Destination Don'ts by Shyla Colt

Author:Shyla Colt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shyla Colt
Published: 2021-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

SICK OF TOSSING AND turning, I throw the lightweight, white sheets off my body, sit up, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I can’t stop thinking about Agustin. I’ve yet to make a decision about what I want, and it’s eating away at me. I walk over to the window and peer out at the moonlight dancing on the ocean waves below. I’m in a tropical paradise, and yet I feel no peace. I’ve been blindsided with a furlough, tempted by a man who’s my total opposite, and called to do things I never would’ve dreamt about. I’ve always been a planner. It allows me to feel in control when most of my life has been in some state of upheaval for one reason or another. I didn’t come to live with my grandmother until I was about five or six, and I remember those previous years.

I saw things no child should, experienced hunger and loneliness that sank so deep in my bones, I’m still trying to recover from it. Rules and lists are a balm to my soul. Now I’m adrift. I don’t care for the feeling. The grumbling from my stomach reminds me of how little I ate at dinner.

The Hospitality Suite. Changing into a flowing dress and flip-flops, I creep out of the hotel room, grateful for the empty halls three in the morning provides. Moving down the hallway, I stop at the room in the end and slip inside. The source of my anxiety glances up and smiles.

“Evening, princess. I see great minds do think alike.”

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He holds up a fat, lemon poppyseed muffin.

Roaring like a monster, my belly ends any thoughts I have of sneaking away.

Agustin pats the seat beside him. “Come and sit. Let me make you a plate.” He rises, steering me to the chair he pulled out. I sink into the chair and watch as he grabs a plate.

“Do you want a lemon poppyseed muffin?”

I nod my head, unable to speak when my mouth has become a dried husk. People aren’t considerate like this anymore. He puts two on my plate and moves farther down the serving table.

“What about fruit?”

“Yes, please.”

We continue until he’s pleased with his offering plate and returns. Setting the plate in front of me, he grins and sits beside me.

“I can tell there’s a lot on your mind. Eat, and then we’ll talk. I can’t sit here knowing you’re hungry.” He shakes his head.

His words make me feel cared for and seen. I have a weird relationship with food after long stretches without it. Breaking bread is an act of caring for the other person. I’ve never been one for domineering men, but I like the way he takes charge. As I inhale my muffins and apple, he remains content, never rushing, or trying to talk. I’m waiting to see the ugly side of him. Pleasantly full, I push my plate away and sigh.

“Better?”

“Much.”

“Let’s talk about why you’re up so late.

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