“The three Cabot sisters have had a lot happen in such a short time.” Jamie inhaled deeply.
I propped up my chin with a hand. “Anna’s son is so adorable. He said his first word yesterday.”
“Which was?”
“No.” I laughed. “You have to see the latest photo.” I reached for my phone.
Her eyes misted. “He’s gotten so big. We should go see them.”
“She’d like that, but are you sure you can handle it?” I hated pressing Jamie on this issue.
She nodded, doing her best to control her emotions. “What do you say to us trying again?”
I stared for a long second before responding. “I thought you said you wouldn’t be able to risk another miscarriage.”
“I want to have a baby. Our baby.”
“Jamie, I need you to be absolutely sure. No pressure whatsoever. You mean too much to me to put you through something that can break you again.”
“It broke you, too.”
“I-it did.” My voice cracked.
“I want to try, Alex. So very much. I want to be a mother.”
I peered into her eyes for any sign of hesitation. “You mean it, don’t you?”
“I do.”
I kissed her sweetly. “I love you. So very much. I have something for you.” I got out of bed and went to the chair with my bag. Returning with an envelope in my hand, I said, “It’s not the most romantic birthday gift, but…”
Jamie opened it, a business card falling from the envelope.
“She’s supposed to be the best couple’s therapist in Boston,” I rushed to explain.
“Does this mean you promise when we leave, we can keep this going? Each day, getting our groove back with professional help?” She waved the card in the air. “I’ve missed our connection. I don’t want to lose you. No matter what happens.”
“I do, with all my heart.” I made love to Jamie as way of sealing the promise.
Chapter 13
Jamie
It was June twenty-first, and I sat at the bar.
The female bartender asked, “What can I get you?”
“Manhattan, please.”
“You got it.”
“Come here often?” A dark-haired woman slid into the barstool next to me.
“Once a year for the past five years. It’s how I ring in my birthday.”
“Just five?” She rubbed her chin. “I’m Tracy Lords.”
“I believe we’ve met before. I’m Susan Vance.” I shook her hand. “What’s the allure of Honduras?”
“It holds a special place in my heart. On my first trip, I reconnected with the love of my life.”
“What are the odds? Same thing happened to me.” I nodded a thanks for my drink.
The woman turned her attention to the bartender. “I’ll have a white wine.”
“So, this woman. What’s she like?” I asked.
“Perfection.”
I laughed. “You don’t expect much from her.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. She’s a world-class nag—”
“Maybe she has every reason to nag!”
“Methinks you’re the type to nag. Naggers like to stick together.” She exaggerated a wink.
“And you’re the type to think she’s always right.”
“Is that so?”
“Your smug expression is proof enough.” I tipped my Manhattan at her before taking a lustful tug.
She tilted her head back and laughed.
“Maybe you’re right. No nagging tonight.”
She cupped her ear. “Can you say that again?”
“No. It nearly killed me that time.” I looked her up and down. “I didn’t think you’d get here on time. I instructed the front desk you might be making another middle of the night appearance.”
“I lucked out and caught an earlier flight.” Alex leaned back. “You look stunning.”
“I look like a mother of three-year-old twins.”
“Are they safely locked up in the basement for the night?” she joked.
“No, I’m giving them free rein of the house. The doors are unlocked, and I hung neon signs listing all the expensive items inside for burglars.”
“Even better.” Alex leaned over and kissed my cheek. “I missed you, Jams.”
“I missed you, but I still plan on getting my revenge for you leaving me with the kids for five whole days.”
“I booked a day at the spa tomorrow. A couple’s massage and other pampering. I can’t remember everything on the list.” She motioned it was long and confusing.
“That’s a good start.” I took a sip of the Manhattan, letting the booziness wash over me.
“A start, huh? What else do you want?”
“After the spa rejuvenation, I’ll put pen to paper and craft a master list for every time you go away on business.”
“Please do. It’s the least I can do. How are the little ones?”
“Who said the twos are terrible? The threes are hideous.” I groaned.
Alex grinned. “They take after me, naturally, and you love every second. You’re glowing.”
I smiled. “How could I not love being with them?”
“For a mom, you’re pretty fucking hot,” she whispered in my ear.
“I can say the same about you. Shall we take this to the cabin?”
Alex nodded. “I’ve been thinking about this trip for weeks now.”
I hopped off the stool. “Let’s go see if you’ve gotten any better at removing my garter.”
A HUGE THANK YOU!
First, thanks so much for reading Tropical Heat. I’ve published more than twenty novels, and I still find it simply amazing people read my stories. When I hit publish on my first book back in 2013, I had no idea what would happen. It’s been a wonderful journey, and I wouldn’t be where I am today without your support.
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About TB Markinson
TB Markinson is an American who’s recently returned to the US after a seven-year stint in the UK and Ireland. When she isn’t writing, she’s traveling the world, watching sports on the telly, visiting pubs in New England, or reading. Not necessarily in that order.
Her novels have hit Amazon bestseller lists for lesbian fiction and lesbian romance. For a full listing of TB’s novels, please visit her Amazon page.
Feel free to visit TB’s website to say hello. On the Lesbians Who Write weekly podcast, she and Clare Lydon dish about the good, the bad, and the ugly of writing. TB also runs I Heart Lesfic, a place for authors and fans of lesfic to come together to celebrate and chat about lesbian fiction.
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Always Check The Reviews
Amanda Radley
Not One, Not Two, But Three Swimming Pools
Phoebe Baxter stepped through the airport terminal’s automatic doors, politely moved to the side, and smiled. She parked up her suitcase beside her and closed her eyes, facing towards the bright summer sun.
The heat on her face was sheer bliss.
Of course, summer had also come to London, but not with the same intensity that it had arrived in Lanzarote. Just seconds out of the airport and Phoebe was already enjoying the feeling of warm sun streaming down onto her pale features. She sucked in a deep breath before slowly letting it out and allowing her tense shoulders to lower a little. She deserved this, she reminded herself.
Her holiday ha
d felt like a very long time coming, what with the hectic year she’d had. But it was finally June and she had two whole weeks to herself. Two weeks at an all-inclusive luxury hotel with not one, not two, but three swimming pools.
Phoebe loved to swim; her mother insisted on referring to her as a water baby despite the fact that she was now in her late twenties. It was the sight of those three pools glistening in the sun that had encouraged Phoebe to take the plunge, so to speak, and book the hotel that was right at the upper edge of her budget.
Hotel Royal Lanza looked like a dream come true, with multiple pools, bars, and restaurants minutes from the beach. Phoebe had spent a lot of time studying the pictures and the menus before finally paying the large sum required for a two-week stay at the five-star resort.
She wasn’t usually one to splurge on things, but she figured she’d deserved it after such a stressful year.
She realised that she was getting in people’s way, despite having moved to the side, and decided her sun-worshipping could wait until she got to the hotel. Grabbing her suitcase handle, she marched towards the taxi rank and got into the short queue.
It was mid-afternoon and she was already thinking about what to eat for dinner. The pictures of the food from the Hotel Royal Lanza website were seared into her memory, as were the entire menus of all four onsite restaurants.
She wondered if she would end up having the tuna steak in the luxurious opulence of the main dining room or a simple salad at the pool bar, where she could watch the sun go down from the raised terrace.
Whichever she chose, she was looking forward to getting to the hotel and checking out all of its facilities. It had been four years since Phoebe had last been on holiday, and she fully intended to make the most out of her trip.
At the front of the queue, she told the taxi rank assistant where she was going twice, but he looked at her curiously. Phoebe’s Spanish was terrible, and so she had prepared for this moment. In her pocket was a printed copy of her booking confirmation with Hotel Royal Lanza. She held it up, pointing to the name of the street.
Realisation dawned and he nodded eagerly. “Sí… sí…”
He waved forward a taxi and had an animated conversation with the driver for a few moments. Phoebe wondered if something was going on, but when she looked around, everyone seemed to be engaged in animated conversations. She definitely wasn’t in England anymore.
The driver got out of the car and gestured to take her suitcase from her. She smiled and thanked him as he took the case and placed it in the boot. She got into the back of the car, and within a few moments they were on their way.
“Have you been to Lanzarote before?” he asked when they soon joined a large motorway towards Puerto del Carmen.
“No, never,” Phoebe replied, making eye contact with him via the rear-view mirror. She wished he would pay more attention to the road instead of looking at her. Cars whizzed around them at high speed, and she gripped her handbag’s handle tightly.
“It’s great, you will have a great time,” he enthused, casually holding the steering wheel with one hand while the other tapped out a message on his phone. “Beautiful beaches, lovely sunshine. Very nice, yes?”
“Yes, I’m really looking forward to it.” She looked out of the window at the rugged landscape; in the distance she could already see the sea. “It’s been a hard year.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said kindly, though without much feeling as he was still typing away on his phone.
Phoebe blushed. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud; it had just slipped out. The reason for her hard year had been tearing at her for months, and she’d been burying it so deeply that it seemed inevitable that it would burst out of her eventually. She just hadn’t expected it to be to a taxi driver who would surely be the cause of her death if he didn’t start paying attention to the road soon.
“Boyfriend trouble?” he fished.
“No, work trouble,” Phoebe corrected. She wanted to add that he was being very heteronormative to assume she was straight, not to mention condescending to assume that a hard year was because of, of all things, a boy. “I… had to leave my job, and it was really hard to do.”
“You were sacked?” The typing stopped, but now he was looking over his shoulder at her with curiosity. Did this man ever focus on driving?
“No, no, nothing like that. I, well, I walked out,” Phoebe admitted. “I feel really bad about it now; I left without notice. But I had to get away. At the time it felt like the right thing to do.”
He laughed and turned back to look at the road. “We’ve all had bad jobs we walked out on. Don’t feel bad. Now you are on holiday. You can relax and enjoy yourself.”
Phoebe wanted to argue that not everyone just walks out on their boss in the way she had done. She also wanted to point out that just relaxing and enjoying herself was hard when she still carried around so much guilt for the way she had left.
On the other hand, she didn’t really think it was appropriate to be having an in-depth conversation about such things with her taxi driver. As nice as he seemed, she doubted he was qualified to deal with her emotional problems.
She let out a small sigh. Emotional problems that she’d hoped were over.
It had been five months since she walked away from her job. Two weeks later she had started a new position at a new company and had promised herself that she’d stop thinking about the past and would move on with her life.
She’d thought that she’d managed that, but it was becoming apparent that she hadn’t. Not even an hour into her holiday and she was already thinking about her old job and, more specifically, her old boss.
Part of the reason she was treating herself to an expensive getaway was precisely to try to heal some of those wounds and to try to finally move on and put the past in the past.
“Do you have any restaurant recommendations?” Phoebe asked, hoping to change the subject.
Of course, she fully intended to spend most of her time at her Hotel Royal Lanza, having paid for an all-inclusive stay, but she hoped that the question would occupy the rest of the time they’d be sharing in the taxi, not to mention distract her.
“Yes, yes. Do you like fresh seafood?” he asked eagerly, suddenly turning to regard her again.
Phoebe looked out of the car window and shook her head.
“No, this can’t be right,” she said.
The driver, Antonio, handed back her printed booking confirmation. “This is the address,” he told her for the second time.
She looked down at the piece of paper and then back out the window. Directly in front of her was what could only be described as a very large, very messy building site. Concrete was being poured, the vague outlines of buildings could be made out, and builders were working in the late afternoon sun. It was dusty, loud, and most certainly not a luxury hotel with three pools.
“But… where’s the hotel?” Phoebe asked.
“Maybe it is farther up the road? Or behind this construction? This is the address.”
Phoebe realised that her friendly taxi driver was losing patience with her. He’d done his job and delivered her to the address she’d provided. It seemed that she would have to do the last bit and find the actual hotel on her own.
She paid him and thanked him when he got her case from the boot of the car and placed it on the ground. He didn’t wait around and was soon speeding away, leaving her on the busy street, surrounded by plumes of building dust that spat out from the site onto the public walkway.
Luckily, at that very moment, she saw a builder returning to the site. “Excuse me!” She waved him down.
He stopped and looked at her with a questioning eyebrow.
“Hi, I’m looking for this hotel?” She showed him her booking confirmation.
He took the piece of paper and looked at it for a moment before handing it back to her.
“Wait here,” he said in broken English. To make his point he gestured with his palms for her to stand where she
was.
“Sure, okay,” she agreed readily.
He disappeared through the building site’s chain-link fence, hopefully to get someone who would be able to help her with directions. She waited on the busy street, watching as other tourists busied themselves with shopping or transporting themselves to and from the beach.
A loud drilling started, and she winced at the sound and the vibrations that ran through the ground. She hoped Hotel Royal Lanza was a little shielded from the noise of the construction; otherwise she’d be very unhappy indeed.
“Hello?”
She turned to see a man in a smart suit and a hard hat.
“Hi,” Phoebe greeted. “I’m looking for my hotel, it’s called the Hotel Roy—”
“I’m sorry, but there has been a mistake,” the man interrupted her. He looked apologetic. “Your booking should never have been made.”
Phoebe blinked. “What do you mean?”
He took the piece of paper from her hand and looked at it with a sigh. “This is a glitch. The system was being tested, but no bookings should have been made. I will issue you a full refund.”
“I… I don’t want a refund, I want my holiday,” Phoebe said. Deep down she knew what was happening, but she hadn’t quite accepted it yet.
“I cannot do that,” he said.
“Just point me to where the hotel is. I’ll speak to reception,” Phoebe told him.
“You cannot. The hotel… it hasn’t been built,” he said, gesturing behind him.
Phoebe stared at the building site beyond the chain-link fence. “But… but the three swimming pools,” she whispered. “That can’t be right, I’ve seen photos. There were three swimming pools. And a pool bar. And a tuna steak with pomegranate jus.”
“Photoshop,” he explained. “This hotel has not been built yet. I am sorry.”
Summer Loving Page 19