by Ember Leigh
When I told Nova my posts lag behind the trip, I wasn’t being entirely truthful. Really, I’ve lost my spark. Cliffhangers Gear is the biggest name I’ve pitched to, but beyond them, I’ve sent out roughly ten pitches for smaller promo tours for different businesses around the world, trying to leverage my Weston Wanders brand and my follower count in exchange for continuing my travels.
I swipe open the email, a knot forming in my gut. Snagging Cliffhangers would signal my shift from aspiring amateur to resident influencer expert. The gig would take me through Thailand, Morocco, and Ireland in an all-expenses-paid promo blitz tour. But more than that, it would finally prove to that I know what I’m fucking doing with my life.
The email is swift and direct:
Thank you for your interest in our brand! We are taking all the necessary steps to make sure your package jives with ours, so please allow us additional time to crunch the stats.
I frown. It’s not a rejection, but it’s not acceptance either. It seems a lot like the formality that precedes an prolonged letdown. They already know they don’t want me. Which just forces my mind back to the sordid truth.
I lost my job two years ago because I’m a failure, and I’ve spent every minute since then trying to hide this secret from the world.
I haven’t told anyone that I was fired. Why would I? I left that place behind and closed that chapter of my life. But there’s something about Nova that prompts me to open up. Not just because I’ve been so deep inside her that my dick came out her back—her words. Despite the prickles, she’s got a buttery soft center. She won’t look down on me. My secret can be safe with her.
But I don’t want her knowing all of it. That my influencing gig isn’t half as profitable as I make it out to be. That if I’m not careful, I could botch everything I’ve been working towards. That I’ve doubly inflated my success so that my family doesn’t find out I’m in last place.
It’s a balancing act, and Nova came sniffing too close. Nobody else gets the details, because I don’t get close enough to anyone for the details to leak out. But somehow, Nova is slicing me open after so little time. Sawing at the tethers of my guard, like she’s been studying exactly where the weak spots are.
There’s an ache inside me. That much I know. It’s an acid ache, something simmering, but I can’t find the source. Every part of me wants to spill it out, like a modern-day leeching ceremony where I can bleed out the sickness and scourge. But doing that violates the cardinal rule of not catching feelings. I shouldn’t get that deep with Nova. Even though I get the sense that she’s not only in the same boat as me, but she might have a map that shows me where to turn. It’s still too dangerous to go there. Map be damned.
And I can fucking think clearly again, now that she’s not around me, being gorgeous and provocative and witty. Her sparkling wit glints so bright it blinds. Being at her side feels too good.
I need to keep an eye on this, because the last thing I need is anyone getting heartbroken. And yeah, I’m talking about her. She’s sweet, and I don’t want to hurt her.
Because I will. That much is certain. If she gets too close—if I let her get as close as I know she wants to—then she’ll be one more Daly casualty for the history books. I don’t want that to happen. So I need to make sure we both keep our heads on straight. We have to remember this thing between us has a deadline of Monday, when our flights leave.
I take a shower and dress slowly, letting my thoughts churn heavily. This sort of thing has never been a problem before, so I don’t know why it’s cropping up now. Nova is great. Amazing, actually. Well, stunning. I’ll definitely miss her when we have to part ways, which means that I should do my best to enjoy every last second that we have left together.
But not too much, because then it might be hard to actually board my flight. So I’ll have to keep the emotional investment right in the middle zone on the spectrum between emotionally petrified and ready-to-propose.
Easy enough. I’m a pro at this, after all.
But even though I’ve had too many international lovers to shake a hippie backpack at, Nova feels different. I don’t know why. Especially since we spent the first four years of our mutual existence disliking each other.
The doubts follow me all the way to dinner, where everyone is chatting and digging into appetizers. Since I’m last, my seat was chosen for me—Rhys must have nabbed it on my behalf, since I’m sitting next to him and Amelia. Nova is right across the table from me, and that gemstone sparkle is in her eye as our gazes lock over the bottles of wine between us.
And just like that, the silly grin comes back. The butterflies are whispering through my insides, prompting me to forget everything I just settled on back in my hut.
But when I’m looking at this spunky redhead’s smile, every inch of my body is anticipating what she might say. What level of absurd and prickly we might reach.
“Welcome, mate. You look refreshed,” Rhys says as he claps my shoulder.
“I showered,” I tell him. “And jerked off too.”
Elliot snorts at my side. Keko starts a slow clap. Nova’s eyebrow arches into the heavens.
A moment later, a text arrives on my phone.
NOVA: Did I not satisfy you, Mr. Horny Pants?
The grin on my face is too wide to contain. It’s going to break my face in two if I’m not careful. But at this point, I can’t stop myself from grinning right at her. Who cares if our friends find out? It feels more than obvious at this point. We’ve been disappearing together. Smiling like buffoons at each other. Watching each other far too much for two people who supposedly don’t get along.
And no, it’s never been like this with anyone else. Which means that even though I know exactly how straight I need to keep my head, and exactly how little I need to be diving headfirst into anything with her…
Tonight, I say fuck it.
I’ll be smart tomorrow.
Chapter 19
NOVA
Thursday night ends with enough heated, drunken looks between Weston and me that we could possibly start a forest fire. Except there are no forests on Aruba—it’s desert (I remember my Wikipedia research)—which means that we could ignite fifty acres of sprawling cacti in a second if we aren’t careful.
The more martinis I drink, the drunker I get (surprise!), and when I stumble back to the hut in a desperate bid to pass out before I faceplant in the sand, Weston is at my side in no time. He guides my giggling, stumbling butt back to my fuchsia paradise, and that last thing I remember is him trying to tug my dress over my head—and failing.
Elegant, I know.
But then Friday morning, he’s gone early, because Friday is one of the biggest days we have other than the wedding day itself. Weston and all the men in both families are heading out on a massive fishing expedition, while the women get to go shopping in Oranjestad. Gender-role predictability aside, it’s a fun day. I find approximately eighty-five dresses I like but could never fit into. Nothing new.
All I can think about that day is Weston, and the occasional anxiety that I might trip over something on Amelia’s wedding day and ruin it for her. No—I can’t think like that. Her wedding day will unfold without a hitch. That’s what I need to tell myself until it becomes a mantra.
After shopping, we all head back to the resort to freshen up for the rehearsal dinner. By the time we start trickling into the gorgeous outdoor patio—outfitted with gemstone mosaic backdrops, waterfalls, and plenty of moody sconce lighting—I spot Weston immediately. Because he’s the only signal my radar detector is configured to receive, apparently. Dressed in a short-sleeve button up with chinos, he’s sun kissed and casual and oh-so-handsome.
I remind myself to keep things friendly in public. Don’t want to tip off the family and friends. So we share a private smile—one that speaks volumes, in a way I can’t even comprehend—and every nerve ending inside my body lights up with anticipation for more.
By the end of the rehearsal dinner—where nothi
ng at all was rehearsed—we’re all tipsy and shouting with laughter. My photographer duties are officially over for the day, so my camera bag is left on a table as we migrate toward the moodily-lit lounge space on the expansive outdoor patio. A fountain burbles next to me as all the friends and family members mix and mingle.
I grin over my chilled Sauvignon Blanc. There’s something so cinematic about being wrapped up in the hustle and bustle of a gathering. Being part of the crowd. My brother and I grew up on the outside looking in, but I don’t think he ever truly cared to enter the “inside world.” Of the Hendersons, I’m the only one infected with this virus known as longing. I met a very serious graffiti artist in Portugal who explained to me the concept of saudade, which is stronger than simply missing someone. It is longing and melancholy all wrapped up in one. I have saudade for experiences I have not lived, and it’s something that my family might never truly understand.
I am so incredibly thirsty for life. Thirsty for nostalgia. Memories. Experiences. And you know who else is too?
Weston.
It’s not a surprise; it’s not even news. It’s simply stunning. And being around him awakens some serious saudade in me. I long for more than just new experiences. I long for someone to share them with. Someone who is on that level with me.
This is why I feel like an outcast. Because my family would rather stay home than encounter the serious graffiti artist in Portugal. Because Jimmy would have encouraged me to go back to the safety of the resort instead of explore an unknown place.
But Weston is there with me, every step of the way. I’ve been bumping into him all around the world. At sunrise. In the quiet fringes of the group activities. Weston and I, we’re more alike than I ever realized. And for some reason, this is just as scary as it is thrilling.
I see him across the lounge, chatting with Rhys as his gaze slides my way. He can’t keep his eyes off me. Just like I can’t keep my eyes off him. This whole scene is ripe for a pop ballad music video, Ariana Grande style, but since there’s no camera crew on hand, I’ll just make the tune up in my head. We’ve been winking and smirking at each other all night.
Yes, it was my idea to play it cool, keep things under wraps. But each hour spent at this man’s side feels like celebrating another year of friendship. I know more about him after our trek through uncharted Aruba than I do my own damn brother. I could start a list of our inside jokes already. He’s given me more orgasms than my ex ever did, that’s for damn sure. If we keep this up, we’ll be celebrating our first anniversary by the time the wedding wraps up.
And that’s the throbbing vein of it. Right there. These thoughts are swirling inside of me, urging me into insanity, propelled by Weston’s easygoing smiles and his ice-blue attentiveness. Every inch of my body is on pins and needles, waiting for him. Waiting for another smile. Waiting for the next opportunity to trade sweet barbs.
We’ve been drifting toward each other all night, the stretch of dusk clawing at my attention just as much as the occasional laugh I overhear from him. And then finally, blessedly, he’s coming at me from across the patio, one hand stuffed into chino pants, an intolerable smirk resting on those juicy lips I have kissed enough times to fucking paint from memory.
He corners me in the alcove I’ve been enjoying, tucked under draped silks that are backlit and gently billowing. I feel exactly like a princess.
“Princess Nova.”
His rough bass makes my thighs tense. I’m leaning into him without even deciding to move nearer. Space shrinks between us on instinct, because he is that hard to resist.
“Sir Weston.”
He looks down at me, tenderness written across his face. I feel like I’ve been looking up into his icy blues for years, not hours. Nobody says anything, and then he dips down to capture my lips in a kiss. The first one is slow, thorough, the kiss you give someone when you’ve been falling in love with them for an entire evening.
But the next one is pure fire and need. The kiss you give—and get—because you’re burning alive on the inside with lust for the same person.
His rough palm finds the dip in my neck. A whimper escapes me, and when we break apart, he’s got question marks in his eyes.
“Should I say sorry for breaking the rules? You kissed me like you were fucking hungry for it.”
“Don’t say sorry. Just keep doing it.”
He grins as he dips down again, onlookers be damned. I couldn’t care less anymore, not when this need is so throbbing and serious. We kiss messily. He dips me backwards. I giggle and cling to him. I wish someone were there to capture this moment. The moment when he made me feel like a breathy, feminine goddess. Halfway between Marilyn Monroe and Aphrodite.
His hands find the dip in my waist. He pulls away, drawing a deep breath.
“I just came over here to say hi, not get roped into a live-action porn.”
“Aww. You think our kissing is good enough to be in a porno?”
He cocks a grin. “At least a soft core.”
“I’m flattered. We really kiss that good?”
His eyes narrow to slits. “Babe, if you’re not aware of how seriously fucking good you kiss…” His eyes flutter shut. “Then consider this your memo.”
I’m not sure what to be more turned on by. The fact that he called me babe, or the fact that he called me a good kisser. Both will haunt me for the rest of my days.
“Okay. So, what do you wanna do about it?” I brush my lips against his again, just to tease.
He cinches his arm around my waist. “Get out of here?”
“Sounds good to me.”
When we break apart to leave, I catch Amelia’s stunned expression from across the patio. A smile tugs at her lips, and she brings a hand to her mouth as she watches Weston and I scuttle away. I pause, opening my mouth like I might attempt to explain from twenty feet away, over the din of a party, what’s really going on. But Amelia shoos me away, and I blow her a kiss.
Tomorrow. At our sunrise bridal session. I’ll tell her everything. Well, everything except the caught-in-the-middle-of-masturbation part.
My heart races as I collect my bag and follow Weston away from the party. My hand is swallowed in his firm, rough grip. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll change my mind, even though there’s no risk of that. Not now, not ever. I’ve gotten a taste of Weston, and my palate has been forever changed. I don’t even want to think about that right now. He might have ruined me for the rest of my life. I need to just enjoy him while I can.
But what about after Aruba?
The question has been stalking my subconscious like the killer in Scream—not very stealthy, wielding a large knife, inevitable in its arrival. Weston scoops me against him once we hit the boardwalk, pressing a kiss to my head. He doesn’t need to be sweet with me. He doesn’t need to make this feel so good. So complete. So fulfilling. But he does. And that’s precisely why he’s dangerous.
Because I can see myself with him long-term.
“Here’s the plan,” he says, his voice a rough rasp. “We’re going to go back to the huts…drop off your camera bag…and grab a big towel.”
“A big towel?”
“Maybe a few of them.”
“Are we going to try to sop up the ocean?”
He tuts. “I think we’ll be a few towels short.”
“A few billion, you mean.”
“Possibly trillion. Or some other number far larger that I don’t know about yet.”
I nuzzle into the crook of his neck, finding my favorite spicy, sandalwood-infused scent there. “Okay. So a few big towels. Then what?”
His grin turns wicked. “Sex on the beach.”
Excitement prickles through me. “Ahhh. Won’t we need more than just a few big towels?”
His gaze drops to my cleavage, and he tugs on the fabric of my skirt. “Nope. We’ve got everything we need right here.”
I’m slightly confused, but I trust that Weston knows the way forward when it comes to public indecency. I drop
off my camera bag in record time while he goes to his hut to grab an extra blanket. We traipse through the sand, holding hands, a geometric orange and black blanket draped over his shoulder. We walk along the shoreline for a while, watching the final streaks of the rusted Aruban sunset on the clouds overhead, while the water licks at our feet and then recedes.
The air is sultry and salty, guiding us toward a destination that only we know. When Weston slows, I scan the dark coast for the right spot. Not knowing what I’m even looking for, I lead him toward a thicket of trees, but he pauses in the middle of the beach.
“Here,” he says.
“Here?”
“Yes.” He pulls me into him, wrapping his arms around my waist. The heat of him is beguiling. He could tell me to purchase mangoes while naked in a busy international market, and I’d agree to it, if only he asked me with this embrace, with this seductive gaze.
So when he kisses me—slowly, thoroughly, like every romantic movie in the history of time is taking notes—I acquiesce. It’s all I can do with Weston. He breaks apart only to shake out the blanket, which splays out over the sand. Then he kisses me once and sits right in the middle of it.
“Shouldn’t I lie down first?”
He shakes his head, the ice blue of his eyes glinting in the moonlight. Everything is shadows and crashing waves out here, and the lights of the resort simply cast a golden glow above the palm line. He takes my hand, gently tugs me in his direction.
“Sit down.”
“On top of you?”
“No, a mile away.” He snorts. “Yes, on top of me.”
“I’ll crush you.” Anxiety is breathing down my neck, but as his fingertips find the inside of my ankle, my breath catches. Maybe doing what he wants isn’t so bad. Naked mango markets, after all.
“I promise you, you won’t.”
I hike the skirt of my dress up a little before I stand with my feet on either side of him, and then I fall to my knees. He captures my lips in a kiss and then eases me down to sit on top of him. I settle nicely into his lap. The ridge of his cock is waiting for me.