Page 69 of The Plus-One List

Me: YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED!!!!!

The exclamation points don’t feel as fake as I thought they would. Rachel is getting married. For the first time, I think the words without being overcome with dread.

Maybe I’m just jet lagged. Can one be jet lagged from only a five-hour flight with a two-hour time difference?

Rachel sends me a gif of Homer Simpson in a wedding dress, daintily walking down a flight of stairs. I laugh and put my phone aside. The bath has helped, I admit, but I one thousand percent need to not be naked when Agustín gets back to this room. My brain catches on that flash of skin I saw earlier, the flat plane of his stomach and the tempting dent at his hip. I press my thighs together as shivers erupt over my skin.

Get it together, Eloise. Between Agustín’s charm and Rachel’s force of personality, one of them has to be able to get us a second room. I cannot sleep in bed with Agustín tonight. Absolutely not. Even as jitters spiderwalk up my chest at the thought, and my mouth starts to water, and that sliver of sunlight inside me brightens.

I drain the tub and rinse myself off, then grab one of the fluffy white towels from the rack. My curls are damp, and I wipe steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection.

“You can do this,” I say to myself, though what “this” is, I’m not entirely sure.

I peek out the door first, just to make sure the coast is clear. Then I scurry to the dresser, grab underwear and a bra, along with a pair of jeans, and a light knit sweater with a swirling pattern of lavender, peach, pink, and white.

I race back to the bathroom. My phone lights up on the sink and I see a text from Agustín.

Agustín: On my way!

I yank on my jeans, get tangled in the sweater, and pull myself together just in time to hear the door click open.

“Eloise?”

“Here,” I squeak, then clear my throat and open the door.

“Hey,” he says. “Cool sweater. So, no luck with the room—”

“Rachel said she’ll talk to them,” I say.

“Oh, good. I bet she can work it out. She is very good at not taking no for an answer.” His hands are in his pockets and he shifts from foot to foot. Is Agustín nervous? It’s such a bizarre concept that I dismiss the thought immediately. “Is it okay if I take a shower quickly?” he asks

“Oh!” I say. “Yeah, sorry, of course.”

I shove my phone in my pocket and step out of the bathroom, almost colliding into him. The cotton material of his tee smells like fabric softener and Agustín, that smokey-leathery-cardamom scent I’ve become so familiar with over the past few months. An ache blooms in my chest, and I step to the left just as he does. We both step to the right, and then he laughs.

“After you,” he says, gesturing toward the room. I skirt around him, cheeks aflame. When I hear the door close, and then the shower turns on, my whole body goes rigid with a big old NOPE.

I cannot be in this room with Agustín ohmygodtotallynaked just on the other side of that door. Nope, nope, NOPE.

I scurry out onto the balcony to clear my head and cool my skin, dewing with sweat from the bath and the anxiety.

We have to have separate rooms. I can’t be exploding with shivers all week over Agustín when I have a whole Diego-sized family to meet at the wedding. Not to mention the fact that I am in a strange city where I don’t speak the language (sadly I don’t think perrito is going to be much help), miles and miles away from everything I know.

I feel the panic attack coming, the Wheel picking up speed. My scalp tightens, my skin goes clammy, and I grip the bars of the balcony and close my eyes. I try to focus on the sounds of the people below, the tinkling of the fountain, the tap of footsteps on tile. I focus on the breeze on my face and the scent that it brings, flowers and leaves and the faintest trace of window cleaner.

I inhale deeply. When I open my eyes, I’m still shaky and a little out of breath but I’m okay. I’m pulling at the seams, but I haven’t fallen apart.

I refuse to turn around, though, until I know it’s safe, and Agustín is fully clothed. Then I get an idea. I grab my phone and pull up the video he sent me. The theme song from Alf pulls an automatic chuckle from me, and I watch my dogs, the loves of my life, appear on the screen, in all their goofy, adorable, grumpy, snuggly glory. Tears fill my eyes again. I need to make sure Rachel uses waterproof mascara for the wedding.

“Eloise?”

Agustín’s voice is so gentle, and I turn to see him dressed in dark jeans and a beige crew neck sweater, his dark hair falling around his face, wild and unruly, those deep brown eyes pinning me in place. My heart pulses out one longing throb before I blink and come back to myself. The message at the end of the video blares across my screen.

You’ve Got This, Eloise! No problem! Love, Agustín and the Pack

“I had an idea,” Agustín says, his dimples flashing.

31Agustín