Make Me Choose (Bayshore Book 4)

by Ember Leigh

  “Let’s begin by facing our partners,” the Princess of Sensuality oozes. “Sit cross-legged. Let’s gaze into each other’s eyes.”

  I grimace, doing as she says. This is going to be rough. Not because I don’t want to look into my partner’s eyes, but precisely because I do.

  “Just because a woman exists near me doesn’t mean she’s my girlfriend,” Weston mutters as his gaze snaps up to meet mine. Our knees brush as we settle into place, and heat is pouring off him like he’s the goddamn sun. I swallow hard, the sustained eye contact rendering my insides numb.

  “I don’t care,” I manage weakly.

  “You’re the one always bringing it up,” he says, his gaze hardening. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you jealous, Nova?”

  The instructor lets out a low hum, encouraging everyone to do the same. I glare at him before snapping my eyes shut and following the instructor’s lead. Even after we’ve all hummed and hoo’d our ways through something like a meditative exercise, I’m still sizzling over Weston’s words. I have calmed down approximately none.

  “Let’s open our eyes…reach up toward the sky…and then one partner sit with your back facing the other.”

  At least I don’t have to look at his impossibly handsome face. Now I just have to ignore the encroaching heat of him, which I can feel growing nearer as he positions himself behind me. His long legs extend out on either side of mine. I can’t tell if he’s two feet or two inches away from me, but as far as my body is concerned, he’s nibbling on my earlobe.

  “Scoot closer,” the Sultana of Sensuality says. She’s making a slow path between couples as she peers down at all of us, occasionally offering adjustments. She pauses above us, and then gently corrects Weston’s form so that his chest is pressed to my back.

  Great. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to enjoy this. He shifts behind me, clearing his throat. Every part of me wants to warn him not to get a hard-on, but he would probably laugh. I’m sure I would appear in the very last of his fantasies. Probably not even an emergency fantasy.

  “I can’t believe you think I’d be jealous,” I say, trying to refocus on how ridiculous he is. Our back-and-forth already seems outdated, but there’s still some outrage simmering inside me. “Jealous of those girls? Seriously?”

  “Let’s breaaaaaathe together.” The instructor wants us to breathe in and out in sync, so we can feel the rise and fall of each other’s chests. It’s weird, but whatever. Weston and I fumble through it.

  “Oh, come on,” Weston says, his bass rumble closer to my ear than it’s ever been before. My thighs go tense. Fuck. This might be the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to me, and Weston doesn’t even technically want to be near me. “You think I meant that you were jealous of them? I meant you were jealous of me.”

  It takes a moment for his true meaning to penetrate the thick fog of lust that the heat of his thighs are inspiring. He shifts behind me, and goosepimples flare across my lower back. I didn’t know I could even get goosepimples down there.

  “Oh.” I scoff quietly. We might be arguing, but we’re in a chill class. We need to Zen argue. “You mean you think I’m into women.”

  “Now, for the partners who are sitting behind, with your chests touching your partner’s backs, place your palms gently on the tops of your partner’s thighs.” Our teacher hums contentedly as her gaze sweeps across the classroom. “There we go. Yes. We want to conjure that intimate fire power. While we do this, let’s think about sending it to our brides and grooms today.”

  Weston’s palms appear on the tops of my thighs, and I almost faint. I gulp, thankful he’s not somehow taking my blood pressure at the same time. Though I can’t rule that out as an upcoming activity. I’m supposed to be directing my thoughts toward Rhys and Amelia, but all I can think about is the heat pouring out of his palms. The rough scrape of his hands against my skin tells me that he works with his hands. At least a little. Which, you know, doesn’t interest me at all.

  “Fire power?” I mutter. “This isn’t Super Mario 3.”

  A burst of air grazes my ear lobe as he snort laughs. I am officially turned on. If only he would slide those hands between my legs or wrap his thick biceps around me, I could die happy. Which is a strange thing to think about a man you cannot stand.

  “You need to quit talking,” he scolds me, his sexy rumble scraping through me. My eyes flutter shut. I feel like this is not what Madam Fire Power had in mind: dissolving into desirous puddles of want for a hot jerk. “This is serious.”

  “Pff. Like I should listen to you. You think I’m a lesbian. You have no idea how much I love dick.”

  Weston is notably silent after this, which of course makes my face and ears so hot you could toast bread on me. Thank God this hut is dim. Now Weston won’t be able to see how embarrassing it is to accidentally talk about my sexual preferences. He doesn’t care. We’re not alike, he and I. Nowhere near the same level. So I just need to stop.

  I’m mentally berating myself as the instructor encourages each couple to lean forward, then lean back. Lean forward. Lean back. It’s like we’re in a weird eighties video about dry humping. It is, at the very least, a boring soft-core porn. Just when I’m wondering whether it’s the quiet embarrassment or the continued touching of Weston’s groin through my lower back that’s going to kill me first, our instructor claps her hands gleefully.

  “Now partner two, turn around so we can press our backs together. It’s time for a team effort.”

  Weston’s heat leaves me, and disappointment trickles through me. It shouldn’t feel that good to have this person pressed against me. It sure as hell hasn’t felt that good with anyone else.

  Could it ever feel that good with Jimmy? Maybe I just haven’t tried hard enough.

  My thoughts disappear as Weston’s firm back presses against mine. It’s time for the team effort. And though I wish Lady Love Language meant sex, I have a feeling it’s going to be something much less satisfying.

  Chapter 4

  WESTON

  This intimacy class is going to get me into trouble.

  I should have insisted on choosing literally anyone else as my partner. Hell, if I’d known that I’d have to be within zero inches of Nova’s luscious booty, I would have skipped entirely. This isn’t fair. I dislike this person. I shouldn’t have to be aroused by her, too.

  “I want each couple to come to standing,” the instructor says simply. Her voice sounds like an adult voice actor’s attempt at sounding like a kid. It’s mesmerizing and a little weird. She instructs us to interlock our arms.

  Confusion ripples through the room. I scoff. This lady is nuts.

  “It is possible. But you have to work together,” she goes on, probably responding to all the telepathic cries of what the hell.

  “I could never work together with you,” Nova mutters. I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me. Still, I trust she can feel my eyeroll energy.

  “Gonna have to,” I snap. “Unless you want to fail out of yoga.”

  “You can’t fail at yoga.”

  “Most people can’t, but you can.”

  She lets an annoyed tsss. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. This isn’t even yoga. This is intimacy. Which you also fail at.”

  “Here we go,” the instructor prompts. “One…two…three…STAND.”

  I don’t know what I’m expecting, but what happens isn’t it. How do you stand from sitting while wrapped up in another person pressed against your back? You don’t. Nearly the entire room erupts into some version of laughter or grunts. Nova and I are no exception. She crumbles against me, and we both topple to the side.

  “God, Weston,” she complains.

  “That was all you.”

  “Yeah, right! You’re the man, aren’t you supposed to lead the way?”

  I send more eyeroll-energy her way. “Come on. Let’s stand.”

  We try again and fail miserably. I can’t figure out what the trick is. Bu
t to our left, a couple pops to their feet. And then on the other side of the hut, Rhys and Amelia spring to standing. Their triumphant smiles make something beat wildly inside me. I need to win at this. Call it the Daly Competition Response, but I wasn’t born to lose. We cannot be the last two sitting.

  “Nova,” I tell her through gritted teeth. “Get it together.”

  “I’m perfectly together,” she quips. “You’re the one losing your shit.”

  Her response is high-grade annoying. I grunt and heave again, but we both fall sideways. My heart is racing—like desperate fight or flight mode here—and I almost can’t see straight with how badly I need to stand up so that we’re not last. There were a few things my upbringing instilled in me, and graceful losing isn’t one of them. Even when this is clearly not a competitive sport.

  “Come on. On the count of three. One…two…” Before I reach three, Nova launches. Irritation spreads through me like wildfire.

  “I said on the count of three!”

  “I was preparing my thighs,” she shoots back.

  “That doesn’t even make any sense. You either use them, or you don’t. And you clearly aren’t.”

  By this time, we’re attracting attention. Rhys and Amelia are grinning wryly over at us, our arms interlocked at our sides like the weirdest sort of prisoners. We’re trapped here with our own permission and doomed to live here for the rest of our lives, because there is no way in hell I’m leaving this hut without winning this challenge.

  “Okay. Listen. If you would just calm down and work with me here,” she starts.

  “You’re one to talk,” I spit. “You’re preparing your thighs. That shit should have been done weeks ago.”

  She twists a little so that I can see her glare. “What I do with my thighs—”

  “How you guys coming over here?” The instructor squats down to smile warmly at each of us in turn. The chill version of shut the fuck up, you two.

  “Everything’s great,” I say.

  “This is quite the challenge,” Nova says. “If this man were actually my husband, we’d be divorcing afterward.”

  The instructor’s laugh flutters through the air like a melodic butterfly. “Go on. Try again. I believe in you.”

  Well, isn’t that quaint? I don’t believe in Nova, that’s for damn sure. I grit my teeth and brace for another failed attempt.

  “Okay. Let’s both push on the count of three,” I tell her.

  “Right.”

  “Not on the count of two, like last time.”

  “I would never,” she says.

  “One…two…three.” This time when we try to launch to standing, the instructor is encouraging us. But Nova’s side doesn’t come through. She slips and we both crumble to the floor once more.

  But now, all the rest of the couples are standing up, milling around, chatting with each other about how hard it was. We’re the last couple sitting. Something dark and hot flashes through me, and the instructor just squeezes my wrist.

  “Good try, guys! We’re going to move on now.” She breezes away, asking for everyone to come to the front of their mats. My arms drop to the floor, and I scoff.

  “Wow. Great work, partner.”

  Nova twists to look at me. “You are a really sore loser.”

  She’s not wrong. “You are a really sore team player.”

  “You know it doesn’t matter, right? This is supposed to be a fun activity. This isn’t life or death, Weston. You can get over it now.”

  I don’t know how she’s able to cut to the core of me like that, but she does. Still, it’s annoying. And I choose to reject her logic. “You apparently have no drive to succeed. Maybe you’re okay with living like that, but I’m not.”

  Nova is strangely quiet as she moves away from me, coming to her feet at the front of her mat. I go back to my own, my entire body tense as I wait for a response from her.

  But it doesn’t come. Her mouth is a thin line as we are led through another series of gentle movements. Except now I can concentrate less than ever. Somehow, all I can hear are my brothers in my head. Mocking me for losing at an intimacy class. This counts as one thing among many that I will never admit to my family.

  I suffer through the rest of the class, completely unable to unwind the taut muscles across my back since Nova failed to hold up her end of the deal. In the deepest, farthest recesses of my mind, I know that she’s right. But I wasn’t raised to listen to that voice. Second place is just the first-place loser. That saying is practically the Daly birthmark all five of us sons were born with. Except my brothers don’t have the misfortune of actually being the one who came in last.

  My mind wanders down a dark path as the instructor eventually asks us all to sit cross-legged with our eyes closed. The whole point of this next year is to finally burst into the stratosphere of success after I unequivocally failed in the largest way possible two years ago.

  It’s the number one thing I’ll never tell my family about, which sits just a few spots above this class.

  If I can’t turn the money I inherited from grandma into a real, live career born from traveling, influencing, and drawing, then I don’t know where else to turn. I’ve been running away from failure for the past two years, and for all the miles under my belt and followers commenting their support, I don’t think I’ve advanced an inch.

  I’m twenty-six. I’m going to Thailand after this, but really, I have no idea where I’m headed. There should be a fucking light at the end of this tunnel. But all I’ve got to show for myself is an abandoned graphic design career and a series of plane tickets to exotic destinations. The pictures I post are fire, but behind-the-scenes is a different story.

  All three of my older brothers have found success. Even my younger brother Maverick has a career as a mechanic, even though his going into a trade as opposed to college almost got him disowned. But it’s okay, because nobody could fall as low in the Daly family as I have.

  Each day that passes, I can actually hear my father’s sighs growing louder and more disappointed from however many thousands of miles away. He won’t accept my career as legitimate until I can prove I’m making six figures a year. And sure, that’s an arbitrary fucking standard—one that I want to reject. But no matter how much I tell myself my life has meaning and who cares what my dad thinks, I can’t shake this shit. Because he created me in his image. And damn, it stings to be the one kid that your dad can’t get excited about. The one son who has both the aimless and lost labels.

  But at this point, I can’t remember if he put those labels there or if I did.

  When the class is finally over, I’m the first out the door. I am so ready to forget about the class and just how warm and soft Nova’s thighs were under my palms. I’ve never been so simultaneously annoyed and turned on by the same person. So the game plan is to toss back enough whiskey to ignore her for the rest of the week.

  Rhys and Elliot catch up with me down the boardwalk, where I’ve paused to stare out at the horizon. The sunset is exploding in streaks of burnt orange and crimson. It’s actually too pretty for words.

  “Feeling relaxed, mate?” Rhys asks me, slapping me on the shoulder.

  “More or less,” I tell him, even though relaxed is the last thing I feel. I can’t tell if I need to have sex or put my fist through a wall. The lines are blurring more and more. The acid ache inside me has no known relief. It’s not gonna be through relaxation classes. It’s not gonna be through fucking—though I’ve certainly tried that route plenty. Plane tickets used to help, but now they just twist things up more. And the fact that I can’t figure out a remedy just makes it burn worse.

  “I think it’s time for shots,” Elliot announces. The humid breeze filling my senses is inspiring somehow. Sultry and promising. Reminding me that with my best friends at my side and the ocean surrounding us, I’ll be able to move past whatever this is.

  Even if it happens on the heels of alcohol.

  Keko joins us a moment later, slingin
g his arm around my shoulders. “I’m ready for a full Aruban night, hermanos.”

  Rhys leads the way toward one of the five restaurants inside this enormous resort. We have a table for six reserved on a huge wooden terrace looking out toward the ocean. A slatted veranda crisscrosses overhead, twinkle lights already lit as the sunset makes its slow trek toward dusk. Our table is arranged so that every seat is looking toward the ocean. We all have front row seats to the best show on earth.

  Rhys sits down, saving a seat for Amelia. The rest of my buddies take their seats, leaving one open spot to my left. Realization clicks into place as soon as Nova arrives.

  “Do you have to be my partner everywhere we go?” I ask as I settle into my seat.

  “I’ll gladly trade seats with anyone else,” she offers sweetly, unslinging a camera from around her neck. She sets it on the table with a soft thud. “But if you really can’t handle sitting next to me for a meal, might I direct you to the empty table over there?” She’s gesturing toward a lone table in the corner of the patio.

  “I think I can survive dinner,” I shoot back. “But so help me God if you show up in my hut tonight like you did earlier today.”

  A weird heat spreads through me as soon as I say the words. Yes, a part of me does want her to show up in my hut. But no talking allowed—only touching. And kissing. God, I’m more curious than I want to admit about what those pretty, pink lips might taste like. She is a sun-kissed redhead, which is officially my new favorite look.

  Not like I’ll admit that to her.

  “I will never make that mistake again. Trust me.” She shudders exaggeratedly. “I’m too scared of what I might find happening in your hut to ever open that front door.”

  “Not sure why you’re so afraid of sleeping and showering, but okay.” I idly straighten the silverware at my place, trying to look as bored as I can. “That tells me a little bit more about you, I guess.” Which is false. She smells like honeysuckle and vanilla and the sweet tang of femininity, a scent that will haunt me until the day I die.