The First Impression - Book 2 - The Worst Best Honeymoon

Erica

“Absolutely not.” I stared at Antoni across the airport terminal. “You did not change our entire honeymoon without consulting me.”

“I did.” Antoni looked far too pleased with himself. “And before you start worrying, I assure you I was very thorough.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.” I watched him meticulously organize our boarding passes. “The last time you were ‘thorough’ about planning something, you put us on different flights.”

“That was one time. One mistake.”

“I could go on...”

He pulled me close, that insufferable smirk still on his face. “Trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well, considering I already have the tickets...” He produced an envelope with a flourish. “We’re going to Bali.”

I blinked. “Bali?”

“Yes, love. Sun, sand, proper tea service...”

“Of course that’s what you focused on.”

“And,” he added, his voice dropping lower, “very private villas.”

My heart did that stupid flippy thing it still did when he looked at me like that. “Well, when you put it that way...”

The gate agent’s voice crackled over the intercom: “Attention passengers on flight 847 to Denpasar, Bali. The flight is currently overbooked...”

Antoni’s smirk faltered slightly.

“Very thorough, huh?” I couldn’t help but tease.

“Minor setback. I’m sure it’s fine.”

Twenty minutes later, we were both upgraded to first class. The catch? We were seated in different sections.

“At least the tea service will be proper,” Antoni called from his seat six rows ahead.

“I’m ordering coffee just to spite you!”

An elderly woman sitting between us looked concerned. “Newlyweds?”

“How could you tell?” I asked.

“Just a guess.” She smiled knowingly. “Though the ‘Just Married’ matching t-shirts might have been a clue.”

Antoni’s head appeared over his seat. “Darling, you’ll never believe what they’re calling tea up here. It’s practically colonial rebellion in a cup!”

“Better than your breakfast beans!” I called back.

The flight attendant appeared with a pained smile. “Sir, we need you to stay in your seat.”

“But I’m trying to talk to my wife.”

“Your... wife can’t hear you over the engines, sir.”

I caught his eye across the cabin and mouthed “wife” with a grin. He mouthed back “love you” before being firmly instructed to face forward.

Somewhere over the Pacific, I got a text: “They’re using paper tea bags. Paper! This is worse than your coffee addiction.”

I typed back: “Go to sleep, Sparkles.”

“Can’t. Too traumatized by improper tea.”

“I’ll make it up to you in Bali.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart. Now sleep.”

“Yes, dear.”

The elderly woman caught me smiling at my phone. “First fight as a married couple?”

“More like first hundredth tea crisis.”

“Ah,” she nodded sagely. “British husband?”

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. That, and I heard him lecturing the flight attendant about water temperature.”

Twenty-four hours, three tea-related incidents, and one lost (then found) carry-on later, our taxi turned onto a winding road lined with palm trees.

“See?” Antoni squeezed my hand. “Perfect.”

Then we saw the sign: “Welcome to The Royal Britain-America Bali Fusion Experience!” (Formerly The Royal Bali Resort & Spa)

Antoni’s face went pale. “That’s... not right.”

The taxi stopped in front of what appeared to be Big Ben made of bamboo. A man in a Hawaiian shirt topped with a Union Jack bow tie bounded down the steps.

“Welcome, welcome!” He beamed. “I am Mr. Wayan, your cultural fusion curator! You must be the MacAuleys!”

“There must be some mistake,” Antoni started, but Mr. Wayan was already directing staff to collect our luggage.

“No mistake! You booked our Premier Special Relationship Package! Very exclusive. Very authentic.” He gestured proudly at the bamboo Big Ben. “See? Just like home!”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “Very... authentic.”

“Your villa is ready! The perfect blend of British charm and American spirit!”

As we followed him down a path lined with alternating American and British flags, I leaned close to Antoni. “Very thorough planning, darling?”

“Shut up.”

“What happened to proper research?”

“In my defense, the website just said ‘luxury resort with British influences. Feel like you’re right at the heart of Britain!’”

“Well,” I gestured at a nearby statue of the King wearing a cowboy hat, “they weren’t lying about the British influence.”

Mr. Wayan stopped in front of a villa. “Here we are! Your home for the next week!”

The villa was... something. Half of the room was decorated with the Great Britain flag painted on the wall, with a lamp that looked like the King drinking a cup of tea. The other side of the room had the American flag with a cowboy lamp holding a gun.

“The British side plays ‘God Save the King’ every morning,” Mr. Wayan said proudly. “And the American side plays ‘Star Spangled Banner’ in response! Very cultural!”

Antoni looked like he was having an existential crisis. “This isn’t happening.”

“Oh, it’s happening, love.” I patted his arm. “Look on the bright side.”

“There’s a bright side?”

“At least they have tea service?”

Mr. Wayan brightened. “Yes! Proper British tea! Served in American-sized portions!"

Antoni made a sound like a deflating balloon.

The luggage got delivered then, but they were not ours. “These are not our bags,” Antoni said.

“These are not your bags?” Mr. Wayan frowned at the luggage being delivered. “These probably belong to the Texas-Yorkshire couple in Villa 3, who arrived around the same time as you.”

I watched my husband, my proper British gentleman, stare at the Elvis-themed cuckoo clock emerging from the villa’s facade.

“Antoni?” I touched his arm. “You okay there?”

He turned to me with that look he got when something was simultaneously horrible and hilarious. ”We’re in a British-American themed resort in Bali.”

“Yes.”

“On our honeymoon.”

“Also yes.”

“With someone else’s luggage.”

“Appears so.”

“And our room plays national anthems at random intervals.”

“Don’t forget the Elvis cuckoo clock.”

He started laughing. Actually laughing. The kind of laugh that made me fall in love with him in the first place.

“Well,” he said finally, pulling me close, “at least we’re consistent.”

“How so?”

“Everything about us has been perfectly imperfect. Why should our honeymoon be any different?”

I kissed him softly. “I love you, you ridiculous man.”

“I love you too, you impossible woman.”

The Elvis clock cuckooed “God Save the King.”

Mr. Wayan beamed. “See? Perfect cultural harmony!”

Perfect wasn’t quite the word I’d use. But standing there, in our ridiculous fusion villa, with my British husband trying not to cringe at the cowboy lamp holding a gun, I couldn’t help but think that maybe this was exactly the honeymoon we deserved.

Perfectly imperfect. Just like us.

***

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