Scarlett A fter the night we just endured, when rays of sunlight come through our hotel room window and wake me, I’m a little disoriented. The clouds are gone now, and it’s blue skies and calm air outside. The power and water have been restored, thanks to the amazing staff and first responders. I am sure the lobby is still a little chaotic; I’ve heard things are running smoothly again. Apparently, on islands like this, things like this are pretty normal. That said, I am more impressed with the Bahamas location than the others, and I make a point of stating that. Room service delivers breakfast to us, and I sit on the balcony enjoying guava cream cheese french toast and a made to order latte while I post photos from last night. Moore To Explore- Hello lovelies. I think it’s safe to say that the last 24 hours has been a bit wild, but I wanted to make a point of showing you that. Not all travel goes as planned. Mother Nature has a mind of her own, that’s for sure. Especially when you are on a little mound of dirt out in the open ocean! And yet, @Bale Resorts is exemplary in taking care of its guests. A shout-out to the entire staff for comforting and ke eping the guests calm and safe. And of course, a huge shout-out to @Morgan Bale for positively slaying it last night, rolling up his sleeves and seeing to it that his guests get Bale treatment no matter what the weather. #eyeofthestorm #these-apple #mindovermatter #Baletotherescue #manofmydreams It’s almost weird how easily I am able to write the posts, gushy hashtags included. But at the same time, it feels natural. A lot of things feel natural these days. Including waking up next to him and planting a kiss on his forehead before sneaking out of bed to come out on the balcony. It’s kind of funny. I enjoy quiet mornings alone, doing my own thing, enjoying the peace, and giving thanks for the day. I have always done that as a solo traveler with a wild heart. But now I like rolling over in the middle of the night and not being alone. It’s a conflicting feeling in some ways and not so much in others. I could get used to this. Exc ept you need to be careful... My inner voice reminds me. It’s in that moment that I realize I am doing exactly what the mom from last night told me I was doing. I look down and see my hand is on my belly. My lower belly, right below my navel. And it’s not in the way you’d grab your midsection because of a stomachache. It’s a caressing touch. A knowingness. It’s something that now that I am doing it, I have noticed other women doing it. It’s a feeling I can’t describe, but it’s also not new. Like it’s something that has always existed in me but was only recently released. Like opening a locket that I didn’t have the key for until just now. “Look who’s up with the sun,” Morgan’s sle epy, gritty voice cuts into my thoughts as he appears in the doorway in black shorts and an open, short sleeve button-down shirt. “Listen, after last night, I didn’t know if we were ever going to see the sun again,” I tease, and he chuckles. Mmm, casual looks good on him. When I first met Morgan Bale, I didn’t know he had a single easy going bone in his body. But now, it’s wild how he’s sort of fallen into this other version of himself. Maybe that’s the wrong phrasing. It’s more of a de eper layer of who he is on the inside. A layer that used to be visible but has hidden as a defense mechanism. Morgan takes a seat on the lounger next to me. His bare feet are planted on the ground. His forearms are resting on his knees, and his attention is focused solely on me. There’s a looseness in his jaw that I’m not used to. There’s a softness in his smile. His whole face, really. Like he’s reverseaged in the last couple of weeks despite the chaos and even the mess from last night. It’s like being here, doing this, is part of who he is. Or who he used to be. Or maybe it’s who he is becoming. “Storms like that are always intimidating,” he tells me. “But they’re not
uncommon. And even though guests have a tendency to panic, especially ones that flew in from other places and haven’t seen a tropical storm in their lives, we are pretty good at handling them. Power outages and flooding and all.” Morgan ends the statement with the same easy smile he’s had since he walked up, and I smile back. “I saw that. And thanks to doing my job while helping with yours, the world is seeing it too,” I say, holding my phone out so he can scroll through the posts. “Damn,” he says as he narrows his eyes at photos of the rain, the trees, the water, the EMTs, and of course him in the middle of it all. “Too much?” I ask. “Does it look bad?” “Not at all,” Morgan shakes his head, scrolling through them for a second time. “In fact, I think it shows just how much the guests and staff at Bale mean to us. The lengths we go to in order to ensure that their stay is a good one, even in a time of crisis. Maybe not the tropical getaway they were hoping for, though,” he chuckles. “No, but they felt safe. That’s what matters,” I tell him. Then he looks up at me, and his eyes grow warmer. “What?” I ask. “Other people are posting pics and videos from last night too,” he says. “Oh? Let me guess. Trying to make us look bad?” I ask. But he just shakes his head. “I don’t know, I think you look pretty good.” “Me?” I ask, hopping up from a lounging position to sit facing him. Our knees are touching as I grab the phone and look at the photos we were tagged in. Or me, I should say. It’s me with the family from last night. The one with the two baby girls. Bring them food. Talking to the mom, holding and feeding the infant. In another one of the photos, I am smiling down at her as she suckles the bottle. Her eyes are on me and she is touching my face with her tiny hand. “Hmm,” I say, because I don’t know how else to react. The image fills my heart with something warm and lovely. “It’s a great picture,” he says. “They needed help,” I say. “And I wanted to do whatever I could.” “Let’s go down by the pool,” Morgan suggests, standing up and holding his hand out to me. “For more photos?” I ask. “Post storm?” “No,” he says. “In fact, I forbid you to take a single photo while we are there.” I narrow my eyes at him curiously. “I’m sorry, you forbid me?” I ask. “Yes. As your boss. I forbid you to work at all today. Because you are taking a day off.” “I’m taking a day off,” I echo, wondering if I even heard that right. Despite what HR might say (if they were even in volved with this wild job), I didn’t think days off were part of this job. For one, the job itself kind of feels like a vacation, freak storm and Conrad’s shenanigans aside. “Yes. You are taking the day off from photos and articles and ratings, and reviews. If you want to take a selfie, that’s fine. But only for your own camera roll. That’s it,” he says, and I can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy,” I tell him. “Why is that crazy?” he asks. The man is still standing in front of me, still holding out his hand like Aladdin asking if Jasmine trusts him. And it’s not that I don’t. If the man manifested a magic carpet out of the middle of nowhere right now, I’d probably hop on. “You don’t strike me as a day off kind of guy,” I admit. “You’re right,” he says flatly, and I laugh. “I’m not. But we need this, and more than that, I want this. I want to spend time with you, and that has nothing to do with anyone else. I want to enjoy one of my resorts the way my parents would have. And considering everything we just went through, I think now is the perfect time for that.” I nod and bite my bottom lip. Because honestly, it sounds amazing. And I am so on board. Morgan and I slip into our bathing suits, and I load up a bag with sunscreen, oil, sunglasses, towels, a floppy hat, and even a book. At the recommendation of a friend of mine I met in Guatemala, I’ve been reading Christina Lauren’s The Unhoneymooners, and it’s been a fun ride. Is it realistic? No, but people don’t read romance for the realism. They read it as an es cape. And a cute and spicy es cape it has been. We find loungers by the main pool, near the bar, half in the shade and half out. Morgan orders both of us some fruity mocktails that are light, refreshing, and hydrating, which is perfect because the humidity
here, especially after the storm, is starting to dehydrate me. And I have to be honest. It feels a little weird just laying here, enjoying the sun and the music and the drinks and the weather. No photos, no posts, no monitoring the haters. No working. Just... being. And more than that. Being with him. Which feels oddly natural. And I’m pretty sure Morgan feels it too. Because at one point, when I put my book down to apply more sunscreen to my legs, I glance over at Morgan and find him sle eping. I doubt he’s done that in a while, taken at afternoon nap. And when I say a while, I mean many, many years. After a few more hours, which I spend perusing the villa, refreshing my drink, grabbing a pastry from the coffee shop, and moving the umbrella so Morgan doesn’t get sunburned, he wakes up with a groan and a de ep stretch. “How long have I been out?” he asks. “Long enough for me to get to chapter eleven,” I tell him, putting the bookmark in my book and setting it aside. “And long enough that I am starved. We should get dinner.” “Perfect,” Morgan says, sitting up with another stretch. “What are you hungry for?” “Well.” I smile. “I may have already taken the liberty of making a reservation at Captain’s Cove,” I tell him. “Alright.” He nods. “Two questions. One, where is that? Because I assumed we’d just eat at one of the restaurants here. And two... is that one of those all-you-can-eat places?” The second question literally makes him cringe, which only earns a grin from me. “One, it’s about ten minutes from here. On the pier. Overlooking the ocean and a cute shopping area. And two... yes. Yes, it is.” “Ugh,” he mutters. “You do know how many people breathe on buffets, right?” he asks. “No more people than you have in a standard commercial kitchen. I mean, at least this restaurant has sneeze guards,” I tell him. “The idea of my food needing a sneeze guard just... I can’t.” He shakes his head. “Too bad. Because I told them we are coming and they said dinner is on them. They are all over social media. And you don’t actually have to eat from the buffet. You can order other entrees as well. Which I also took the liberty of doing,” I tell him, and this time it’s me holding out a hand to help him up. “Well look at you,” he teases, though there is still a decent amount of uncertainty about the restaurant in his voice. “Getting wild while I’m sle eping. You forget that I can and usually do handle all of these things, right? I mean, no offense, but I’m your boss. It’s kind of my job.” “No offense taken. Because I know you’re my boss, but I also remember you giving me the day off. And you seem to forget that I make a living researching and finding restaurants and places to visit, stay, and explore. And I am telling you, everyone says this place should be on the list. Apparently their crab and lobster aren’t just boiled but grilled and seasoned. I hear it’s divine.” “And if it’s not, you pay a flat rate,” he says and I just roll my eyes. “Let’s go. You’ll feel better after you eat something.” I watch Morgan from across the table, and I can’t help but smile. As he digs into a grilled lobster and dunks it in butter, he chews slowly and nods multiple times. “Alright, fine,” he says. “It’s amazing.” “I told you it would be,” I say, grabbing a crab leg and breaking it in half. “Alright, but how did you know?” he asks. “I told you. I research,” I say. “I look at the reviews and the r eposts.” “Okay, but a lot of places pay for good reviews. It’s still a gamble,” he says, grabbing a crab leg for himself. “I don’t look at the big reviews. I look at people with normal accounts who tag where they are. Date nights. Girl’s night out. Dinner with the family. Once the algorithm picks up what you’re looking for, you can’t lose. People trust food bloggers sure, but the opinion they really value, the post that’s going to make them pick Captain’s Cove over Red Lobster or even a five start resort... is the average guy or the uncool girl who stumbled in and decided to post about it because dang these lobster stuffed mushrooms are to die for.” “They really are,” he chuckles even though that was part of my pitch. “And you know what else?”
“Hmm?” I ask with a full mouth. “You are really, really good at what you do,” he says. “Not just the sales part of it all. I mean, obviously you’re good at that. And words. And public face. But just in general. Your passion for living this carefree, whimsical life is genuine. Like, even if you weren’t getting paid for it, you’d still be doing it. You’d go to a food truck selling tacos by the beach over the most popular restaurant in the city. You’d shop somewhere local over the name brands. It’s real. It’s...” he trails off on the last part, his eyes going somewhere else as he chews the inside of his cheek, deciding on the next thing to say. But it’s not because he can’t find the words. I can tell by the shift in his expression, the way he’s rubbing his utensils with the pads of his thumbs, neither setting them down nor continuing to eat, that he knows exactly the words. He’s just deciding on whether or not he wants to say them. Here. Now. To me. Morgan clicks his tongue and sets things down, then reaches for his drink and sits back. “It reminds me of how I grew up,” he says. “You traveled a lot,” I say. It’s not a question, and we both know that. It’s no secret that the Bale family is made up of multiple generations of travelers. “Yeah. More than not, actually. In fact, I don’t have a single childhood memory that doesn’t include a passport or a hotel key,” he says. “Is that good or bad?” I ask. Morgan bites his lip as he thinks about that. “Both?” he asks. “Actually, we used to stay at a lot of bed and breakfasts too. Sometimes even hostels. Those were actually some of my favorites.” “Really?” I ask, genuinely surprised at that. Somehow I can’t picture Morgan Bale sle eping in a room with communal showers and a shared kitchen. “Oh yeah.” He nods, and there’s something magical in his eyes. “I think because it felt like you were fully inside the culture at that point. And my parents were amazing at making any place feel like home. They were also amazing at making friends anywhere we went.” “They sound like amazing people,” I say. “Yeah.” He smiles, his eyes somewhere else entirely. “They really were. They loved it all so much that when my dad inherited money he didn’t even know existed, he put it into a hotel. The one in–” “San Diego,” I answer for him. “You really did your homework,” he says and I blush. “Sorry,” “So I’m sure you know about the explosion of success.” “Bale Resorts is the top in the industry and growing,” I say. “Yeah. Even though its peak really was around the time I was starting working for the company. But that was also when things fell apart.” I don’t say anything right away as Morgan takes a sip of his drink. I wait. Because this is where things get hairy. And if I had to guess, it’s a very, very difficult subject for you. “You know it was my birthday?” he asks. “What was your birthday?” “The day they died. The day the plane crashed,” he answers. “Oh my God...” “Yeah. They were flying back from a resort to see me. To take me to dinner. I told them it seemed a bit over the top, flying last minute to take me to dinner. But they insisted. At the time, they were in Maui and I was in San Diego, working at the Pacifica, actually. Learning the ropes. And they wanted to fly back just for dinner. They were so determined that they ignored the weather warnings and the plane crashed,” he says, staring into the bottom of his glass. “Oh, Morgan, I am so sorry,” I tell him. “I am too. But it was years ago,” “That doesn’t make it any easier. And also, it’s not your fault,” I tell him. “Whether it was your birthday or not. It’s not your fault.” “I know,” he says. “I used to blame myself, but I don’t anymore. Honestly, birthday or not, they used to show up all the time to see Conrad and me. It never required a special occasion. That’s just who they were.” “Still,” I say. “Yeah,” he sighs. “I think that’s why I struggled for so long to visit the resorts. Every inch of them reminded me of my parents, and it just... was too much.” “I’m sure.” I nod. “It was easier to honor them by running the corporate part of things. And Conrad was always more of the travel guy anyways. So it worked. Until it didn’t,” he says. “He was always a bit careless with all of it. Didn’t pay attention to details. Treated it like a vacation.” “You think maybe that was his coping mechanism?” I ask. “I think Conrad doesn’t
think about anyone but himself,” he says and there’s a bitterness in his voice, changing the tone of the conversation a little. “I think he’s just going to do whatever he wants without any regard for me or the company or what our parents would have said.” “That’s a shame,” I tell him. “It is,” he agrees. “But people don’t change.” “I mean that your relationship with him is so strained. Do you think you’ll ever make up?” I ask, knowing full well that I am going out on a limb by even suggesting it. “Considering the man is literally in the process of trying to take Bale Resorts from me? I’m going to have to play the safe card here and go with no,” he says, flagging the waitress down for another drink. “So what about you? What about your family?” “Well. My parents are still alive. Still together. But they live completely s eparate lives, so that part of my life isn’t exactly romantic,” I tell him. “Are they in love?” he asks. “I don’t think so,” I say, reaching for another crab leg. Now that the magnifying glass has shifted to hovering over me, I feel the need to distract myself. And food you have to excavate is a great way to do that. “You answered that so quickly,” Morgan says. “I know,” I tell him flippantly. “I don’t know if they were ever in love,” “Ever?” he asks. “What makes you say that?” “Just the way they talked and acted compared to couples that were obviously in love,” I answer. “They were never intimate. If they kissed, it was only in passing and only on the cheek. Never on the lips. They didn’t hold hands, go on date nights, or cuddle on the couch. My dad snored, so my mom sl ept in her office. She had a daybed in there. And in family photos they always stood with my sister Claire and me between them.” Morgan thinks about that, studying me for a moment as if he is trying to understand. “So... how is it that you are the way you are?” he asks. “What do you mean?” I ask, feeling the rush of heat in my cheeks at the focus on me. “I mean, look at you. You are passionate about everything. Everything you touch, taste, see, feel. There isn’t an ounce of energy that you emit that isn’t romantic in some way. How is that your natural essence after growing up in a household like that?” I bite my lip in thought and then shrug. “I guess because I didn’t want to be like them. I didn’t want my own framed photos on the fir eplace mantel to look like they were still holding the photos that came with the frame.” Morgan smiles at that. And as he reaches for another crab leg, it tells me he’s done with this conversation. And considering it’s my day off, I am completely fine with that. The waiter comes back to our table and asks if we want another round of drinks, pointing out that our meal in its entirety is on the house. But Morgan just shakes his head and leaves a very generous tip on the table. “No. I think we are ready to get out of here,” Morgan answers. “In a few minutes the sun will be going down. There might be some festivities on the beach,” he says, but Morgan just stands and holds his hand out to me. “I think we are going to pass on that, too,” he says. “The only thing I want right now is to be alone with my fiancée.” And while I’m not sure if it’s for face or because people are mostly likely watching and listening in, something in my chest, in my heart, tells me that it’s a little de eper than that.