Page 52 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

She doesn’t look up when I knock on the doorframe, but holds up a finger of one hand in a just-a-minute gesture. She’s typing furiously, a scowl on her face.

Then she clicks dramatically, and I think I hear her mutter, “Take that, you dastard,” before looking up at me and smiling sweetly. “Did you need something?”

I open my mouth, try to move past my confusion but then can’t. “Did you mean bastard?”

“What?”

“You just muttered, take that, you dastard.”

“No, I didn’t.” She smiles, cheerful, wide-eyed, and clearly faking it.

“It’s just that dastard is a pretty archaic word and—” I cut myself off, because she doesn’t need a Scrabble-based lecture. Instead, I try again. “Can you arrange a boat trip to Caye Caulker for me in the morning?”

I pull up the travel app on my phone and double check the flights. If I can make it to Caye Caulker before 10:00 am, I can get on a flight to Belize City and then catch another flight to Houston. I’ll be back in Austin by tomorrow night.

“Oh, do you want to schedule an excursion?” She bustles over to a display rack on the wall and starts yanking out brochures. “Because pretty much all the excursions that depart from Caye Caulker can also leave from here and—”

“Actually, I was going to catch the ten-thirty puddle jumper to Belize City.”

“Oh, in that case, I know a guy who does amazing tours of the Belize Zoo. And a different guy who does an all-day trip to the Mayan ruins. For that one, you’d have to leave at—”

“Actually, I’m going to back to Texas.”

“Pardon?” She blinks rapidly, like she’s struggling to process my words.

“I’m going to book the afternoon flight back to Houston. Departing tomorrow at 1:30.”

“Oh.”

More blinking.

And I can’t tell if my words are just so unexpected or if maybe she’s having some kind of seizure.

“You’re… you’re… leaving?”

“Yes.”

“But… your trip doesn’t end for another three nights. And your company pre-paid. And I don’t think we can authorize a refund. And—”

“I don’t need a refund. I just need to leave.”

I swear to God, this chick looks at me like she’s about to burst into tears.

“You’re leaving?” she repeats with the same devastated sincerity a wife might use if her husband of forty years was chucking it all to attend clown school.

And I’m struck with the inexplicable urge to comfort her.

“Yes, it’s a…” I mentally flail around trying to think of a suitable excuse. “A family emergency.”

“Oh, I understand.” She visibly relaxes. “So it wasn’t something the resort did? Your stay here was fine.”

“Yes,” I say through clenched teeth, because I’m starting to think that word is cursed for me. “It was completely fine.”

“Then you’ll need transport for you and your boyfriend.”

“Actually, he’s not my—” I break off, suddenly unsure how to finish that sentence. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know how to describe Nick. He’s my friend. The guy I slept with. The guy who makes me laugh. The guy who rocked my world last night. The guy I don’t know a word for, but who wants to apply words to our relationship. But if words were so fucking important to him, then where is he now? “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?”

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