Page 5 of My Dead Wife's Ex Will Do
“I meant, why are you in my suite?” I’m holding my breath like that will hold the towel up, because every breath that Victor takes makes the towel shift a little and I’m afraid that it will slither off his hips and puddle on the floor.
Victor takes a deep breath—I can see his ribs expand with it—and the towel slips incrementally lower. “Yeah, so, funny story about the suite. Apparently, when Kelsey told the wedding coordinator to reserve ‘a casita for my dads,’” Victor’s fingers make air quotes and now I’m absolutely certain that towel is going to fall. “She forgot to add the word ‘each,’ so the coordinator only made the one reservation. And the rest of the resort is booked solid, so…we’re going to have to share.”
My brain, which has not been firing on all cylinders to begin with and is still deeply distracted by the acres of Victor’s bare skin on display right in front of me, takes its sweet time parsing out the meaning of Victor’s words.
“Wait, what? What do you mean, we have to share?”
Victor takes a couple steps forward and the edges of the towel split to reveal one muscled, hairy thigh, then the other one.
“What do you mean ‘what do I mean?’ Should I say it in Spanish?”
He rattles off “we will be sharing this casita because there are no others available” in perfectly correct Spanish and I…didn’t know he had any Spanish.
What else don’t I know about Victor?
And now what the front desk clerk said when I checked in makes more sense. He spoke to me in Spanish, doubtless because of my last name, and when he said, “Ah, Señor Perez, you are already checked in and here is your second key,” I didn’t clock what he meant.
“How on Earth…?” I sputter. I can barely find words. “You’re the one who negotiated this place. Did you arrange this?”
“I connected the girls’ wedding coordinator to the resort manager and helped negotiate the overall rate. I didn’t plan out who sleeps where.”
I run a hand through my hair. Mother of God, I think I need that nap even more than I need that drink. “There must be some other option.” I pat at my pockets. Where the devil is my phone? “I’ll call the front desk.”
“And ask if they have a cot they can set up in Kelsey and Adrienne’s bridal suite?”
What a ludicrous question. Of course I’m not going to sleep in my stepdaughter’s and her fiancée’s suite. I rack my brain. Who else on Kelsey’s invitation list confirmed? There was someone on Adrienne’s side…Logan, that’s his name. Partner at Adrienne’s law firm. Kelsey calls him Adrienne’s work husband, whatever that means.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. I don’t even know the man. Am I really going to ask to share a room with a stranger just so I don’t have to share this one with Victor? And how exactly am I going to explain why I can’t share a suite with my stepdaughter’s co-parent?
“You look exhausted, Jay. Why don’t you?—”
This is the absolute last straw. “My name is fucking Jason and you fucking know that. I will not share a room with a man who cannot use my goddamn name.”
I pivot on my heel, finally tearing my gaze away from Victor in his towel, though not before I catch a glimpse of his shocked expression.
Okay, yeah, it’s not like me to explode like that. I’m the calm one, the one who never loses control. I can handle the children’s choir at Saint Sebastian without raising my voice, but I apparently can’t deal with my daughter’s father using a nickname that he’s called me by ever since we met.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I stalk to the entryway and sling the garment bag over my shoulder. I grab the suitcase handle and I’m yanking at the door with my other hand, when Victor calls after me.
“Jay—Jason. Come on, man, where are you going?”
Mother of God, I will not stay another minute in this room with this man.
“Anywhere you’re not,” I snap.
I feel a hand grasp my upper arm and I jerk my arm out of Victor’s grasp. Which only makes the strap of the garment bag slide off my shoulder, so I whip my elbow up and back and it collides with something hard behind me.
“Shit,” Victor grunts. There’s a heavy thud, then a sound like something sliding along the wall, then a quieter whump. I glance over my shoulder and Victor is crumpled on the floor. His head is tipped back against the wall and there’s a sort of dazed look on his face.
Sweet blessed Virgin, what have I done?
“Jesus, Jason,” he mumbles and then there’s a jumble of unintelligible sound that falls out of his mouth.
I cradle my elbow in my other hand. “Ow,” I say. Victor gives me his middle finger, then mutters a repeat of the unintelligible sounds.
“What?”
“You clocked me in the jaw and made me bite my tongue,” he articulates. He sticks his tongue out and his eyes cross as he tries to get a look at it.
