The Man with the Knot (Forbidden Fun #55)

Chapter 2

2

Morgan

I step off of the resort shuttle and into the early morning rays of the Caribbean sun. I arch my face toward the warmth, tired from my New York red-eye but finally feeling the first tingles of vacation excitement.

The other passengers shuffle out of the bus, their expressions similar to mine: equal parts excited and dazed. We’d all taken the resort’s boat over from the main island and had been in awe of the clear water and stunning vistas the entire way here.

Now that I’m standing in front of La Mirage resort, I let myself relax. I walk through the massive double doors and into a world of pampered luxury.

“Welcome to La Mirage,” a bubbly receptionist greets me as I approach the desk. “Checking in?”

“Yes,” I confirm, fumbling for my passport. “My last name is Latham. Morgan Latham.” I hand her the booklet and watch as she scans my information.

“Wonderful.” She hands it back to me and begins tapping at her keyboard, her long nails clicking noisily as she searches for my reservation. “And, there it is! I see you’re staying with us for seven nights.”

“Uh, yes, that’s right.” I smile, amused by her vivacious tone. “I’m looking forward to my stay.”

I really mean it too because the whole idea for this trip came to me in the middle of the night about three months ago. It had been a low point in my life. I’d been out on a bad date—the guy had thought it would be cute to stick a clown nose over my real nose— so when I got home, I helped myself to an entire bottle of cheap Prosecco to ease my misery.

As the night wore on, I started doom scrolling Instagram, stalking cute guys and liking every photo of my college friends. A little more than tipsy at this point, an ad popped up for La Mirage. As I scrolled through the stunning photos of the hotel and surrounding property, I realized that I desperately needed to get out of the city. Not to mention that the ad claimed there was a huge discount for the off-season. February or not, La Mirage promised sunshine, poolside fun, and all-inclusive cocktails.

So here I stand , I muse, my gaze wandering around the lobby to take in teak walls, bold colors, and sun-drenched hallways.

“And should I use the card we have on file?” the bleach-blonde asks me.

“Yes, thanks,” I confirm.

Drunk Morgan, combined with a shiny new credit card, booked the vacation almost without thinking. And a sober, slightly hungover Morgan had tried in vain to cancel it all when my memory set in almost an entire day later.

Well, there’s no going back now.

“All right, you’re all set. This is your room key—you can access the spas, gym, and media rooms with it. And before you go upstairs, the hotel manager will give everyone a quick safety brief. The island is beautiful and we just want to go over some basics.” The receptionist winks at me, clearly having used that very-rehearsed spiel many times before. “Enjoy your stay!”

I giggle and join my shuttle group in the corner of the lobby, where an older man who I assume is the manager has already started talking.

“That’s right, pile in closer please, thank you,” he says, scanning the crowd. “Welcome to La Mirage, we’re pleased to have you stay with us. Our amenities are five-star, and should you want anything, the concierge is available 24-7.”

A few people murmur, pleased with this bit of news. I shuffle foot to foot, ready to get on with my vacation and a little annoyed to be listening to details I’d already read about on the hotel’s website.

“But of course, I’m certain most of you are already familiar with our many spectacular services,” the manager continues, almost as if he can read my mind.

I stand up a little straighter and stop fidgeting, embarrassed to have been caught looking so bored.

This is your first grown-up vacation , Morgan , I berate myself, so try to act like a grown-up.

“Now,” the manager continues, “Mirago is a beautiful island but most of the land is still undeveloped. As guests of this island, we are not allowed to venture beyond our clearly designated areas. These areas are marked with white fencing and are shown here on the map.”

He gestures to a small map on the hotel brochure, too far away and small to make much sense of anyway.

“Please stay within the demarcated boundaries because we have little to no notice when storms pop up, for starters. And then there are the wild animals. Not to mention the protected areas, which are not only dangerous, but also fragile. Trespassing can result in hefty fines and even expulsion from the island.”

The man scans the crowd, sounding more like a haunted house tour guide than a hotel manager as he tries to instill a proper sense of fear into us.

“There is no cell reception on the island, so if you get caught in a swell or get lost, you may be on your own. We may not even know that there’s a guest in danger.”

Jeez, this is quite the lecture about behaving , I snort to myself, ready to heed his many warnings but growing impatient with the theatrics of it all.

But the other guests are nodding enthusiastically at the strange list of rules. I glance down at the welcome packet the bouncy receptionist gave me along with my room key.

Maybe I did miss something?

“Now, have no fear!” the manager booms happily, replacing the doom and gloom with over-the-top pep. “Our resort is several acres with a full suite of amenities for your enjoyment, including several pools, tennis courts, the spa—and well, more activities than I can list.” The manager beams widely, his expression clearly an overt attempt to get us not to panic over the dangers of the world beyond the resort’s boundaries. “The beach is accessible, of course, but please make sure you don’t accidentally wander beyond our property.”

A few guests murmur. I frown.

I can’t just go find my own beach ? I wonder to myself. I’m too shy to ask the question out loud. Besides, I don’t want the manager to think that I’m some kind of troublemaker.

“Welcome to La Mirage. We hope your experience will be magical,” he says, wrapping up his speech.

The manager gives a small bow and then shoos us away like school kids. I frown but say nothing. I grab my over-stuffed suitcase—thanks to Tanya’s pestering, I’ve brought way more cute clothes than I had originally planned— and roll it toward the now-packed elevator.

I eye a family of five already squeezed inside the posh lift: each person has bag, there are two massive strollers, one crying baby, one screaming toddler, and two bickering tweens.

“I’ll take the next one,” I murmur and take a decided step back.

As the doors ding closed, I glance at my room key and then at the door that leads to the stairs.

What are two flights of stairs?

Exactly two flights later, I’m cursing Tanya and her powers of persuasion as I drag my bag up the final step.

“I am never, ever taking packing advice from a woman with six boyfriends ever again,” I mutter as I roll the bag into the hallway toward my room. “I bet she never has to carry a damn thing since she basically has six porters.”

But them my grumpy attitude vanishes when I key open the door to my room because it’s gorgeous—better than the photos promised it would be. The walls are painted a soft sea-foam green with hints of pink, and gold accents give the space an air of sophistication.

I peek out onto the mini-veranda, delighted to see that I have a stunning sea view. Birds frolic on the beach beyond the resort’s walls and I briefly wonder if the manager’s warning about the dangers of the island are really that serious.

A quick look over to my far left and I can see the edge of the hotel’s pools—vibrant and beckoning.

“Screw unpacking, I want to swim!”

Dramatically, I draw the curtains closed and then turn to face my behemoth of a bag. Grunting, I heft my suitcase onto a luggage rack and unzip it.

I eye the pile of tiny swimsuits.

“And why the heck did I need so many swimsuits for a week-long stay?”

I hold up a flimsy orange two-piece and eye it thoughtfully.

I haven’t spotted too many single guys so far, but I was on one small bus of what I am certain is just one of many.

Kids on the other hand… I spotted a lot of kids.

I toss the bikini onto the bed and pull out a demure minty green one-piece. The low-cut back is sexy but respectful, and the v-shaped front doesn’t reveal that much cleavage.

I strip down quickly, debating a shower but ignoring the thought as I dream about warm sunshine and poolside margaritas. I rummage through my suitcase once more and find my sarong, which does little to protect my modesty since the flimsy white fabric is see-through.

Grabbing a small tote and tossing in my room key, sunglasses, and hat inside, I slip on my flip-flops and practically skip out the door.

More energized now, I opt to take the stairs. Once in the lobby, several helpful signs point the way toward the bar, restaurants, spa, and pools. I wind my way through breezy, tastefully decorated hallways until I reach a huge glass doorway that leads outdoors.

The second I round the corner, my excitement wanes because nearly every chair in the pool area is already taken. But it gets even worse: dozens of kids are sunning themselves. Several more children splash wildly in the pool, playing games and screaming to be heard above each other’s voices.

I wince and slip my sunglasses over my brown eyes.

Now what?

I like children, or at least I don’t mind them. But I did not escape the noise of New York City to be bombarded by the noises of little Tommy being pissed that little Billy won’t share his beach ball while their parents scream at them to share or else.

I look around the pool deck, hoping to locate a tranquil cranny somewhere. But more families line the space. Not to mention the couples scattered throughout the families, snuggled together or petting each other suggestively.

You have a right to be here just as much as anyone else , I tell myself in my most confident tone. So what if it’s a people jungle?

Determined, I stride toward a vacant lounger, smushed right between a family with a toddler and a couple clearly on their honeymoon. No one looks up when I drop my bag onto the ground, and in fact, the couple next to me continue to coo while staring into each other’s eyes.

Rolling my eyes discreetly, I slide the chair closer to the pool’s edge, trying to make a little more space for myself. I plop onto it with a soft thud and wiggle until I’m comfortable. I close my eyes and lean my head back so that the sun can hit my city-pale face.

This isn’t so bad , I decide. I can tune out the noise .

But then a giant splash hits me in the face, soaking my hair, bag, and chair. A screech of laughter follows as I open my eyes and sputter helplessly. But the kids playing don’t notice at all, and I suddenly feel like a jerk for being so moody.

Danger be damned , I decide as I snatch up my bag and swing my dripping hair over my shoulder.

I need an adventure.