Page 84 of Natural Passion

"Of course he is. Val's crazy about you."

A half-hearted shrug was all I could muster in response.

"You're wiped out," Ollie said. "Get some rest. I'll take care of lunch and dinner. If you don't mind me invading your kitchen."

I shrugged again.

"Be back in a few minutes," he said. "Gotta put some clothes on to make the food. You always tell us we can eat naked, but you have to make and serve the food with clothes on."

"Uh-huh."

He gave my arm a squeeze and trotted back to the guest house.

I slept all afternoon. Though I'd missed lunch, I didn't feel hungry at all. Ollie insisted I eat, even sat there watching me to make sure I did eat something. The food tasted like cardboard. Ollie's cooking wasn't the problem. Nothing would've tasted right to me. Nothing felt right either. My home had been invaded, my privacy torn to shreds, and my reputation blackened. Would anyone come to my resort ever again? I'd probably lose my business and be forever known as the slut who screwed Val Silva behind the guest house. Maybe I was overreacting, but I couldn't stop the crazy thoughts from whirling inside my head.

None of that mattered half as much as the fact he'd walked out on me.

After I dutifully swallowed food I couldn't taste, Ollie hugged me and left. I grabbed my cell phone and called Val. His voicemail picked up. I left a stammering message, sounding like an idiot. Two hours later, I left another message. At midnight, I tried again.

When I finally went to bed, I didn't get much sleep. Crying kept me awake.

The next day, I picked myself up and got back to it. Though my eyes were gritty and puffy and had dark circles under them, I refused to wallow any longer. I showered, got dressed, and started working on breakfast for the guests. Ollie showed up and insisted on helping. It seemed strange to see him in clothes, but he turned out to be an excellent helper. He also insisted on taking care of the other guests, handling any problems or requests they had.

When I caught him cleaning the toilets in the guest-house rooms, I told him, "You are a guest, Ollie. You shouldn't be doing janitorial work."

He kept scrubbing the toilet while he told me, "I don't mind. It's nice to do something constructive instead of being stuck in a cubicle. Besides, this place is like a second home to me. You're like a sister, and the other guests are my crazy aunts and uncles." He paused in his scrubbing and looked up at me. "I love you, Evie. Anything you need, I'm here to help."

I didn't know what to say to that other than the truth. "I love you too, Ollie."

We went on like that for a week. Ollie served as janitor, handyman, sous chef, receptionist, and guest coordinator. He had no official job here, but he worked as hard as any full-time employee. He wore clothes most of the time since the health code required him to wear clothes while cooking and serving food and, well, it would've been icky for him to go nude while cleaning toilets. In his duties as my receptionist and guest coordinator, he preferred to go au naturel.

Every day, at least five times a day, I tried to call Val. I gave up on leaving voicemails since he ignored them. I texted and emailed, but he ignored that too. After ten days, I gave up. Val was never coming back. My chest ached and tears blurred my vision every time I thought about him. Part of me wanted to hunt him down and kick his ass for running out on me. The rest of me, the larger and far less brave part, preferred to hide.

Another week dragged by with no contact from Val, not even a piddly email offering a half-assed explanation. The biggest excitement I had that week was of the unpleasant variety. I had decided to repaint the dining hall and went to the hardware store for the necessary supplies. Ollie had offered to handle the supply run, but I needed to get away from the guests for a while.

I was holding a gallon-size can of paint, reading the fine print on it, when I spotted a figure approaching in my peripheral vision. Glancing up, I nearly dropped the paint can.

Quentin nodded and offered me a tight smile. "Eve."

My brain couldn't generate any response to his appearance. Since I didn't care to stammer like an idiot, I opted for the silent treatment accompanied by what I hoped came off as a hard stare.

He hunched his shoulders and jammed his hands in his pants pockets. "I, uh, ought to explain."

I clutched the paint can to my belly. "Not interested in any explanations from you."

"You'll want to know this." He scrunched up his face and refused to look at me. "I'm the reason the paparazzi found out about you and Val."

The room did a pirouette around me. I hugged the paint can tighter, unable to speak until the spinning stopped. Even then, I opened my mouth but couldn't muster words. Quentin had called the paparazzi? How had he even known who to call?

He bowed his head, his shoulders hiking up even higher. "I'd been kinda jealous of Val. Started talking to the pretty new cashier Sam hired. More than once, I talked about Val and how he's a nudist, how he did all kinds of crazy shit that anybody can see online."

"You were blabbing about my private life to the checkout girl."

"Well…" He coughed and peeked up at me before averting his gaze again. "It was kinda like therapy for me. I got all my frustrations out and, after the third time, I realized I'm not jealous anymore."

"Hooray for you." I shoved the paint can onto the shelf where I'd found it and rounded on Quentin. "You feel better, so you decided to call in the hell hounds?"

"No, I—" He raised his face to me. "The cashier girl did. Just now, I was talking to her. She was upset the paparazzi didn't hang around for longer since she was looking forward to our little town getting on the evening news. That's why she told them about Val. She went to the website of one of those tabloids and submitted a tip. I think she got paid for it too."

---