Couldn’t be more lovey-dovey than that, now, could he? What had she expected? She knew what she was doing last night. She had all but begged him to make love to her, and she wasn’t at all sorry about it. She just wanted to be with him for one beautiful night. No strings attached. She knew he didn’t love her, and she had to remind herself to be okay with that.
Having reasoned it out, she could move forward. She ordered breakfast and opened her laptop to read her emails. One email was from Damon, and what he wrote lightened her mood. He’d run into Mia at Starbucks, took her out to dinner, and found himself apologizing. He still didn’t know what their argument was about, but Mia decided to forgive him. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to ask her specifically what he had done. He ended the email with a disclaimer: he wasn’t in love with her. Isabel interpreted his denial to mean just the opposite. Another email was from Lexi, who suggested that Isabel check out several celebrity sites. According to her, at the moment Isabel was the It girl.
Isabel bounced from one gossip site to another and was shocked. Overnight, rumors had started flying. Her face was everywhere, and the reports about her were outrageous. Two different sites wrote that she was engaged to Xavier; another suggested they were already married. There was also a story that she had signed with one of the top recording labels for millions of dollars. How could they make up such blatant lies and print them? She knew there were people who believed whatever they read. She couldn’t stop them, so she decided the only thing she could do about all the misinformation floating around out there was to ignore it.
There was a knock on her door, and Isabel rushed to answer it. Maybe Michael’s meeting had been canceled or rescheduled and he’d come back. When Regan walked in, Isabel turned away so her friend wouldn’t see how disappointed she was.
Isabel was disgusted with herself. She was not going to let herself turn into a lovesick, needy woman. The possibility of that ever happening turned her stomach.
Forcing a cheerful voice, she said, “Thank you again for letting me stay in this beautiful suite. I’ll hurry and pack—”
Regan interrupted. “No, the suite is yours until you leave on Monday.”
Although grateful for Regan’s generosity, Isabel refused to take advantage. “That’s too much,” she said. “I’ll move my things—”
“The suite is yours until you leave for the airport Monday,” Regan repeated. “I’ve already done the paperwork.” She added with a smile, “Besides, this particular suite is scheduled for a complete makeover, and it won’t be booked again until it’s finished. If you don’t use it, it will just sit empty until the middle of next week. That’s when the crew will start the remodel.”
“Regan, I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I want to be responsible for the room charges. I gave my credit card to the front desk.”
“There won’t be any charges,” Regan insisted. “This is your graduation present from Alec and me. We want you to pamper yourself. Order whatever you want and take advantage of the spa.”
“I was planning to stay on Nathan’s Bay tonight,” Isabel said. “But coming back here is very tempting.”
“Just leave your things here until you’re back . . . whenever that is.”
Room service arrived, interrupting the discussion. The waiter wheeled in a table laden with enough food to feed a large family. Lifting the silver domes he revealed fresh fruit, yogurt, bagels, cream cheese, and an assortment of Danish and toasts with jam. Crystal pitchers were filled with two kinds of juice, and a sterling pot of water was steaming hot for the variety of teas next to it.
“Oh my,” Isabel said when she saw the feast. “Have you had breakfast, Regan? Will you stay and eat with me?”
“As a matter of fact, I left Nathan’s Bay early, and I was going to order something when I got here.
This is perfect.” As she poured orange juice into a glass, she asked, “Are you in a hurry to get back to the island today?”
“Not at all, but I’ll leave whenever you’re ready.”
“I’d like to get some work done, and it’s going to take time. Kate called and told me it’s a madhouse on the island. The men went sailing to get out of the way while the catering companies get the place ready for the party. They’re expecting around a hundred people, and there’s even going to be a dance floor and music. I think we should also stay out of everyone’s way. Don’t you?”
Isabel laughed. “I’m all for that.”
“I brought my dress with me for tonight. I’ll come get you around five.”
“What time does the party start?”
“Six,” she said.
“Why so early?”
“Some of the guests are quite elderly and will want to leave by nine. That’s when the party will really get started. You’ll have the rest of the day to relax. Why don’t you get a massage and a facial?”
The talk eventually turned to the concert, and Regan admitted she was a little starstruck.
“Xavier is wonderful, isn’t he?” Isabel said.
“Yes, he is, but I was talking about you. When you walked onstage, you . . .”
“I what?”
“You took over. Isabel, you were fantastic, and you looked so at ease. The audience loved you.”
Isabel shook her head. “At ease? I was worried the entire time that I would throw up.”
Isabel was glad she had been able to convince people she was totally comfortable onstage, but their perception couldn’t be further from the truth. Singing with Xavier in front of thousands of people had been a thrill of a lifetime; however, it wasn’t a thrill she wanted to repeat. And after all these years of suppressing music, this was a revelation she would never have expected. Maybe she was finally discovering who she was.
After breakfast Regan left to go down to the business office, where it was quiet and she could get some work done without distractions. Having the rest of the day to herself, Isabel decided to take Regan’s suggestion. She spent a long while at the fitness center, even did some laps in the pool, then showered and ordered a snack. In the mood to pamper herself, she then put on baggy sweats and went down to the spa. She was hoping she could beg someone to do her hair and makeup, but she didn’t have to beg at all. Everyone there knew who she was, and the same stylist—a sweet man about her age named Curtis, who had applied her makeup for the concert—couldn’t wait to get his hands on her again.
The hairstylist got hold of Isabel first, and while he washed and dried her hair, he told her all about his wife’s interfering sisters. Then Curtis stepped forward to do her makeup. He wasn’t as heavy-handed as he’d been for the concert, and as he worked, he confided in great detail that his fiancée’s mother didn’t approve of him. He continued his narrative about the woman for a while, then
paused and stepped back with a makeup brush in hand, silently pondering his situation and finally nodding to her. “Right, Isabel. Maybe I should stop calling her a bitch.”
Isabel was pleased he agreed with her suggestion.