And then my follicles prickle, and my nerves skitter in that now-familiar manner.
No.
Surely not.
I turn my head, and he’s there. Cal Fucking Prescott.
My eyes round. He grins.
I glare, and he manages to look abashed.
Then I storm from the patio and slam the sliding door shut.
I yank the curtains closed.
Fuck.
He found me.
CHAPTER NINE
Cal
I stare at Jason’s newly darkened patio. That was him.
I wasn’t sure the taxi was following him to the right place, and then I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find his room. Well, villa, because of course this is a five-star place. Did he pick a hotel by sorting by most expensive?
The important thing is that I found him.
If Jason doesn’t grant me the interview, I can report on what he’s doing. He’s probably going to do everything except reflect on his behavior. The resort promises massages and jet skiing and dinner where natives in grass skirts come to dance and sing.
Guests sport designer sunglasses and beach bags. Most of them have Australian accents. We really are on the other side of the world. Was Jason so desperate to leave Boston?
Something bubbles in my esophagus again. Something I would call guilt, but that has to be wrong. I pace the beach.
The five-star hotel is immaculate. Expansive greens stretch toward the power of the Pacific, dotted with sleek palm trees, bursts of flowers, and modern villas too cool for proper roofs. Bright white blocks, the pride of some pricey architect firm, are set against the brighter blue sky. Thick stone walls adorned with pink and purple bougainvillea guard the resort from prying eyes and anything on the other side that might be deemed non-paradisal.
The blinds of Jason’s boxy villa remain shut.
He clearly doesn’t want to speak with me.
God, we got along so well together a decade ago.
Guilt moves through me again, and I remind myself that Jason isn’t a nice guy. He’s homophobic. He deserves to beexposed. Gay and bisexual and pansexual athletes deserve to not be fearful during their work.
But the only one who seems fearful is Jason. Am I causing this?
Children giggle happily, bouncing over the spongy grass. Couples stroll hand-in-hand, no doubt recounting elaborate proposals. The few men strolling on their own are probably working on their romantic monologues and practicing their kneels.
Everything here is romance and joy, things that have eluded me in life. My sports obsession puzzled my short list of boyfriends, as has my devotion to a not particularly lucrative career. My bulky figure seldom compels strangers to ask me out, and I don’t have the patience and low expectations essential for an active dating app life.
It’s fine. My career is on the rise. My sacrifices were worth it. I don’t need to be some romance hero. That’s for people with high cheekbones and tenor voices. Not everyone is good with sports facts. Win some, lose some.
I ignore the ever-growing voice that I might lose everything if I don’t get the interview with Jason, if I followed him across the world and have nothing to show for it except tanner skin, the sort that will make my colleagues huff and whisper and question.
At dinner I go to the fanciest restaurant, because that’s where Jason will be.
He isn’t.
