to Roger. The two men move quickly to organize our picnic: checkered blanket spread, food displayed, Champagne popped. Roger pulls a very fat wallet (do rich people call them wallets?) from his back pocket, pulls several brown Canadian hundreds, and moves down the beach to Ryan. A quiet conversation ensues, sealed with a handshake and a smile. Ryan pulls his own pack from the plane’s interior and disappears around the corner of the beach.

We are alone.

Roger feeds me fresh Brie on water crackers, my first caviar (and likely my last, but don’t tell), smoked salmon and crusty French bread and the sweetest bubbly I’ve ever tasted. He tells me stories of his days on the rowing team at the University of Washington and laughs loudly when I tell him the crazy trouble we’d get into during my (unfinished) days at Oregon State, the pranks we play on Troll Lady at work but how I totally had nothing to do with Elvis’s haircut. Conversation about everything—and nothing—perfect.

So, so perfect.

He rubs the back of my hand, tracing the bones down each finger. Asks about Oliver Otter and in response to the
Enhydra lutris
banner shares his own list of impressive Latin names:
Phoneutria
, or Brazilian wandering spider, sometimes called the banana spider (this one apparently because they had a castaway in an order shipped to a FruitBasket store);
Gorilla diehli
, the Cross River gorilla of West Africa, of which there are only a few hundred remaining and thus is this year’s chosen beast for company-wide fundraising activities (of which he has many, including literacy programs for inner city schools, back-to-work grants for the homeless, and round-it-up initiatives in the retail stores from which the extra pennies go to support local kids’ sports teams); and Sangiovese of the species
Vitis vinifera
, the most planted, most delectable grape used in Italian wines.

“Like this one,” he says, corking a bottle of red pulled from the basket.

Hello, Universe? Can I keep this one? Pretty please? I promise to get regular Paps and dental check-ups, I’ll stop filing my taxes late, and I won’t lie about my weight on my driver’s license ever again. Fine. Yes. I’ll stop feeding codeine to demonic goats.

PLEASE.

Let me keep Roger. Or at least, let me sleep with him.

I am ashamed at how naughty I am. Until the little devil who perches on my left shoulder in her overpriced shoes and fresh manicure giggles and implants images of a naked Roger in my sex-starved brain.

Two hours in, my ibuprofen is wearing off, though the ankle pain is dulled by impressive volume of wine and the happy-making endorphins surfing through my veins. Thus, I’m comfortably numb. Thank heavens. And despite the midspring temperatures, a slight sunburn pinks my cheeks.

Roger’s phone buzzes. “It’s Ryan. Are we ready to go yet?”

“I suppose. You?”

“There’s one thing I want to show you first.” Roger texts back to Ryan. “I’ll have him clean this up while we go.”

“How far?” I nudge the crutches.

“I will be your chariot, milady.”

Roger hoists me onto his back and we move down the beach, in the direction opposite where Ryan disappeared. I’m excited to see what awaits—the little girl in my head hopes it will be otters. The big, naughty girl hopes it involves Roger’s hands on the parts of my body that are supposed to stay covered by clothing.

Alas, no otters. We do make it to a more secluded beach area, the trees and foliage denser. Roger sets me on a log, his forehead hinting at a sweat given the workout of carrying me across the rocky sand. He moves through the bushes, foraging, plucking from the branches and from the greenery that melts into a greater forest behind us. “I want to show you the variety of berry plants on these islands. We hire special pickers to harvest for a number of our specialty jams.” He offers a flat hand with different-shaped leaves. “There are no berries yet because it’s too early, but these are the plants they come from.”

We’re here because he wanted to show me plants?

This is why we’re here in this secluded, romantic spot in the middle of nowhere?

He identifies the varying leaf structures for a salmonberry, a red huckleberry, tall Oregon grape that is used primarily for flavoring but can be toxic. Another one I don’t catch the name of. “Wow. That’s … fascinating.”

“Oh God, I’m boring you, aren’t I? I get excited about this stuff. I am so sorry,” he says, brushing off his hands. “Come here. Let me make it up to you.” He buries his hands in my hair, wrapping their warmth around my neck.

Now
this
is what I’m talking about.

We’re moving right along, hands under shirts, his fingers toying with the edge of my bra’s padding, our conjoined breath rushing quickly toward the top of the mercury. When my hands fidget with the button on his shorts, I realize I may break every Good Girl Rule taped on the walls of my fickle head.

Roger stops kissing me, pulls back for a moment, and cranes his head to listen.

“What? Why are you stopping?” I say, chest heaving.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” I ask, biting at his lower lip. And then I do hear it—the sound of water. Like, being poured from a water bottle?

Clutching my upper arms, Roger turns. “Who’s there?”

Ziiiiiiip.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Ryan emerges from the bushes, guilty smile on his damned hairy face.

“Were you … peeing? In the bushes?” I say, adjusting my shirt.

“I am so sorry. I thought you guys went the other way. I—I made my way around the entire island and was coming back to clean up the lunch stuff. God, seriously, Roger, Hollie …”

“No, it’s fine,” Roger says, his smile tight. The vibe rolling from him does not say that Ryan urinating on our very intimate moment is okay, but he’s quiet as he hoists me onto his back and moves in the direction of the plane.

Ryan leads the way, looking back only once. I swear I see a smug smile. I want to smack it off.

As we round the bend, Ryan hollers loudly and takes off at a sprint. He moves pretty quick for such a big guy. His arms flail wildly and he continues yelling—at the large family of raccoons that have descended upon our lovely picnic. The black-masked bandits think little of the crazed hairy beast running at them. Roger’s laugh is infectious, and we stop, waiting for Ryan to chase off the marauders. Their wobbly, chubby bodies disappear into the thicket, but left in their wake is the sad reminder that a once-beautiful picnic existed here. Even the red-checkered blanket is now covered in their wee raccoony footprints.

The laughter only abates after Roger sets me down and reaches to help Ryan clean up. It is then that he finds his wallet. And the formerly fat lump of cash is remarkably … thinner.

“What the hell?” he says.

A smile creeps across Ryan’s dumb face, a completely irrational and contrary response given the look on Roger’s. “Did you have hundreds in there?”