One of them grunts and gestures to a row of unclaimed chairs near me. Not wanting any contact with them, I slip past and make my way to the beach.
The line of golden sand curves just below the resort, making the bay private for guests of the hotel. A pier juts out from just below the villas. That’s where I see the golden tan form of Cruise, my lunch date, poised, ready to dive into the water. He straightens, looks right at me and waves.
For the first time in my life, I experience that feeling where I want to look behind me, to see who he’s waving at. He stands, unmoving, until I raise one hand in a half-wave. He executes a perfect dive into the water, and swims halfway across the way, walking out of the water as it sluices off his muscles.
I try not to stare at his abs, every single line of them perfectly defined, the droplets of water shining on his bare chest. My core tightens and the place between my legs gets hot.
Since I’m holding a towel from the pool area, I step forward and offer it to him.
“Are we still on for today?” he asks.
“I agreed to go with you,” I say. “I don’t back out of my agreements.”
“Good.”
He waves the towel away.
“I’m going for a run. Want to meet me here, in half an hour or so?”
I hear the challenge in the question; he’s asking if I can be ready in half an hour. I want to surprise him, by offering to run with him. Toned as he is, I bet I could keep up, at least for half a mile or so. But the prospect of a quick shower is too appealing to pass up. I have enough pride to want to look my best at our lunch.
“Sure. If you’re hungry I can make it twenty minutes,” I tell him.
He shakes his head, “It takes fifteen minutes to run the length of the beach.” I make a mental note to run the beach myself, to see how much time I need.
“Half an hour it is, then.” I gesture for him to proceed, and he takes off at an easy run, stretching his muscles, his gold hair glinting in the sun. Realizing I’m not the only one staring after him –two nearby girls about my age in tiny bikinis are watching him too -- I turn and head to my room.
Half an hour later, in a white sundress, white wedge sandals, and what feels like too much lip gloss, I walk through the lobby, on my way to meet Cruise.
Having to hurry has given me less time to obsess over this odd lunch assignation, less time to be nervous. Less time to wonder why he’d want to spend time with me.
A couple of members of the staff give me tentative waves as I cross the lobby, stopping for a moment to admire the fountain. When the hotel was built in the 1920’s, it must’ve been a true marvel, and it’s still quite lovely. The tinkling sound of water adds a whimsical element to the overly formal area.
Cruise is waiting on the boardwalk. “Oh good,” I say. “I was hoping lunch was the type of occasion that would inspire you to wear a shirt.”
“Inspire me to wear a shirt?”
“I’ve only seen you in a shirt a few times. You seem to enjoy going without.”
“I own a couple of shirts.” He says it like it’s an accomplishment. I realize he’s teasing and we smile at one another.
“I’m sorry about the…misunderstanding you witnessed last night,” he says. “Patrick is a snake. I’ve known him since high school. He owns a company that screws elderly people out of their ocean front property so he can put high rises up. He’s trash.”
“And he threatens women,” I say.
“There’s that, as well. I’ve always hated him. We played football together, believe it or not.”
I want to ask if Cruise is from this area, why he’s staying at the hotel. But he’s so relaxed finally that I don’t want to push my luck.
“Do you think Patrick will sue?” And if he does, could Richard Bancroft hold me, as the manager on duty, responsible? It’s the first time the thought has crossed my mind. Anxiety settles in my abdomen at the thought of getting fired. I’m starting to really love it here, despite everything that’s wrong with the place.
Cruise laughs. “He doesn’t have the balls to sue the hotel. Bancroft is still a big name in this town. Patrick won’t want…the hotel family as an enemy. He’s just throwing his weight around.”
“And threatening women,” I remind him.
We’ve crossed the boardwalk. A street bisects the town, and we stop as a convertible passes, and then Cruise begins to walk again, ignoring the orange Don’t Walk warning.
“Yeah.” He glances over at me. “Crystal was a friend in high school. A good friend.” He doesn’t translate what good friend means to him, and I don’t need to ask. “But she’s gotten herself into a bad situation, dating that loser. She’s dependent on him for everything. Can’t break away from him, not matter how she tries.”