Page 22 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I…I just…”
Answering with the truth, that no matter how much he hurt me or how many years it’s been, there willalwaysbe a part of me that cares about him more than I should—well, that’s unacceptable. I shrug my shoulders instead.
“I should go take some pictures of the interior,” he says stiffly.
I drop my head as he moves away, leaving me all alone to curse the romantic enchantment of the Blue Lagoon.
Chapter 7
Tip #2 when visiting Iceland:Always beware of cyclists.
The forty-five-minute drive into Reykjavík passes in silence. Outward silence, at least. Inwardly, the lecture I’m giving myself is lengthy indeed. Not to get all Eminem in8 Mile, but I have one opportunity to get this right. One. And already I’m fucking up big-time. I’m too distracted to attempt the detailed write-up on the Blue Lagoon Ishouldbe doing while the images are fresh in my mind. Although, who am I kidding? After thatmomentwith Ben in those ridiculous blue waters, every nuanced detail will be ingrained upon my brain for eternity. Adding to my stress, I don’t imagine that accusing his star photographer of trying to kiss me wasAt! All!what Calvin had in mind for myrecruitmentefforts. God! Now I’m unfocused and unprofessional.
Forget a promotion. I’msogetting fired.
Closing my eyes, I rub at the pulsing pain between my brows.It’s a little after noon, and exhaustion is settling in rapidly. Risking a side glance over at Ben, I see his glazed eyes fixed straight ahead, face blank. If I’m this tired with a few hours of sleep (coma) on the plane, he must be completely wiped.
“Do you want me to drive for a bit?” It’s the first either of us has spoken since leaving the Blue Lagoon, and Ben startles at my voice, rapidly blinking several times.
“Thanks, but we’re almost there.”
He juts his chin forward, and I look back through the windshield to see the outline of a cityscape rising into view on the edge of the horizon, as if we’ve followed the yellow brick road to the edge of the Emerald City.
Minutes later, we’re driving into the heart of Reykjavík, and my eyes stayed glued to the passenger window as I take mental snapshots of my surroundings. Bike riders and pedestrians filling busy sidewalks—snap! Young kids in zipped-up jackets and caps pulled low playing various schoolyard games wherever there’s a swatch of open grass—snap! Colorful, artsy shops and cafés lining the streets, no corporate chains in sight—snap!
Then we’re turning into an underground parking garage, cutting the city out of view.
Once we’ve checked into our low-lit, sleekly decorated hotel, we take the elevator to the fourth floor and follow the dim hallway to neighboring rooms. Stopping outside our side-by-side solid-black doors, Ben flicks his wrist over and checks his watch. “Meet you downstairs at four?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Ben nods and disappears into his room, likely grateful for the four-hour reprieve from me.
Unlocking my door with the key card, I maneuver my luggage into the room that I’ll call home for the next two nights. I abandon my belongings in a heap by the door, cross the black laminate flooring as I flip off my shoes and strip off my clothes, pull the heavy gray curtains together until they block out most—but not all—of the daylight, and crawl into the plush queen-size bed in my bralette and underwear.
Just as I close my heavy lids and give in to the exhaustion of travel, a high-pitchedbeepsounds from somewhere in my room. I open my eyes and sit up, searching for the source.
Anotherbeep, louder this time.
What the fuck?
Climbing out of bed, there’s a thirdbeep, and then a fourth, each shriller than the last. Then the beeps come faster and more insistent, and I spin circles in my underwear and debate what to do. I flip the switch on the bedside lamp. Nothing happens. I try the switch on the wall for the overhead. Nothing happens there, either.
If this is some type of hotel evacuation, I should probably have clothes on.
I hastily dress in my abandoned pile of clothes once more and head out into the hallway, fully prepared to be met with others who must be hearing the same piercing beeps. But outside my door, it’s perfectly quiet. No beeps. Not another person in sight.
Does the fire alarm sound only inside the rooms? That doesn’t seem up to code.
Exhausted and confused, I eye Ben’s door. The last thing I want is to talk to him right now, but I don’t think I have a choice.
Burying my pride, which, let’s be honest, at this point isalready halfway in the grave, I walk to his door and knock three times.
When he eventually appears, it’s in gray sweatpants and a plain white tee, rubbing at his eyes as if he’d already fallen asleep. “Hey,” he says, voice raspy. “What’s wrong?”
