First Comes Love - Ashlee Price Page 0,33

it was inappropriate and I…” I trail off, realizing my words are falling on deaf ears.

“Russel, I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.”

“Who, me?” Russel trills. Then he bobs his head as he pats his chest. “Soul of discretion, right here.”

“Good.”

“But I can’t speak for the others. I don’t think they know know, but they know, you know?”

I grunt. Trying to delicately say something to them probably wouldn’t go over well, either.

“That Samantha woman is still pissy that you didn’t go kill that wood snake in her tent while she was butt naked the other night,” Russel adds pleasantly.

“That was an actual piece of wood, I saw it and—you know about that?”

Russel wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, then taps the side of his head. “Nothing gets past me, you know.”

“Might be best to just leave Harley at the hotel to recuperate. Maybe even fly in her friend to look after her while she gets better.”

It’s only after I see Russel, looking nothing short of outraged, that I realize that I’ve been thinking out loud.

“And leave her with the thieving, assaulting louts who pass for hotel staff?” Russel coughs. “I mean, I may or may not have had a stint working as a lowly hotel handyman in Costa Rica a decade or so back.”

“Forget it,” I say.

Even without Russel’s input, I knew full well there was no way I’d be leaving Harley alone in an unfamiliar country when she isn’t in her right mind. If only there was a way to avoid her, not see her, while at the same time watching over her.

I’ll just have to take it day by day.

By the time we all reach the plane, Harley is still out cold, while everyone else is more than relieved to be getting back to civilization. Everyone says their goodbyes, Russel gives a ten-minute soliloquy on how this trip will never be forgotten, and then, just like that, the plane takes off, and it’s me and her, waiting on the SUV to show up and whisk us away to Nayara Springs.

Chapter 16

Harley

Fluffy. So comfy.

I peek open an eye.

Greenery meets it.

What the—?

I sit up fast and practically fall over when I see where I am: the most gorgeous place I’ve ever been in my life.

The decor is boho-chic, although it’s the outside that really draws my eye. Jungle-y plants clamor over the sides of a shimmering infinity pool that overlooks a view that can’t cost less than $1,000 a pop.

How the hell did I get here? Just as I’m looking around for my phone, the landline on the rosewood bedside table beside me rings.

“Hello?” I say.

“Madame is up, yes?” a cheerful voice asks. “Good! We will be by with the breakfast.”

“OK, but how—”

Cheerful voice hangs up and seconds later there’s a knock at the door. Luckily, I’m still in my own clothes, so I pad over in the fluffy sandals beside the bed to open the door.

“Madame is well?” a round-cheeked cheerful woman asks, evidently the owner of the cheerful voice. She rolls in a dolly with several layers of covered dishes, then is followed by three more similarly dressed and dolly-pushing women, all smiling.

I have to smile too. Something smells delicious.

“Go on, back to bed with you,” the woman orders me cheerfully. “After all, this is the breakfast in bed option.”

Which is how I spend a good hour devouring everything from fried plantains to delicious eggs, bacon and some vegetable and casserole mixes that are definitely local, perfectly spicy and even more definitely delicious.

By the end, I’m so stuffed with food that I’m about ready to pass back out on the bed. Except that I still haven’t figured out how this is even all happening.

“How did I get here?” I ask the woman as she’s almost out the door.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t check myself in here,” I say. “So…”

“Yes.” Cheerful head bob that sets her dark braids jiggling. “Monsieur arrived with Madame, got her nice room.”

“Oh.” She has to mean Greyson. After I passed out by the plane, he must’ve taken me here to recover. But still, I could’ve recovered in a 5-bed hostel. Why take me here? Did he just ditch me here?

“Do you know where he is now?” I ask her.

“If in his room, you have to call 55.” She pauses. “Madame need anything else?”

“No, thank you,” I tell her, “Though you can call me Harley. What’s your name?”

“Maria.” She grins, waves as she leaves. “Buenos dias—good morning!”

Then she’s gone, and I’m staring at the phone.

“Hello?” Greyson’s voice comes