Better Than Chocolate (Sweet Somethings Book 1)

by Rowan, J. Lynn

  Ryan taps my arm. “Why are you on a flight to San Juan?”

  I peer at him, my eyes narrow slits. “Why are you?”

  A rhetorical question. Although his suit coat is probably in the overhead bin, safe inside a garment bag, his dress pants, crisp white button-down shirt, and Italian leather shoes tell me everything.

  He answers anyway. “I have a conference over the next couple days. I have to go straight from the airport to my first meeting.”

  The plane levels out, as does my head, and I wriggle to sit up straight. “They could at least let you check into your hotel first.”

  “Well, fortunately the conference is at my hotel.”

  “It’s a pretty fast trip.” I press my face to the window glass, squinting against the glare.

  He shifts in his seat. “I had some vacation time coming, so I extended the trip through the middle of next week.”

  So he’s not the only one who decided on a Caribbean adventure in the wake of his and Sadie’s breakup. I close my eyes, glad I didn’t say it out loud.

  “Carmella, why are you going to Puerto Rico by yourself?”

  The advantages of having Ryan for a flight companion have just turned moot. There’s no way to avoid this discussion. The flight’s too long. “I’m on my way to St. Croix.”

  There. I said it. Sort of.

  “What’s in St. Croix?”

  His voice is low, and when I glance at him, he looks away. His jaw shifts, his profile a stern mask.

  “I think you already know,” I answer slowly.

  “Sadie.”

  “How much do you know?”

  He still won’t look at me. “I know she took half of our honeymoon money and sprinted off to tour the Caribbean. I know she’s been gone almost a month.” He taps his fingers on the ends of the armrests. “I know she’s getting married.”

  I twist in my seat, grabbing his wrist. “Ryan, I’m so sorry. So. Sorry.”

  He pats my hand with a rueful smile. “For what? It’s not your fault.”

  “But I should have kept in better touch, or I should have noticed something was wrong when I visited you guys in April.” My memory races back to my visit. Did I notice anything wrong then?

  The short answer is no. But now that I think about it, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time with them together. Ryan was in the middle of a huge project at his civil engineering firm, working crazy hours, so Sadie and I puttered around Atlanta by ourselves. In fact, the only time I really saw them together was at the birthday party they threw for me.

  I squeeze his wrist. “What happened? Why didn’t one of you call me?”

  “It wasn’t just one thing, Carmella. And I didn’t call because I figured Sadie would. But apparently, she was in too much of a hurry to get to a beach.” His voice holds less bitterness than I might expect. He almost sounds amused, like this is just one of Sadie’s usual antics.

  “You could’ve called me, Ryan. I’m your friend, too.”

  “I didn’t want―” He breaks off as the flight attendants come down the aisle to take drink orders. He asks for two rum-and-Cokes, then turns back to me once the attendant moves on. “I didn’t want to put that on you. Tess had that huge wedding, and you said you’d be up to your eyeballs in . . . What was it? Buttercream and baby’s breath?”

  The attendant returns, passing two glasses—real ones, because this is First Class—of alcohol-laden soda. I wait until she moves on before speaking again. “Do you seriously think I wouldn’t have had time for you?”

  “That’s just it.” He sips his drink. “You would have made time, felt like you had to drop everything and rush up to Atlanta to apply the world’s biggest Band-Aid to the situation. It wouldn’t have been fair to Tess, who needed you, and it wouldn’t have been fair to you, either.”

  “Fair?” I glance around, embarrassed by the irritated glare of the man across the aisle. I lean toward Ryan, lowering my voice. “The only thing that’s not fair about any of this is Sadie ditching you for no good reason!”

  His eyes lock onto mine. I can’t read his expression, and I can’t breathe until he looks away.

  “How do you know there wasn’t a good reason?” He sips again, tapping his fingers on the tray table. “What did she say?”

  I take a huge gulp from my glass before remembering that it’s not straight Coke. “Nothing. She completely avoided the whole topic. All she wanted to talk about was―”

  Oh, shit. Shut up, Carmella!

  Ryan hmphs, then downs the rest of his drink. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. When do you catch your connecting flight?”

  “Day after tomorrow. I have to stay two nights in San Juan.”

  “What hotel?”

  The soda fizzes under my nose as I hold it there, thinking. “The Arena Dorada Resort and Casino.” The melting ice has watered down my drink, though the rum is still pretty potent. “I checked out their website, it looks pretty swanky.”

  “It is.” His fingers tap again. “The Arena Dorada, huh. Interesting.”

  “What’s interesting?” Ice clinks in my empty glass as I set it down. “Don’t tell me that’s where you’re going for your conference!”

  He chuckles, covering his mouth with one hand.

  “I can’t believe this is happening to me,” I mutter, slumping back in my seat.

  The remainder of the flight passes in relative silence. I alternate my attention between my book and the in-flight movie, which I actually enjoy because the headphones are free for First Class passengers. Beside me, Ryan concentrates on putting finishing touches on a presentation for his conference, his eyebrows drawn together.

  When the movie flickers off, I hurry to adjust my seat for our landing.

  “What are you reading?” Ryan asks, putting his laptop on standby.

  I show him the cover of the Civil War history tome and wait for the commentary.

  “Didn’t you get enough of this stuff in college? You’re supposed to be on vacation, Miss History.”

  “This from the person who has a Master’s in historic preservation.”

  The plane lurches, and the book drops between my feet. I slam one hand against the window and grab Ryan’s sleeve with the other. Stifling his laughter, he detaches my clawed hand from his arm, resettling it between both of his.

  “It’s just the landing gear, Carmella.”

  “This is the worst part of flying.”

  “I thought airport security was the worst part.”

  I glance at him and try to take even breaths. “This is the part when you’re most likely to crash and die in an inferno of jet fuel.”

  “You’re more likely to die in a car crash. Where do you get your statistics?”

  “I make them up.”

  He strokes my fingers, one at a time, and I almost forget the shudders of the plane as it descends. “Do you always grab onto your seatmate like that?”

  “Usually I just cling to the armrests and pray.” My breathing is returning to normal, not so frantic.

  He continues to massage my hand, the way he used to when I would freak out about term papers in college.

  He lightly flicks my ear, then points out the window. “You’re missing it, Carmella.”

  Off to our left, the city spreads to the coast, a maze of twisting streets, rooftops, and high rises. Ryan points out some of the landmarks. I can just make out the guard towers on the corner of the old city wall, leading to the fort, Castillo San Felipe del Morro. Beyond the city, the Atlantic Ocean shimmers in the haze. Between the blue sky and the waving palm trees, it’s all so surreal.

  And St. Croix is supposed to be even more beautiful.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I murmur.

  Ryan gives anoth
er of his short laughs. I only jump a little in my seat when the wheels touch down on the tarmac.

  First Class deplanes before coach, and Ryan guides me ahead of him through the jet bridge. I freeze when I exit the gate. A cacophony of foreign languages echoes in the terminal. Mostly Spanish, but there’s some English, French, and maybe German mixed in. It’s distracting, and I have no idea which way to go.

  A hand flattens against the small of my back, pushing me forward again. “Just keep moving,” Ryan says, close to my ear. “This is a busy terminal.”

  He steers me through the crowd, his garment bag and laptop case slung over his shoulder. He’s a good ten inches taller than me, and by staying close behind, he directs my steps without exposing me to jostling elbows and wayward luggage. I clutch my messenger bag, further disoriented by our brisk pace.

  I assume he knows where he’s going.

  When we retrieve our luggage from baggage claim, Ryan laughs at the bright green duct tape wrapped around my suitcase.

  “Do you see any other bags marked this way?” I ask, sweeping my arm to encompass the winding conveyor belts.

  “Touché.”

  Ryan gives me one more reason to be thankful for him on this trip as he leads me toward the hotel shuttles. I probably would have spent way too much on a cab.

  The shuttle bus blasts freezing air at us, and as we speed away from the airport, I pull the printouts of my travel itinerary from my bag and check my reservations again.

  “The hotel’s in Isla Verde,” Ryan explains, peering over my shoulder at my hotel reservation. “The beach is on a sandbar, one of the nicest in San Juan.”

  The hotel isn’t far from the airport, and I still don’t have my bearings by the time we pull up in front of the main entrance. It takes all my willpower to keep my jaw from dropping when we enter the lobby. I’ve gone on vacation before and stayed in plenty of hotels. But never anywhere with this much marble.

  Again, Ryan has to steer me away from the door, turning me toward the front desk. “Don’t worry. They’ll all speak English.”

  The concierge looks up, a smile on her face as we approach. “Bienvenido to the Arena Dorada. You have your confirmation number?”

  I pull my papers from my bag and show her the hotel reservation page. She frowns, puzzled, then looks up at Ryan and me.

  He takes a step away, one palm raised. “No, we’re not on the same reservation.”

  It takes me another second to realize why the concierge is staring at us like we’re circus sideshows. “No, just friends,” I add. “Just happened to be traveling together.”

  The concierge picks up the courtesy phone, summoning a clerk from the office behind the desk. Ryan shoots me a grin and slides down the counter toward a second computer.

  Since it’s my first visit to this particular hotel, the concierge rattles off all the amenities, most of which I really don’t care about.

  “Mr. Mattingly has cleared the room service charge for you,” she explains.

  Ryan has already moved across the lobby to greet some people he knows. Probably other conference attendees. I drag my eyes from him as the concierge lists everything I’m allowed to charge to the room.

  “So . . . Mr. Mattingly will pay for anything I buy at the hotel?”

  The concierge nods. “Yes, Señorita Sannarelli. Drinks at the pool-side bar, all meals at the restaurants, items from the boutique downstairs, salon services―”

  “Thanks.” I cut her off with a smile. Again, I assume Nelson Mattingly knows no other way to travel, so he’s ensured all the wedding guests get the white-glove treatment.

  I sign for my room, accepting my key card, and turn to rejoin Ryan.

  Intimidation floods me. There are four suited executives clumped around him, and I bet every one of them would look down their noses at me if I just walk up.

  A balding guy with wire-rimmed glasses notices me and nudges Ryan’s arm. “Somebody’s waiting for you.”

  I wish the ground would open up and swallow me. Not only do I look terrible, I’m ridiculously out of place in this be-marbled hotel lobby.

  But Ryan shakes their hands and crosses the polished floor. “All set with your room?”

  “Yeah.” I glance at my key card. “Seventh floor, ocean view.” I’m not naive enough to say my room number aloud when I’m traveling by myself like this, so I show him the number instead.

  He smiles at me, reaching around to tug on the end of my French braid. “I have meetings all through tonight and early tomorrow morning, but maybe I can catch up with you in the afternoon.”

  “Sure. That’d be nice. I’ll probably spend most of the day poolside.”

  But I’m definitely ordering a huge meal from the room service menu tonight.

  Chapter 5

  Like Old Times

  Taking complete advantage of the charge-to-the-room allowance is tempting, but practicality wins out. I refrain from ordering the most expensive items for my room-service dinner and at the lobby’s breakfast bar. Even a trip to the boutique results in no purchases beyond a floppy straw hat with a green ribbon around the crown.

  After slathering on about a gallon of sunblock, I spend an hour or so baking in a lounge chair, kindly set up on the sand for me by one of the beach furniture guys. The waves crashing on the sandbar and the salty smell of the ocean almost lull me to sleep. But the sun is more intense than I’m used to, and I decide some shade is in order.

  With my most charming smile, I flash my plastic bracelet—a required accessory for anyone wishing to return to the hotel after a sojourn on the sand bar—and claim two cushioned lounge chairs under a curtained gazebo on the pool deck, one for my bag and one for my behind. A quick dip cools me off before I loosen the white curtains on the gazebo. They flutter in the sea breeze, shifting the shade over the two chairs I’ve commandeered. My sunglasses and new hat provide extra privacy as I settle in with my book.

  “Found you.”

  I look up at the sound of Ryan’s voice. He holds the edges of two curtains together, sticking his head between them so it’s all I can see.

  I turn back to my book. “Dork.”

  He lets the curtains drop and enters my hideaway. His hair is wet, as are his red swim trunks, and his gray muscle shirt sticks to his back in spots. The outdoor pool isn’t set up for his preferred lap swimming, but he must have jumped in before looking for me.

  “Put the tome away, Carmel-cakes, you’re on vacation.”

  My lips twist in an involuntary smile. Ryan stole that nickname from my dad about six months after he met Sadie and me. Hearing him say it is a great reminder of simpler times, when I didn’t have to tiptoe around any topics of conversation with either of my two best friends.

  “I thought you had meetings.”

  “The corporate big-wigs are stuck in the conference room, but I’m done for the day.” He swats my bare knee. “Go get changed.”

  I smack his arm with my book. “Why?”

  The book is out of my hands, and he tosses it into my bag with expert aim. “Because it’s almost lunch time, and I’m taking you into Old San Juan.”

  “Do I have to?” I whine. He grabs my wrists to pull me up, but I exaggerate my groan and flop back like a limp fish.

  “Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder,” he warns.

  There are worse things than exploring a historic colonial site with Ryan Wutkowski. With his background in architecture, at least he knows what he’s looking at.

  “Fine. Let go, you Neanderthal.” He releases my wrists with a grin, and, gathering my belongings, I follow him back to the lower lobby. “Just remember your sunblock, buddy.”

  He glances at me, holding the door open. “What for?”

  “If I recall correctly, I wasn’t the only one who turne
d into a well-done slab of bacon on that one spring break trip to Sanibel Island.”

  “Leave it to the New Yorker and the Michigander to underestimate the Florida sun.” We step into the elevator and he hits the buttons for the seventh and tenth floors. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”

  No way am I venturing out in public without at least washing my face and reapplying my makeup. “Thirty,” I counter-offer.

  “Twenty, and if you’re late I’m coming up to get you, Sannarelli.”

  I stick my tongue out just before the elevator doors slide shut between us.

  We grab a light lunch of empanadas and fried plantains, then spend an hour touring El Morro. I take at least a hundred pictures on our wanderings through Old San Juan. By five o’clock, we’re exhausted, footsore, and sweaty.

  “I’m ready for a nap.” I spread my arms along the wall marking the north side of the old city, laying my cheek on the sun-warmed bricks. Below us, a local neighborhood stretches to the shore, and the amazingly white stones of a cemetery shine off to the left. The air carries the salty taste of the ocean. Closing my eyes, I savor the crash and ebb of the waves.

  Beside me, Ryan sighs. A lock of my hair is caught under my arm, and he pulls it free.

  “Maybe I should get my hair highlighted before I check out tomorrow morning,” I muse. “I can charge it to the room.”