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It all started with a simple plan: three days off, sun, sand, and sneaky sex far from the watchful eyes of their team. Jubal had booked the room—discreetly, of course. Under an alias, naturally: Mr. and Mrs. Rico Corleone. When Isobel raised an eyebrow at the name, he just slipped on his aviators, grinned like a man with secrets, and said, “No one questions a Corleone.”
They pulled into the Oceanside Inn on a blazing Friday afternoon, the air thick with salt, sunscreen, and the unmistakable aroma of fried clams and tourist optimism. The inn had a kind of shabby charm—if you squinted. White shutters in desperate need of repainting, pink bougainvillea strangling the porch railing, and rocking chairs creaking beneath sun-dazed retirees.
Jubal parked their rental, popped the trunk, and slung both duffels over his shoulders like a man with purpose—or, as he’d later call it, “a pack mule for federal lust.”
Isobel stepped out like a Hollywood slow-motion sequence: a sheer linen shirt that whispered vacation sex goddess, top buttons undone just enough to weaponize focus. Her hair was pinned in a twist that practically begged to be undone—preferably by him, preferably soon.
She swept into the lobby ahead of him, cool as bourbon in winter, looking like she was there to investigate who’d murdered a daiquiri. Jubal followed, trying not to groan under the weight of their luggage—or his own anticipation.
At the desk, a young receptionist with purple streaks in her ponytail and a “Zoe (in training!)” name tag blinked up at them.
“Hi! Uh… welcome to the Oceanside. Name?”
“Corleone,” Isobel replied crisply, not missing a beat.
Zoe typed. “Okay, let me see... you’re in Room 7C.”
“Perfect,” Isobel murmured, already picturing tangled limbs, white sheets, and a sin tally that would require confession and a chiropractor.
But Zoe gave a sheepish smile—the kind that screamed brace for impact.
“Except… uh… 7C doesn’t have a king bed. It’s two twins.”
Isobel froze. Sunglasses halfway down her nose. One eyebrow rising like a slowly issued federal warrant.
“Two... what now?”
“Twin beds,” Zoe repeated, smile faltering. “We had a plumbing issue in 9A. The ceiling kind of... collapsed. We had to reshuffle some rooms.”
“And by reshuffle, you mean you downgraded us to sleepaway camp?”
“I mean... yes” Zoe squeaked.
Jubal, sensing imminent bloodshed, stepped in with his most disarming smile and a calming hand on Isobel’s back. “We could just… push the twins together”
Isobel didn’t look at him. “They’d better push together like soulmates or I’m sleeping on you like a body pillow.”
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Room 7C greeted them with a groan. Literally. The floorboards creaked. The ceiling fan ticked ominously. A crooked heron painting on the wall stared down like it was judging their choices.
Two twin beds stood awkwardly apart like an estranged couple at their kids graduation.
“This one’s already slanted,” Jubal muttered, dropping the bags. “Like it has trauma.”
“It’s mirroring my feelings,” Isobel said flatly.
Ten minutes, two scraped knuckles, and one beach towel later, they’d jammed the beds together, shoved the nightstands aside, and created a vaguely acceptable bed. Isobel called it “the mattress bridge of barely-contained disappointment.”
She peeled off her shirt with clinical precision, standing in just a black bra and linen trousers, hair down, cheeks flushed. Sunlight kissed her skin like it had a crush.
She turned to him, eyes dark. “Well?”
Jubal swallowed hard. Two weeks of tension, texts, and pretending not to stare in meetings combusted in a heartbeat.
“Pretty sure what I’m thinking is illegal in three states,” he muttered, already moving.
They didn’t make it past the second kiss.
That kiss was the dam bursting.
She shoved him back onto the towel-bridged mattress monstrosity, fingers dragging his shirt over his head, her mouth moving with the kind of hunger that made him forget his name.
Jubal’s hands roamed, reverent and wild, rediscovering every inch of her. Her moan against his jaw sent his brain to static. They were tangled, hot, panting—two weeks of tension combusting into frantic, glorious contact.
Then—
CREEAAAK.
They froze.
Jubal blinked. “That wasn’t you, right?”
“Nope,” Isobel said. “That was structural failure.”
Another groan, wood shrieking under the pressure of their sins.
And then—CRACK.
One frame buckled. Jubal let out a yelp as they both tumbled sideways into the abyss between the beds, legs tangled, limbs flailing, dignity gone.
“Shit!” Isabel gasped, landing on top of him as the beds lurched apart like rejected Tinder matches.
“I told you the towel bridge was a trap,” Jubal groaned, wedged between box springs and betrayal.
“You look like a man who just lost a custody battle to furniture,” Isobel wheezed, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
“I feel like a man who’s been assaulted by mid-range pine.”
She rolled off him, still giggling, hair in her face, as one sad little bed leg stuck up like a white flag of surrender.
“New plan,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.
“No more floor sex”
“No. We move this operation to the shower or file a lawsuit for emotional damage.”
He reached for her, still flat on his back. “I vote both.”
The bathroom was a throwback to 1973. Mint tile, a pink seashell soap dish, and a showerhead that looked like it had seen combat. But the water pressure, divine. And that was all Isobel needed.
She stepped in first, the steam rising almost instantly. The door didn’t close. Didn’t have to.
Jubal followed like a man hypnotized.
She turned into his arms without a word, pressing their bodies together under the hot spray, her mouth finding his with the kind of intent that short-circuited rational thought.
Slick skin. Water tracing over curves and scars. Her leg hooked around his hip, firm and demanding. He braced her against the tile, the heat of her more scalding than the water.
“I think this is sturdier” he mumbled between gasps.
“I’ll hold you up if it collapses,” she whispered, biting his earlobe.
The next few minutes were a blur of steam, slippery limbs, sinful angles, and laughter at one point when they nearly knocked over the soap caddy mid-thrust.
When it ended—they leaned breathless against the wall, her forehead pressed to his chest, both of them grinning like fools.
“I’m never letting another case keep us apart that long,” she rasped.
-------------------
Still damp from their post-chaos shower, Isobel emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, towelling her.
“We should tell them,” she said, eyeing the towel-stuffed mattress gap like it had personally betrayed her.
Jubal, now fully dressed and halfway through buttoning his shirt, groaned. “We’ve been here three hours. Three. That has to be some kind of record.”
“I’m not including the check-in line. Or the bed assembly. Or the part where you nearly dislocated a hip trying to save the nightstand.”
“I did save the nightstand,” he muttered. “The lamp’s the real victim here.”
Downstairs, the lobby was mercifully quiet. Zoe, still in her perch behind the counter, perked up as they approached—clearly relieved not to be answering bingo-related complaints for once.
“Hi! Um, how was your room?”
Isobel leaned against the desk with calm authority and absolutely no unnecessary detail. “We’d like to report a minor structural issue. The bed in 7C… gave out. Possibly a frame problem.”
Zoe blinked, clearly running internal diagnostics.
“Oh. Uh. Wow. I’m—sorry. That shouldn’t have happened. I can… I’ll call maintenance.”
“Appreciated,” Isobel said smoothly.
Jubal leaned in, adding with a weary smile, “We didn’t even unpack.”
Zoe winced sympathetically. “I’ll speak to my manager. Maybe grab a drink at the bar while we sort it out”
“Solid advice,” Isobel said, already steering Jubal away. “We’ll be in the restaurant.”
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The Driftwood Room was exactly what it sounded like: aggressively beige and vaguely nautical. The early-bird dinner rush had begun—at precisely 4:00 p.m.—and the dining room buzzed with soft chewing, gentle murmurs, and the occasional clink of a walker bumping a salad bar.
Lace curtains filtered the sun, doilies covered every flat surface, and a tired ceiling fan rotated above them with a quiet groan of surrender. The room smelled faintly of pot roast, Old Spice, and chamomile tea.
As they stepped in, both came to a synchronized halt.
“Oh no,” Jubal whispered.
Isobel’s eyes scanned the room. “I feel like we’re interrupting a summit for the over 80s.”
They found an open booth near the window and slid in. Jubal scanned the laminated menu.
“They have something called Crab Delight,” he muttered. “The asterisk says, ‘May not contain crab.’”
“Excellent. We’re off to a thrilling start.”
Heads began to turn.
Slowly.
One silver-haired woman stared over her split pea soup, lips pursed in judgment. A gentleman in suspenders gave them a once-over, shook his head, and returned to his creamed spinach.
And then…
Movement. From the booth across the way. Two straw hats. Two tote bags. Two women on the move.
Jubal lowered his menu. “Isobel.”
“I see them.”
They approached like they owned the place.
One wore a flamingo-print dress and orthopaedic sandals. The other had a visor, a lipstick colour called Confetti Blush, and the air of someone who once ran the PTA with an iron fist.
“Excuse us!” the flamingo-dressed one chirped, beaming. “We just had to come say hello.”
“We’re Gloria and Edna,” added the visor-wearer. “Room 3B. Ocean view. Daily walkers’ club. Bridge champions. And amateur observers of unusual vibrations.”
They slid into the booth uninvited like two women who had never waited to be asked.
Jubal blinked. “Uh—hi.”
“We heard… things,” Gloria said brightly.
“Loud things,” Edna added. “Rhythmic. Furniture-in-distress type things.”
“We were betting which piece would give first,” Gloria added cheerfully, patting her tote like it held a scorecard. “I had money on the left bedframe.”
Isobel blinked. “You heard all that from 3B? you must have wonderful hearing”
“Oh honey,” Edna said, delighted, “we sit on the porch every afternoon. Your room has a vent and we turned her hearing aids to loud.”
“You two gave us the best entertainment we’ve had since the great towel fire of 2017,” Gloria added.
Jubal flushed a deep shade of mortified. “We’re... very sorry for any inconvenience, for any noise”
“Oh, please,” Edna waved him off. “We haven’t been that impressed since Gloria’s third husband learned how to salsa.”
“And let me tell you,” Gloria said, pointing her fork like a weapon, “you’ve got stamina, son. We don’t give out compliments often, but you looked winded on the way in, and I mean that as a sincere endorsement.”
Isobel smiled faintly, unflustered. “Ladies, would you recommend anything, I hear the Crab Delight is... vaguely crab-adjacent.”
Jubal coughed into his napkin. The waitress shuffled over, moving at the pace of geological erosion. She looked like she’d been part of the furniture since 1964.
“Welcome. Coffee? Iced tea? Water?”
“Just water for now,” Isobel said. “And maybe another moment to look”
“Sure honey, plenty of time. Soup of the day is potato leek. Meatloaf’s not dry today. And we have the lobster special, though the kitchen says it’s technically ‘seafood medley as there isn't much lobster left in it.’”
Jubal raised a brow. “Should that scare me?”
“Probably.”
She turned and left with a limp and a shrug.
Isobel glanced across the table. “I don’t think I’m emotionally ready for seafood medley.”
“I’m not emotionally ready for this restaurant.” Jubal mumbled
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As they continued to scan the menu, Gloria took her knitting out her tote, and began speaking again, apparently with only one volume level - loud.
“You gave us the best Friday night we’ve had since Reagan was in office,” Gloria added. “It was like a live radio drama. With groaning. And some... thumping.”
Jubal turned red. Actually red. He dropped the menu like it had personally offended him. “Uh… sorry ”
“Oh, please,” Edna waved it off. “We appreciated the commitment. Most of the men around here snore louder than they do anything else.”
The waitress returned. “Ready to order?”
Jubal jumped in quickly, hoping to redirect the attention. “I’ll have the meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and the green beans.”
“Early bird?” she asked. "its cheaper"
“Sure, whatever.”
“And for you?” she turned to Isobel.
“I’ll take the grilled salmon,” Isobel said. “Sub the rice for steamed vegetables. And I’ll take the wine pairing.”
The waitress blinked. “For the early bird?”
“Why not, I like to live dangerously.”
With a raised brow and a scratch of her pen, the waitress disappeared back toward the kitchen.
“You looked like a woman who’d earned three courses and a commemorative T-shirt,” Gloria said, sipping from her ever-present thermos.
“Gloria,” Edna hissed, elbowing her. “Let them eat in peace.”
“Oh, hush. If they wanted peace, they wouldn’t have shaken the building like a snow globe.”
Jubal tried to disappear behind his water glass. “Sorry for the noise,” he offered weakly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Edna said with a pat to his hand. “No need to apologize. We were rooting for you.”
Across the room, a man near the juice bar muttered, “Young people and their flexible hips,” and his wife smacked him with her purse.
-------------------
Before another round of unsolicited commentary on thrust angles could begin, Zoe appeared beside their table—looking very much like she was on her first diplomatic mission to the United Nations of Geriatric Gossip.
“Hi! Sorry to interrupt,” she said quickly, clutching her server notepad like it was a Kevlar vest. “I just spoke to the manager. Maintenance checked Room 7C and, um, we’re going to replace the bed. One’s being moved from a triple room—we had an extra single that isn’t being used. It should be there by the time you finish your meal. We’re, um... really sorry again.”
She gave a hopeful, apologetic smile. It was the kind of smile that said I don’t get paid enough for this, and I’m trying so hard not to cry in front of you.
Jubal opened his mouth to thank her, but Edna—bless her—had absolutely no filter.
“A single!” Edna repeated, aghast. “You’re replacing the broken bed with a single?”
Zoe blinked. “Uh—yes- Just for now. Until—”
“Oh no, no, no.” Edna shook her head with a disapproving tut. “They’re here for romance, sweetheart. You don’t fit romance on a single. You barely fit posture on a single.”
Gloria, now sipping iced tea with suspicious serenity, added, “I once broke up with a man for owning a twin bed. Sent a message about his priorities.”
Zoe’s eyes widened. “We really didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, you’re sweet,” Edna said, patting Zoe’s arm. “It’s not you, honey. It’s the system. You can’t expect people to reconnect on furniture designed for lonely aunts and Victorian children.”
Jubal cleared his throat, desperate to regain control. “The single is great. Really. No complaints. We’re just—uh—grateful something’s being done.”
Zoe looked like she was trying to vanish through the laminate flooring. “You’re sure? I can ask again—”
And that’s when Edna stood up. Slowly. With the conviction of a woman who once led a protest at Woodstock and had no intention of letting a romantic weekend go unfulfilled.
“Excuse me!” she announced to the room.
Jubal turned purple.
“Is anyone here willing to give up a king bed room for the lovebirds in 7C?” Edna called out, one hand cupped dramatically around her mouth. “They’ve had a hard day, and not enough mattress to show for it!”
Zoe audibly gasped. Gloria clapped. Several patrons choked on mash.
“Edna,” Isobel said calmly, buttering her roll without looking up, “if you trigger a stampede, I’m not doing CPR.”
One elderly man at the back raised a slow hand. “I have a king the pretty women can share.”
“Sit down, Marvin,” Gloria snapped. “You nap in corduroy. You don’t qualify for a glace from her.”
Jubal stood abruptly, trying to contain the situation before it turned into a televised town hall. “Zoe,” he said quickly, “we are very grateful. The single is perfect. Really. We appreciate the effort. And we’re, uh—so sorry for any inconvenience.”
Zoe nodded rapidly, clearly relieved. “Of course! I’ll, uh—let them know you’re all set.”
She fled the scene like it was a hostage negotiation she barely survived.
Edna sat down again, satisfied. “Honestly. The nerve of this place. Two beautiful people, all worked up with nowhere to lie down properly.”
Gloria sighed. “They should’ve just come to our room. We’d have made margaritas. Put on some Barry White. Played referee if necessary.”
Jubal took a long sip of his water and said to Isobel under his breath, “This is either the worst or best weekend of my life.”
She didn’t look at him—just smirked and murmured back, “It’s both.”
---------------------
As the waitress appeared with their food, suspicious looking meatloaf and questionable piece of salmon —mercifully—Gloria and Edna stood, collecting their tote bags like satisfied CIA operatives concluding a field report.
“We’ll leave you to your food,” Gloria said. “But just know—you’ve made this year’s Oceanside Inn Newsletter.
“And I’m free after 7,” Edna added, winking at Jubal. “Just saying.”
With one last mischievous glance, they walked off—cackling in stereo and already narrating their version of events for the bingo crowd.
Jubal slumped back in his booth. “We’re never going to live this down.”
Isobel smiled faintly. “Speak for yourself. I might be elevated to myth status.”
“Next time, we go off-grid. Cabin. No bingo. No seafood medleys. No audience.”
From across the room, Gloria called out with supernatural timing—
“WE HEARD THAT!”