by Ember Leigh
“Get in there,” I tell him. He almost seems reluctant. Like he’d rather be on this side of the curtain with me. But maybe that’s my moony brain, imagining things that aren’t truly there. I don’t know what to believe anymore. I am clearly not a good reality detective.
I snap rapid-fire photos of our group in various stages of smiling and posing. I guide them through a few staged pictures while the captain heads back to shore. We’re racing against the clock, as the sun has nearly touched the eternal horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. We are in ethereal primetime right now, and soon the claws of dusk will take over. I snap approximately three hundred pictures of the group and then Amelia shouts out,
“Take a selfie!”
“I can’t with this camera, it’s too big,” I tell her.
“With your phone! Just so you’re in it,” she insists.
“Yeah, we’ve got to get a picture with you in it,” Rhys adds.
“Use my phone if you don’t have one,” Laney offers, hopping from foot to foot.
“Selfie, selfie!” Weston begins the chant, and soon everyone else joins in.
Grinning, I fumble to find my phone in the pocket of my romper and then line it up for the picture. Everyone pulls a funny face, and I resist my photographer impulses and just take one. Once that’s over, everyone is cheering and jovial and triumphant. Because not only did we just witness an amazing sunset in great company, we did it on a sailboat.
The captain maneuvers us up to the dock we left from three hours ago. This sailboat ride was our first foray beyond the walls of the resort, and honestly, part of me wants to ditch for a couple days and just get lost in real Aruban life. I am so insanely curious about the rest of this city, not to mention the entire rest of this island. Even though I’m sure no brighter and more comfortable fuchsia tiki hut exists out there, I am willing to leave it behind in the name of research.
The sailboat glides up to the gently bobbing docks where our dinner-and-drinks adventure began. As my sandals touch the wood of the dock, I forget how to use my land-legs. I wobble. And then my sandal catches on the slat of the dock, and I stumble.
Gracelessly. And straight for the edge of the dock.
I don’t even have time to scream or gasp or do anything other than stare at my watery fate.
And then strong arms are around me. Really strong arms. Like safety belt with biceps. Weston snatches me up against him, leaving me staring at the choppy water of the inlet.
All I can think in my head: OH. MY. GOD and HE. IS. WARM.
“Nova,” he chides, easily guiding me back to standing. “Careful.”
“Oh my Goddd,” Laney exclaims drunkenly, her dark hair blowing across her upper lip like a windblown mustache. “Did you almost fall off the dock?”
Her exclamation causes concern to ripple through the group. I clutch his arm even after I’m stable and steady on my own two feet because I can’t stop thinking about what almost happened. You almost fell face-first into the water. You almost ruined your most expensive piece of work equipment. And, perhaps most perplexingly: Now you know just how good Weston’s arms feel around you.
I’m braindead. It’s official. The pressure from his thick fingers against my ribcage has rendered me stumbling and mute. And I’m still clutching his arm, as if my body refuses to return to my life pre-Weston, now that I know what it feels like to have crossed over.
Everyone has gathered around me on the dock now, fawning over my near-fall, sending sincere and drunken thanks to Weston for saving my life. As we shuffle further down the dock—still clutching Weston’s arm like he’s my home health provider and I’m his most geriatric patient—everyone is sharing stories of the moment they saw me trip.
Rhys: “I about shat a brick, mate!”
Elliot: “I swear to God, I saw it in slo-mo. I could even see the pixels.”
Laney: “I just froze, because what about your camera? And your freaking cute romper?”
It’s oddly heartwarming that everyone cares so much about my well-being and clothes. This feels distantly like a parade, where the cause for celebration is the fact that I’m dry. I’ll have to draw the line at lifting me up on their collective shoulders. I might be relieved, but not relieved enough to cause another accident or two. Knowing me, I’d probably fart directly on Weston’s face if we did that.
Once we reach the parking lot of the charter business, Weston looks down at me, something warm in his gaze. His eyes drop to my hand still clutching at his arm.
“You think you can make it on your own?”
I hurry to drop his arm. “Sorry,” I mumble.
“Didn’t say you had to let go.”
His words sizzle in the air between us, but I don’t get much time to dwell on them. Keko and Elliot have wandered up ahead, already striking up a conversation with a group of girls who were waiting at the designated pick-up point. The resort is sending a car to pick us up in roughly ten minutes, which in single guy striking up conversation at the bus stop terms, is equivalent to an hour.
“No way you’re a graphic designer,” Elliot is saying to the trip of pretty girls wearing bikinis under transparent shifts as the rest of our group walks up. “You know, my good friend Weston is too.”
Weston immediately drifts toward the conversation, having been thusly summoned. I am curious to know more. Way too curious, in fact. I have a long list of questions for him, beginning with Can I see your portfolio all the way to Do you prefer Adobe or Corel?
I drift between eavesdropping on the guys’ conversation and listening to Harriet and Eleanor recount some hilarious story about Rhys from their collective childhood involving picking his nose after having dipped his finger in cayenne pepper. Laney snorts repeatedly, murmuring “Oh my god, that’s funnyyyy.”
Amelia appears at my side, slinging her arm around my shoulders just as Elliot shouts over at us in his thicker-than-usual British accent, “Oy! What about the club tonight?”
Amelia squeals with excitement. Laney’s face lights up like she just spotted a rainbow. Everyone else in our group cheers. Weston’s gaze meets mine, which delivers another gut punch. Chestnut hair tousled, his simple gray tee straining at the biceps. Ice blue eyes focused directly on me.
If Weston is the mothership, I am the confused farmer being swept up in his tractor beam. I can’t look away. He’s both magnetic and fearsome. In alien terms, I can’t tell if this is a friendly probing or a premeditated attack.
Everything bright inside me wants it to be friendly, but everything dark inside me knows that this attraction is laced with danger. I should turn away from the tractor beam. Politely decline the probing.
But those ice blue eyes are more manipulative than I bargained for. After all, I’m not immune to the excitement. A night out! Thumping music! Continued drunkenness! Isn’t this the American dream? I didn’t fly all these miles to sit in my tiki hut and contemplate whether or not a cockroach was secretly hiding somewhere, waiting to brush its wings over my face while I sleep (which, let’s be real, it probably is).
But more than that, I am dizzy with curiosity and empowerment. Weston waved a white flag today. One that was embroidered with ever-so-slight sexual attraction. Can I even say he’s attracted to me? I’ll never verbally say any of this, that’s for damn sure. If I speak it, it might dissolve like sand through my fingers. And there’s something about this chance—this possibility—that I want to tuck away and protect.
I don’t know where it will lead. I’m not even sure I should head down this path.
But I’m tipsy, and I’m feeling frisky. And hell if that isn’t the most dangerous combination on the face of the Earth.
Chapter 8
WESTON
Alone in my teal tiki hut, I’m psyching myself up for the night out. I couldn’t give a shit about going to the club. That’s another thing that if you’ve seen one of, you’ve seen them all. I’ve always been more partial to lounges with live music and some artisan beer—or even root beer—but hey. Whe
n in Aruba.
The voices of our friends reach me through the thin walls of the tiki hut. Outside, our group has congregated on the boardwalk. Torches illuminate the path and the grove of palms. Amelia is heading toward Nova’s hut, and I remind myself not to care.
I remind myself to get excited about the prospect of meeting random girls and hooking up and getting drunk.
I remind myself that right now, Aruba, and soon, Thailand.
Isn’t this what it’s about? I’m living any twenty-six-year-old’s dream. I’m a fucking Instagram influencer. I travel the world and make people jealous. Everyone wishes they could have my life.
Except I know the truth of the situation. That my bank account is slooowly dwindling. That nothing truly awaits me in Thailand as of right now—nothing more than bustling streets, new friends, and plenty of amazing pictures. And yes, those are all great things to look forward to. But when those things become normal, then what am I truly traveling to experience?
I call it the nomad’s dilemma. Maybe I should just call it Weston’s Dilemma, though. I’m trying to carve out my own success in life, chasing big goals and dreams just like all those inspirational bullshitters say we should. I’m #chasinglife, bruh.
So why do I just want to sit on the beach and watch the waves for a few months?
You’ll be doing that in Thailand. The thought sits heavily inside me. Maybe the problem is that I haven’t heard back from Cliffhangers Gear about my pitch, and each day that drags on feels like a concrete rejection. If I could even get one green light—from Cliffhangers or any other company I’ve been reaching out to over the past few months—then I might feel like I had a direction in life again. Because if I have a project to look forward to, then I have more financial security. Then I have purpose again.
Right?
Maybe the alcohol is getting to me. Being semi-drunk for most of the day is taxing. Disorienting. I’m on day two of the wedding festivities and ready to tap out. Weston can’t hang—apparently I’m not fit for the party lifestyle the way I was in college.
I just need to teach my brain that.
“I said, I know, girl!” Nova’s voice reaches me, causing me to spin around. She’s on the boardwalk chatting with Amelia, looking fifty times sexier than the last time I saw her, which is approaching the event horizon of sexiness. She’s in a floral high-waisted skirt and a low-cut top that shows every inch of that cleavage I’m dying to know for myself. Her red hair is pulled back in a smooth, high ponytail, big hoop earrings glinting in the firelight.
I blink, a hard thud registering in my chest as I’m sucker punched by lust again. Operation Leave Nova To Her Own Devices is not off to a great start. I’d march her right back into that damn hut and cancel club night if I knew she felt even an iota of attraction to me.
Nova and Amelia come this way, already lost in their own world. It’s not wise to keep looking at Nova, so I turn my back to her, following Rhys as he leads the way to the front of the resort where taxis are waiting for us. Everyone begins to pile into the cars: Rhys and Amelia and Harriet; Keko and Elliot and Eleanor. The last taxi is for the leftovers: me, Laney, and Nova.
It’s not ideal, but the ride shouldn’t be long. When I try to get into the front seat, the driver tuts at me and points to the back seat. Fine. I hold open the door as Laney scoots inside. Nova eyes me as if this might be a trap.
“Go on,” I encourage.
“I’ll sit up front.”
“He won’t let you.” I jerk my chin toward the driver who has settled into the front seat and started the engine. “I already tried.”
She sighs, ducking into the car. I fill the last space and shut the door, the driver immediately zooming off. Nova gasps, hand shooting out to grab the back of the passenger seat. Our sides are touching, the soft heat of her leg pressed to mine. My vision goes blurry for a moment as the scent of her overtakes me. She is peonies mixed with grapefruit and something so feminine I have to force myself to ignore it.
“Sorry guys,” she says.
“For what?” Laney asks, nuzzling into her friend’s side.
“For getting my ass all over you.”
I shift beside her, allowing said ass to butt up against me. I don’t mind it. Not even slightly. I’d fucking live here if I could. No, scratch that. Nova would be in my lap. Facing me. That booty-full derriere filling my hands. Her red hair splaying over her shoulders.
Apparently I should have taken the down time in my tiki hut to jack off, because I’m getting hard, and this is ten seconds away from being awkward.
“I don’t mind your ass on me,” Laney quips.
“Me neither,” I say.
Nova narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t start.”
An incredulous laugh pops out of me. Her admonishment to not start is the perfect impetus to, in fact, start. I don’t even know what I’m starting. I just know that she inspires it, time and time again, even when I’m trying to ignore her and focus on anything other than her sparkling wit and bodacious curves.
“I wasn’t aware you were in control of who gets to start,” I say.
“I’m the official taskmaster. Everyone starts and stops on my watch,” she deadpans.
“Is that photographer privilege, or just Princess Nova privilege?”
A smirk tugs at her lips. “I hate that you call me Princess Nova.”
“Well you better get used to it. I wasn’t committed to it before, but now that you hate it, it’s mandatory.”
She snorts. “Figures.”
Her phone vibrates in her hand, and she flips it over to assess the glowing screen. My eyes follow the light—I can’t help it—and I see a new message alert from someone named Jimmy.
I don’t catch the whole message, but I sure do catch the opening line: “Hey beautiful.”
My gut twists into a knot as I move my gaze toward the dark Aruba night flashing past us beyond the taxi. Laney gasps. “Oh my god. You never finished your story about Jimmy!”
I am listening to Nova’s reply with every cell of my body. Because if it turns out that she’s been taken this whole time, then I misread this situation real bad.
“It’s nothing—” Nova starts.
“Pff! Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You said there might be wedding bells next month.”
I grimace at the window. Awesome. So I’ve been fantasizing about a girl who not only was never available to begin with, she is actually considering marriage with someone. That’s the opposite of what I’m after. My dream girl starts out with available and definitely not engaged as qualities, so this rules out Nova once more. And the more I think about it, I’m not sure how she ever got ruled back in.
“No, no. Zero wedding bells,” Nova says. I can feel the nervousness pouring off her. “I’ll tell you all about it later, I promise.”
Right. When I’m not there, which means she can tell the truth. I’m no homewrecker. A few of my brothers might cop to that level—thinking about my little brother Maverick here—but fuck if I mess with stuff like that. I don’t want to ruin some guy’s life. I don’t dabble in shady shit, not even for a night or two of fun.
The taxi stops in front of a large warehouse-looking building on the beach. We tumble out, Rhys suddenly appearing out of nowhere to pay our driver. I fumble for my wallet, needing to beat him to the punch, but Rhys is handing over bills before I can get there. I punch him in the shoulder instead.
“You asshole,” I tell him, which prompts a sly grin from him.
“Whatever. Let’s go party.”
“I’m going to buy all of your drinks tonight,” I warn him.
“Like hell you will.” Rhys slings his arm over my shoulder, and we strut up to the front doors of the club, where thumping music leaks out. Inside, the place is a confusing mess of human bodies and strobe lights and a distinct smell of cheap cologne. Rhys abandons me, and I head straight for the bar. I’m still thinking about Nova, which I’m not excited about, so my plan is to get lost in the sea of people
and see what happens.
The bartenders are busy, hopping between clubgoers who line the edges of the bar like adoring fans at a rock concert. Except we’re adoring the alcohol they have tucked away back there.
Friends begin to appear in different spots along the edge of the long, curved bar. Rhys shows up about midway down, Amelia’s blonde bun bobbing behind him. And then Nova arrives at the other end of the bar.
Her smoky eyeliner and glittering green eyes serve as a reminder. Somewhere between the yoga class and the yacht, I became deeply invested in getting her on my good side. But when her gaze finally lands on mine and we lock eyes across the sprawling bar, the electricity that lights me up from head to toe is a warning.
She’s got a situation. I’m not trying to get involved. Because I never get involved.
Not with her. Not with anyone.
Still, I can’t look away from her. We’ve locked eyes like Guinness World Records is keeping track. Whoever looks away first loses. There’s something happening between us right now. I can’t say exactly what it is, other than I’d rather get sucker punched in the head than look away from her right now.
I guess I’m disappointed. That’s the heat and heaviness circling through me. I got way more excited about her over the past twenty-four hours than I fucking realized, and that’s the first step on a path I know I shouldn’t be following.
So why is it so hard to course correct?
“Hey, can I squeeze in here?”
A feminine voice interrupts our stare-down. A petite brunette is at my side, batting her eyelashes at me, smelling like plums and hair product. I shift, allowing her to slip in at the bar. Our arms brush, and she hasn’t stopped smiling.