The View

Sienna

It’s just after midday on a beautiful, hot Friday as I gaze out the plane window and exhale upon landing. As soon as I step off the plane, I sense the air buzzing with excitement.

I consider this work trip a three-day break—even if it’s for a conference—I find myself quietly excited. It’s all about the small things in life, right? The best part: it’s free, so there’s a real possibility of finding some pleasure in this business trip getaway vibe. But I know myself—I don’t really have the time or energy anymore. Ugh. Maybe I need to get back out there.

I mentally give myself a well-deserved pat on the back for making it through heavy traffic from work to the airport and catching my flight just in time.

The taxi ride to the hotel runs smoothly despite the traffic. I’m relieved the driver isn’t chatty; with an earpiece in, he seems absorbed in another conversation.

As we cross a bridge, I gaze out at the beautiful sunset, soaking in the natural light warming my face. I’m ready for the unwinding process to begin, but instead, my thoughts wander back to work. Ugh.

Still, I feel grateful for a job that offers small perks like this—a chance to recharge and focus on wellbeing. It’s all part of the corporate cycle: boost morale, work harder. Ugh. I remind myself that, despite everything, this is still a weekend away.

My motto is “work hard, play hard”—at least in theory, if not always in practice.

I pay and thank the taxi driver, then walk into the grand hotel and approach the front desk to check in. I sense something is off from the quick flicker in the young receptionist’s expression.

Up to this point, I’ve had great service on this short trip, especially at the hotel, and the last thing I need is a customer service hiccup when I’m on a five-star roll—or so I thought.

As she pulls up my booking, I notice her face tighten, and her breath catch. Poor thing—I wonder how she’ll explain what’s wrong. She politely excuses herself, picks up the phone, and I hear her speak to her manager. Subtle waves of worry pass across her face. Finally, she apologises for the inconvenience and explains that the hotel made a mistake—but to make up for it, they’re offering a complimentary dinner and drinks tonight.

Good save, I think.

I breathe, assure her it’s fine, and turn from the lavish front desk. My high-heeled boots click softly across the marble floors as I take in the elegant foyer.

As I head toward the lift, ready to shed my work attire for the night, the glamorous lift doors open, and I reflect on the unexpected turn with my booking. There was a minor mix-up: my room is actually part of a penthouse suite, separated by a very large double-glazed door—a signature feature of the suite’s design that allows the penthouse to be divided into two separate rooms when the hotel is full.

Sounds impressive.

Interesting.

Soundproof?

The young receptionist assures me that it is. It better be. I was told the hotel is fully booked for the weekend, and changing rooms isn’t an option. Oh well, at least dinner and drinks are complimentary tonight to make up for the inconvenience.

Shaking off a twinge of disappointment, I focus on making the most of my five-star stay. My only hope is that the person next door isn’t a party animal, a loud couple, or someone with a chronic snoring problem.

As I head toward the penthouse door, I immediately notice the door next to it—presumably leading to the rest of the penthouse floor I’m about to enter. I truly hope my neighbor isn’t problematic.

I swipe my keycard and step inside. The fresh scent of jasmine and cedar massages my senses, and my eyes take in the breathtaking views.

The ocean panorama is stunning, and the space itself is everything I could want—stylish comfort and modern luxury, with dark timber, black panelling, white marble, and expansive harbour views.

The view is heavenly.

My OCD get’s the better of me, having me arranging my things, storing them away, as if I’m moving in for good.

I need a shower, I mutter to myself, and am delighted to find an open, modern bathroom—spacious, with a massive showerhead. Shit—four people could comfortably shower in here together. Huh. I flick the button on the shower wall and am immediately enveloped by a rainfall of water, the temperature perfectly automated to the touch. Mmm. I make a mental note to install a rainfall showerhead like this in my dream home. Luxurious.

I get dressed, deciding to go casual-formal. Comfort is luxury. I settle on a loose white linen off-the-shoulder top, jean shorts, and comfortable leather summer slip-ons. I turn in the mirror, pleased that it’s just enough to show off a bit of skin and my natural coloring. I look at my face and think: just a bit of mascara and a natural lip gloss. Rubbing my lips together, shaking my natural wavy hair, I decide that’ll do. A margarita is calling my name.

In the lift, I catch my reflection again. The older I get, the more I appreciate a simple, effortless style.

Upon entering the restaurant, I’m greeted by the aroma of delicious food. The ocean view is even more spectacular from this side, thanks to 360-degree glass walls that make the surroundings feel as if you’re floating in the sky. Extravagant.

I sign in at the counter, give my room number, and the attendant smiles, reminding me that dinner and drinks are on the house. They ask where I’d like to sit, and my eyes are drawn to a table in the far corner.

As I sit, enjoying the privacy my table offers and settling in with my margarita in hand, I look out at the view and savour the moment. And of course, my thoughts drift to my usual go-to topic: wondering whether I’ll end up alone in life. I’m 38, single, and career-focused. In two more years, I’ll be 40. Sigh.

Then a self-sabotaging thought pops up. I’m sitting here, all alone, at this table with four seats. Alone. Alone, damn it! I take another sip. It’s a perfect setting for a romantic couple. Ugh. Shut up. Romance. Love. Relationships. Ugh. That all sounds like too much hard work.

My love life is non-existent. I can explain: I loathe dating apps, and flirting is overrated. Sometimes, I wish I had a psychic guy, knew what I wanted, and could skip the awkward introductions—straight to the main course. I’m not talking about sex. Well… maybe. I need to find my person. Or maybe my person needs to find me. I take another sip.

Lost in thought, I catch a waft of scent—cedar, perhaps, or is it sandalwood?

Whoa—the scent has totally caught me off guard, overpowering and controlling my senses - instantly intriguing me. My body becomes hyperaware of something I can’t quite place about the scent. I can’t remember where I’ve smelled it before. I reach for my margarita, still pondering, but I’m abruptly interrupted by someone’s presence.

A 6’4” profile—sex- god—of a man in a navy-blue suit that does little to conceal his broad shoulders and dangerously bulging arms slumps into the table next to mine, dropping his man bag onto the adjacent chair. He’s sitting so that I can only see him from my right side, and I try not to make it obvious that I’m sneaking glances, failing to get a good look at his face. He lifts his left arm, resting his elbow on the table, and that’s when I notice the sheer size of his fucking hand—long, thick fingers massaging his temple and forehead. My panties are immediately in disarray. His left hand pauses on his forehead, holding his head, while his other impressively large hand hovers over his mobile.

Even as I’m distracted by his scent and his physique. But I also wonder why the fuck would he choose to sit with his back to such a gorgeous view.

I can’t take my eyes off him and fail to get a clear view of his face again.

I notice he has a slightly pepper-speckled, sexy beard that accentuates his side profile and highlights his beautiful jawline.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what my life has come to: stalking strangers—particularly middle-aged men—at a restaurant.

What’s wrong with me? No, not me. Him.

Unbelievable.

Of all the tables, he chooses the one right next to me.

I shiver, but it’s not cold.

I drink in silence. Looking out at the view. And glance sideways again. Subtle Sienna. Fuck.

Uh-oh.

I’m in trouble. Or maybe, he is.

Fuckity fuck fuck.