Page 110 of Let's Kiss and Tell

We awkwardly stare at the bed for a few more seconds until Marsh coughs and places our belongings off to the side.

Meanwhile, I’m instantly drawn to the private deck. The view of San Francisco in the distance is hypnotizing. It’s so blissfully quiet, it feels like we’re practically floating in the middle of the water. Work has been so busy lately I don’t remember the last time I even went on vacation, let alone stayed in a room like this. It’s painfully romantic, and the only thing missing is a bottle of wine and chocolate strawberries.

I feel Marsh come up behind me. Even without contact, his body feels like a warm blanket. When turning, I admire how the moonlight casts on half of his face. It’s an honest representation of how I see him—a bright light in his soul, but at the same time, sadness.

I so badly want his whole face to shine.

Our eye contact breaks, and I look out to the Golden Gate Bridge. “I’m thinking showers and then we find a bad movie on TV?”

“I would like nothing more.” Marsh settles himself on the lounge chair beside us. His eyes are already closed as he takes in the smell of the salt water and cool breeze. “You go first.”

I collect my belongings and head to the bathroom. I wait until the water becomes so blissfully hot, the mirrors are completely steamed. When I step into the marble space, I position myself directly underneath the showerhead, allowing the water to cover every inch of me, before lathering with lavender body wash.

I’m still in shock over how Marsh’s last relationship ended, although I’m not entirely surprised. You can be in a committed relationship for nine and a half years or married with a child and the reality is that nothing can guarantee love. You fall out of love or people fall out of love with you.

When I get out of the shower, I’m thoroughly relaxed and ready to climb into bed. Putting on one of the complimentary robes, I walk out of the bathroom with my damp hair to find Marsh fast asleep on the chair where I left him. He looks so peaceful, I almost don’t want to wake him.

“Marsh,” I whisper. I step behind him and slowly move both my hands across his broad shoulders to his chest. “Marshaaall.”

“Mmm.” He takes my hand, slowly intertwining our fingers.

“Go take a shower so you can sleep,” I say softly into his ear.

“Mmm, I’m up.” He opens his eyes, and my bare face is the first thing he sees. “You look nice.”

I think it’s the first time I’ve ever had a post-shower face in front of a man. “Come on.” I pull him up.

He puts his arms above his head and stretches. I see a peek of skin with a graze of hair above the waist of his pants. Slowly, he makes his way into the bathroom while I turn on the electric fireplace and listen to the crackling embers.

I should’ve opted for a matching set of pajamas that feel a little more intentional. Instead, I pull out boxer shorts and an oversize Aerosmith T-shirt. I take my towel and make one last attempt at getting my hair as dry as possible and then nestle underneath the covers.

I manage to doze off for fifteen minutes or so, because when I sense Marsh shuffling around the room, my internal battery is instantly recharged.

But when I open my eyes, I audibly gasp.

“What?!” Marsh turns to me, his shirt in hand…and not on his body.

He has a pair of gray sweatpants sitting awfully low on his hips and his signature glasses back on. His hair is damp and pushed out of his face, dripping onto his broad shoulders and trailing down his defined abs.

“Since when do you look like that?!” I say, only partially regretting how it comes out.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re a champion swimmer or I don’t know, Superman.”

Marsh’s hand goes to the back of his neck, and his pec literally twitches. It feels almost offensive. I knew he was fit. I felt it in his chest, his biceps. I got a preview when we were boxing, when we were dancing. But seeing him shirtless, I fear it’s something I can’t unsee. Something I don’t want to unsee.

He doesn’t answer me, only puts on his white T-shirt and just looks at the bed.

“That’s your side,” I say, pointing to the opposite side from me.

“Yeah,” he says.

I’m not really sure how to do this. There’s never been a scenario where I’m in a hotel room with a guy I’m attracted to andcan’thave sex with him. I’m so mindful of every breath I’m taking, how much skin is showing, and how good Marsh looks in a pair of sweatpants.

He slips underneath the covers on his back, staring at the ceiling. There’s a subtle dip in the mattress where his weight presses, and I notice the rise and fall of his chest become shallower by the second. I’m almost positive neither of us is breathing. The way I’m so painfully aware of every twitch or sound within these walls is concerning. I cannot think of anything other than how much—or how little—space there is between us.

“Hey,” I breathe out, and Marsh turns to look at me.