Page 33 of Sassy Love
I clear my throat and secure my seat belt over my lap before flicking the turn signal and pulling from the curb and into traffic.
“Nice wheels,” he says softly.
My skin is awash with goosebumps at his low tone.
Ignoring him, I tighten my grip on the wheel.
“Should take us about two hours,” he says, tapping his phone.
“Yup.” I let theppop.
Longest two hours of my life.
“Not really one for small talk, are you, Lamont?”
“Absolutely. Just . . . not with you.”
He chuckles.
“Well, we’re going to have to sort it out before we both end up unemployed.”
“You mean, you’ll be unemployed. I have prospects.”
He dares to chuckle again.
It takes every fiber in my being to not ram his side of the car into the guard rail as we merge onto the highway.
As if I would ever... My beautiful BMW, I would never.
But it’s a fucking temptation.
With a satisfying lack of small talk, or any talk at all, we reach Hartford in under two hours. I pull into the parking lot of the retreat. The huge sign welcoming all to Cedar Beach Lodge passes overhead as we roll into the last of the free parking spots.
The place is buzzing with activity. It must be high season.
People mill about the expansive grounds. A group is in the middle of a yoga lesson to one side of the main building. A few folks lounge by a beach-type pool area that looks like it has a bungalow-inspired bar with grass hut vibes, complete with a couple of waitresses sporting coconut bikini tops.
Shaking my head, I glance at Rawlins, who is taking in our surroundings, his glasses pulled down with one hand.
I check the gauges and kill the engine.
I leave Rawlins to grab our bags as I check in. He can figure out his accommodations after he hauls the luggage in.
The girl behind the counter shoots me a nervous smile as she appears to be checking and double-checking something. “So, we have you booked for the week, with an option for ten days if needed.”
I raise an eyebrow.
God no. There is no way I’m prolonging this torture.
Damn you, Serelle. Always finding a way to keep us accountable.
“Okay . . .” I study her face.
Why is she so nervous? I school back the resting bitch face that usually takes up permanent residence on my features. She taps away again before lifting the receiver on the phone. “Monty, we have an issue with the bookings.”
She hums in agreement as Monty, or whoever, replies on the other end of the line. And when she hangs up with a tight smile, I know something is off.
“So, we had your last-minute booking, but your two twin rooms that were booked got snatched up earlier.”
