Page 62 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
Stringed lights and tiki torches lit the path to a village of yurts circled around a curvy pool with a gurgling waterfall and eclectic seating. The scene was complete with a waist-high sheet metal sign and swirly letters that read Welcome to Tranquility. Even exhausted, I could appreciate the serene atmosphere.
The hostess of the property showed us where we could find the community showers and restrooms. She explained that tubs were available in the yurts for a more intimate experience. My cheeks warmed, and I was thankful for the low lighting to hide it. No one else seemed hot and bothered by the words “intimate experience” because either they’d already had plenty of intimate experiences with their yurt buddy, or there was no way in hell they ever would.
Dropped off at our yurt, Beck and I paused at the threshold. How to read that look on his face? Bracing, maybe, some curiosity, definitely tentative. And hunger. Beck held open the flap, and I took in our living space for the next two nights.
A canopy covered a circular bed in sheer, seductive sheets. Ivy spilled from shelving around the circumference of the room, giving the space a wild, fresh feel. The bones of the yurt seemed to be made of some sort of bamboo material. Hung from the beams, works of macrame hugged glass bowls with candles. The yurt was cozy, authentic, and romantic.
The cushions around a short coffee table were the only seating. No couch. Beck would have to sleep on the floor or in the bed.
Noises from the yurt next to ours—where Kat and Jake had been placed—took my attention off the self-guided tour. From the sounds of things, they were thoroughly enjoying the intimacy of their yurt. Except, they either didn’t realize their yurt wasn’t as secluded as expected or, more likely, they didn’t care.
My face flamed.
“Jesus Christ.” Beck ran a hand down the front of his face, looking a shade red himself. “These tents are paper thin.”
Then he seemed to register the bed situation, eyes landing on the cushions near the coffee table. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said.
“No. We’ve both had a long day. You aren’t sleeping on the floor.”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Silence stretched between us as I tried to read the shift in our chemistry. “Did I seem uncomfortable earlier? In the jungle?”
Something sparked in Beck’s eyes, but then he shook his head. “I don’t think we should act on—” He looked at the canvas ceiling, seeming to search for the right words. “—those desires we expressed earlier.”
That stung. “Oh.”
“I want to,” he rushed to say. “I really do. But now that I’ve had time to cool off, I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret later.”
He tried to soothe the jab of his rejection, but all I heard was that he didn’t want me anymore. Not the way I wanted him.
“Okay,” I said because what was I going to do? Beg him to sleep with me? “Yeah. You’re right. Wouldn’t want to complicate things.”
His jaw worked. “Right.” A crease formed on his forehead, like agreeing with me pained him.
“Well, I’m going to go find those showers,” I said before plunging into my bag, trying like hell to hide the disappointment on my face as I searched for my toiletries.
I knew it. I knew I’d have to share a bed with Beck at some point on this trip, but I hadn’t expected the scorch of his rejection.
Chapter 18
Ascraping of furniture and a well-emphasized “Fuck!” woke me from an otherwise deep sleep. I jolted upright, trying to get my bearings in a bed that wasn’t mine, in a room that wasn’t mine, in a country that wasn’t mine, with a man who wasn’t mine. It took a few blurry-eyed blinks before I could make out Beck’s form in the dim room, a shoe raised over his head.
“What happened?” I mumbled, failing to make sense of Beck’s raised hackles and the way his eyes were trained on the floor.
Then I saw it. Something skittering in the darkness toward the bed. I lunged and smacked it with a pillow without knowing what I attacked. I raised my fluffy sword to hit it again, but Beck intervened, eliciting a fatal crunch when he smacked the thing with his shoe.
“What the hell was that?” I demanded.
“A fucking scorpion!” Beck tilted the shoe slowly to get a look at the mess. “It dropped out of my shorts.”
“Are you okay? Did it sting you?”
“No, but I am going to have nightmares about that thing crawling on my leg.”
“Did you leave your bag on the floor again?” I asked, my voice flat.
Beck pointed his shoe at me, and a piece of the scorpion fell off with the movement. “I don’t want to hear it, Lane.”
