Page 66 of The Last Good Man

I’ve stayed in luxurious hotels in Paris, London, Rome, and Rio de Janeiro. Not to mention the ones in New York, LA, or Miami.

I’m used to nice things like crisp sheets, plump pillows, chilled champagne, and beautifully wrapped chocolates on the pillow, but this is more than that.

The spacious room hosts a large canopy bed, two nightstands, an antique red velvet settee,a pair ofconsole tables, tall vases overflowing with flowers, a mahogany lounge chair and ottoman set, a fireplace, and thick drapes.

The bed is covered in white petals and small chocolates in red foil wrappers. The room smells as if spring has swirled around the place.

Olivia invites me in and gestures around the space.

“This is the honeymoon suite,” she says unnecessarily, since everything suggests marital bliss.

The wooden floors creak while she strolls across and checks the door to the balcony.

“You can leave it open,” I say, as she wants to do the exact opposite.

A gust of wind sweeps in, making the fire lash at the logs. The sweet, fresh smell of flowers is quickly overpowered by the aroma of smoke.

“Are you sure?” she asks politely.

“Yes. I don’t mind the cold.”

She touches the drapes and shoots me a questioning look.

“You can open them as well.”

“Sure,” she says, promptly accommodating me. “This room has a lovely view,” she points out, gesturing to the lake outside and the footpath nearby. “It’s even prettier in the spring,” she adds, although I don’t need much convincing.

I like it as it is, with wisps of fog, a smoke-gray sky, and the glistening grass the clouds have cried on.

We both move our focus to the room.

“The main bathroom is over there,” she says, leading the way to the next room through a doorless entryway.

The white bathroom walls outline a space with a glass shower stall, a clawfoot porcelain bathtub big enough for two people, marble floors, and a designated corner divided into his and her areas.

Everywhere I look, fresh flowers, embroidered towels, and love quotes painted on soap dishesserve aslittle reminders that this space has been intended for two people in love.

A pang of sadness vibrates in me.

How do people go from crazy dating to something serene like this?

For a wavering momentthere, I make an effortto imagine Thomas, or someone like him, with me in a place like this.

How would we act?

How would we feel about each other?

Would we be comfortable with one another?

Would the sex be good?

Would there be any emotions?

Or would we just check this moment off our list, take some pictures for posterity, and have less-than-stellar sex before talking about practical things and moving on with our lives?

I don’t even know why I’m thinking about him.

The guy might not even be in the picture anymore.

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