Scarlett
“T he suite ,” I say as I spin in a circle in the middle of the room, phone on speaker in hand. “Can you
believe they gave me the executive suite?” “I thought every room at those bougie hotels was a suite,”
my sister Claire says in her usual, unimpressed tone. I can tell by the commotion in the background she
is driving. “They are. But this one is extra suite,” I tell her, pun intended. “It looks like some kind of
Tahitian cabana. Like we’re still in Miami, but it’s got bamboo and vaulted ceilings and a view of the
ocean. I swear I can see Mexico from here!” I wander over to the wet bar while Claire tells me that’s not
how geography works and pick up one of the wine glasses sitting upside down on a little gold tray.
There’s a red lipstick smudge along the rim. “Ew.” “What?” Claire asks. “Nothing.” I put the glass back
down. “Just reviewing.” Because that I’ll remember. “Why are you on the interstate?” I ask as I explore
the bedroom. A bedroom that is bigger and fancier than the one in my apartment. Granted, my
apartment is very low-end and kind of lame but that’s not the point. “You hate the interstate.” “Yeah,
well, my normal route is being paved so here we are. And right now, I have an asshole honking at me
for going 65 in a 65 and now we are both going 40. Welcome to perimenopause, Kevin...” she says.
Claire calls every guy she is annoyed with Kevin. It’s the Karen of dude names apparently. “You’re not
in perimenopause,” I tell her as I st ep out on the balcony and breathe in the salty breeze. I live in Miami.
Even the inside of the shopping mall smells like the ocean. But it’s different when you’re inhaling it
from a resort balcony. Vacation-y per se. “Tell that to my sweat glands,” Claire grumbles. I laugh and
wander back inside, passing the enormous bed and dressing area before pushing open the bathroom
door. “This bathroom. Claire! The bathroom is n —” “So who are you doing this job for again?” she
asks, and I deflate. There it is. “I’m not sure. CB Associates or something.” “CB Associates or
something...” she echoes back. “Did you even do any research?” And there’s the rest of it. “They paid
me upfront to write a review on the Sapphire Keys resort. It’s anonymous. I’ll figure out the logistics
later. And speaking of that, I am going to take advantage of this shower. Not later. Now. Because it’s
got like five shower heads, Claire. Five.” “Sounds to me like the Bale Brothers themselves are buttering
you up to write a gleaming review so they can make even more money,” she mutters. “Fine by me,” I
say. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“But—” “Love you, bye!” I hang up on my sister before she can get to whatever it is she actually called
me to talk about. Because I know my older sister. Claire doesn’t call to ask how I’m doing or tell me
about her daughter Emily’s latest milestone or invite me to lunch. She calls because she spends most of
her time stewing over her disapproval of my life. And the little CB Associates or something
interrogation was an obvious warm-up. Considering my current circumstances, I’m not in the mood. I’m
back in Miami between trips, trying to figure out my living situation and how to turn the career I love
into one that actually pays all my bills. Today, at least, I’m in far too good of a mood to deal with any of
Claire’s negative Nancy crap. Besides, I’m here to review a hotel, not solve the mystery of who paid me
to do it. And right now there is a five-headed shower practically begging for an investigation. For
research purposes, obviously. I set my phone on the bathroom counter and head back into the dressing
area, where my suitcase is sitting open on the floor beneath a row of empty hangers. Usually right now I
would be snapping photos of the room, the view, me in the room with the view behind me, posting it all
to my social media platform. Moore To Explore. It’s a play on words because my last name is Moore.
Catchy, right? But considering this job had a strict NDA clause about the review being 100%
anonymous, I can’t do that.
I am a travel journalist. Self-employed most of the time. Social media influencer all of the time. But
money has been a little slow recently so I am doing what any freelancer does in their dry spells—taking
what I can get. The traveling part I have figured out. I’ve spent the last few years bouncing around the
country and getting farther from home whenever a job or cheap flight lets me. The financially stable
part? Still very much a work in progress. As I turn back toward the bathroom, I spot my little burgundy
bucket-list book on the floor beside my suitcase. The leather cover is warped from being shoved into
more carry-ons than I can count. I started it before Moore To Explore was even a thing, and lately
checking things off has become almost as addictive as adding new ones. Maybe Stay in a ridiculously
expensive executive suite deserves a spot. Then again, I’m already here. That would be cheating. I leave
the book where it is and st ep into the bathroom. Then I strip.
A ruthless billionaire, a deal with strings attached, and one inconvenient attraction.
Shirt. Shorts. Bra. Panties. I leave everything in a pile on the bathroom floor beside the vanity and grab
one of the fluffy white bath towels from the shelf, mostly because it looks ridiculously soft. It is. It’s
also ridiculously small.
I wrap it around myself and the ends barely meet. “Seriously?” For what this place charges a night,
you’d think they could spring for enough cotton to cover an average-sized woman. I drop it back onto
the vanity. Mental note. Luxury towels should actually fit the people paying for them. I turn on the
shower and immediately the marble room fills with a scent that smells like lavender and luxury. Then I
catch sight of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. And stop. Because apparently nothing can kill the
fantasy of being the kind of woman who belongs in a penthouse suite faster than seeing yourself naked
under very expensive lighting. There is a lot of me. Soft. Curvy. Pale in all the places my full-coverage
swimsuit usually hides. My breasts are full and heavy, my waist curves in before everything curves right
back out again at my hips. My thighs touch. My stomach is soft instead of flat, with a little heart-shaped
birthmark beside my navel that I've always kind of liked. Individually, none of it is terrible. Together? I
turn slightly to the side. My ass looks even bigger from this angle. Great. I’ve always been told I’m
pretty. But never sexy. Never hot. Just... “A pretty girl.” “A nice face.”
“A good smile.” All compliments I appreciate, really. But no man has ever looked at my thighs and
forgotten what they were saying. No man has ever stared at my hips like they were fighting the urge to
put their hands on them. No man has ever made me feel like the parts of myself I work hardest to hide
are the exact parts they want to see. And maybe that shouldn’t matter. Most of the time, it doesn’t.
“You’re being silly,” I tell myself. “You are happy and smart and hardworking and vibrant and
healthy.” It’s a p ep talk I tell myself every time I accidentally stare too long at my own reflection. And
all of these things are true. I like myself. I just wish, every once in a while, I could look at my body and
understand how anyone else could want it. I stare at myself for another second. Then, because
apparently self-torture is on today's itinerary, I put one hand on my hip and turn sideways. Maybe if
I n — No. I turn the other way and stick my ass out a little. Definitely no. “Oh, come on,” I mutter at my
reflection.
I roll my shoulders back, plant both hands in my hair and give my hips an exaggerated little shimmy.
Once. Twice. By the third, I’m laughing. So I commit. I sway my hips, toss my hair and do a slow spin
in the middle of the bathroom like I'm starring in the world's least convincing music video. For
approximately five seconds, I stop thinking about my stomach and my thighs and whether my ass is too
big. I just move. And it actually feels kind of good. Until I catch myself in the mirror again. I snort.
“Nice try, Scarlett.” I’ll just have to acc ept that no man is ever going to look at all this and think it’s
sexy.