This is where it got hazy.
I didn’t remember leaving the restaurant but had the faint recollection of being carried somewhere—by him, I supposed—though I couldn’t imagine how I could’ve let that happen. It must’ve been the alcohol, but all I could count were the rum drink on the boat and a glass of wine at dinner. Granted, the cocktail was stronger than I would have made myself, and my tolerance had likely plummeted in recent weeks. I’d had so much on my plate with preproduction that my social life was nonexistent, and at home I mostly abstained in favor of an early-morning workout.
At any rate, I remembered nothing from dinner until the following morning—when I awoke naked in my bed, covered in sand.
I was alone, thank God. Sun filtered through the slits in the wide wooden shutters, and I could hear the sea lapping at the pillars that held the bungalow above the water. The wood and glass floor was clean, the rattan chair empty; a dark-green T-shirt was crumpled on the bedside table. I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I recognized it as the shirt Cole had been wearing the previous evening. The clothes I’d worn last night were nowhere in sight.
I surveyed the platform bed. Pillowcase streaked with mascara, comforter pushed back, all the pillows rumpled. I wanted to think I’d slept alone, but evidence pointed to the contrary. I was alone now though, so that was something. Perhaps I’d just been so drunk, I’d slept wildly last night. The sheets were soiled and damp in spots; I put my nose to the bed and sniffed. Detergent, salt water, and sweat, I thought—though I couldn’t rule out other bodily fluids.
I shuddered. I couldn’t believe I’d let this happen. I hadn’t blacked out since…I wasn’t sure I’d ever blacked out. There were hazy moments in the back of cabs after long nights during college, but nothing like the dark hole that stretched from dinner until dawn. Try as I might, I could shed no light on how many times my wineglass might have been refilled or how the evening had ended. I could only assume stress had driven me to drink more than I remembered. I cringed to think what I might have said…or done.
A prickle in the back of my brain. If this had happened in a bar, I’d assume I’d been roofied. But here? The staff would never in a million years, and I couldn’t imagine why Cole would roofie me. With a crook of his finger, he could bed anyone he wanted, at any time. I was hardly a prize catch.
I got up and showered, studying my alabaster body while lathering the suds as though I might be able to coax what happened from my thighs, but they were unusually silent, not even a murmur of admonishment about the plate of conch fritters I devoured on the speedboat.
Why, oh why, is Cole’s shirt on my bedside table?
Did I have some deep subliminal attraction to Cole that I’d hidden from myself? I pictured his strong jaw, his toned body, imagined his lips on mine.
Nope, nothing.
Maybe I’d borrowed Cole’s shirt for some reason. I was cold? Or wet? That could explain everything. I’d gotten drunk and gone swimming (in my clothes, hopefully), which would explain the sand and the slight wetness of the sheets, then borrowed Cole’s dry shirt to wear home. Embarrassing, but not catastrophic.
Though I still had the nagging feeling I hadn’t slept alone. Perhaps I’d brought home a waiter or a busboy? I scoured my mind for any detail, but it was useless. I just didn’t remember.
I hadn’t had sex since…wow, New Year’s. Months ago. So I guess it made sense that I might be sexually frustrated. But Cole Power was the exact wrong person to fulfill that need. Some random resort employee would be better, though not by much. Was I sore? Maybe? Then again, maybe not. But I’d never really been one to get sore even when it had been a while, unless I’d had particularly rough sex, so my lack of soreness didn’t mean much.
What a colossal fuckup, especially taking into account how my last job had ended. I needed to present myself as the consummate professional, not a professional who consummated her working relationships.
But I was getting ahead of myself. I would have to talk to Cole and find out what exactly had happened. Fun.
I prepared my speech to him while I towel dried my kinky curls, then wrapped myself in a plush white bathrobe and stepped into the living room. The decor of my bungalow was the same as throughout the resort: modern and minimalist, yet comfortable with a Southeast Asian flair in the form of Buddhas and orchids, carved teakwood, and colorful textile throw pillows to complement the neutral shades of the linens and furniture. There was no doubt the place was beautifully and expensively designed, but what made it so special were the unobstructed ocean views through windows that stretched from the floor to the soaring thatched roof. A ray of sunshine illuminated my open purse atop the dining table, and the black jumpsuit I’d been wearing last night was neatly folded over one of the chairs. Had I folded it, or had housekeeping visited while I slept?
I unpacked my suitcase and dressed, then ventured out into the bright, windy day. As I exited my bungalow, I spotted our bearded lumberjack of a cinematographer, Brian, and the wiry camera op, Adam, walking down the pier toward the sand with beach bags slung over their shoulders, but no one else was around.
I grabbed an iced latte from the espresso bar in the breezy lobby overlooking the sparkling pool and wandered the manicured grounds in search of Cole. I strolled through the empty restaurant and over to the gym—so air-conditioned the windows had fogged, but also empty. The woman behind the desk in the eucalyptus-scented
