Page 109 of When Love Gives You Lemons
We deflate pretty fast when the receptionist says she doesn’t have a phone charger, and according to her, any stores that carry chargers don’t open until 10:00 a.m. tomorrow.
“We could comb the restaurant and hope someone has a ch—”
“Restaurant is closed,” the receptionist cuts me off with her thick Italian accent, drumming her apple-red nails on the counter.
“But I saw people inside.”
“Is closed.” She looks high, half-closed eyes fluttering, hair frayed and mussed. Still, she’s looking Ricky up and down, bending over the counter to see the puddle beneath his feet. To be fair, his vibe is very much “drowned rat.”
Ricky shakes his head, a signal for me not to argue with her.
“How much is a room for the night?”
Without flinching, she says, “Two hundred fifty euro.”
“That’s a lot of money,” I say, not having anticipated anything outside of the rehearsal dinner and helping Topher with his surprise for Sienna. I figured I’d be in bed crying over Ricky by now, not stranded with a boyfriend. Life is funny that way. I laugh to myself. “I don’t have my wallet.”
“I have mine.” Ricky pulls out his wallet. “Dad gave me some euros, in case.”
“Lifesaver!” I don’t say that I’m also worried we won’t make itback to the villa in time tomorrow for the wedding. According to Sienna’s carefully planned itinerary, pictures start around 10:30 a.m., so already we’re going to be late. How late depends on when we can find a store open with a charger and can charge enough to order an Uber.
That’s Tomorrow Fielder’s problem.
There’s nothing more we can do. We have no choice.
Life handed us lemons, might as well take a damn bite.
The small room is a far cry from the luxuries of Topher’s villa. Dirty, cracked tile floor. One old, chipped plaster dresser. Yellow cigarette-stained walls. One blue-framed painting of Positano. A desk so small it looks like it was made by Fisher-Price next to a skinny shelf that houses the board game Yahtzee from the 1970s and a vase of dead flowers.
A musty smell clings to everything and makes the air thick. I dash to the large picture window and throw it open, letting a gust of fresh air in.
But the pièce de résistance: one queen bed.
I laugh. “Only one bed, huh? What a cliché!”
“What are we gonna do?” Ricky raises his brows devilishly.
The door barely clicks shut, and I’m peeling his shirt off and tossing it to the floor. It lands with a shlockyclap.
“Wanna play Yahtzee?”
“Sexy Yahtzee?” He struggles to wriggle out of his jeans, his hairy thighs red from irritation. He moves quickly toward me, grabs the back of my head, and kisses me. He spins me around and throws me onto the bed, pinning me down.
The mattress is hard as marble, and the frame creaks, but it’s perfect.
Our noses graze. He closes his eyes and purrs.
“We’re really doing this, huh, you and me?”
“Wanna renege? Again? Already?” I joke.
He laughs and it’s unencumbered. “Never.”
Then he kisses me and kisses me and kisses me and kisses me until I’m drowning in him over and over again, lost in his undertow.
I close my eyes.
He arches his brows, then his back, as I slide down and take him into my mouth.
