All I Ask

by Tamara Lush

  She does that thing where she holds her head high, as if she’s trying to be extra regal and proper.

  An image of her naked on the beach pops into my mind. I clear my throat and try to wipe the image from my brain. “I promise I’ll warn you if I’m going to be naked at any point in the common areas of my house. And speaking of the Chunk man, we have to pick him up before we go home.”

  Before we go home. The words roll off my tongue like I’ve been saying them to her for years.

  She nods, and I detect the shadow of wariness in her expression once more.

  “Don’t worry, no one will recognize you. I promise. Let’s grab your stuff from your suite.”

  She takes a deep breath. “Mind if I take a quick shower first? I feel disgusting.”

  The thought of her in the shower, with soap running down her gorgeous body, makes me ache even more. I stifle a groan. “No problem at all. I’ll go say hi to Max while you’re getting ready.”

  Eight

  Isabella

  I hurriedly roll my suitcase down the hall of the resort, yanking it a little harder than I should. Tate’s in the main office, which should be this door right…here.

  I stop and knock softly. It swings open, and Tate’s handsome face greets me.

  “Hey! You ready?” His eyes sweep down my body, then snap back up.

  “I am. That shower made me feel like a real person again. Thanks for waiting.” I’d slipped on one of the two dresses I’d packed: a casual, coral tank top dress.

  Poppy had been with me when I picked out the dress at a shop in London. She’d admonished me that it was the most boring cotton garment she’d ever seen.

  Not fit for gardening, she’d sniffed.

  Tate is looking at me as if he could eat me up with a spoon. Take that, Poppy.

  I grin, dimly aware that I’m doing a lot of that in his presence. I have no business grinning in my current situation, but here I am, staring at him and smiling from ear-to-ear.

  “Where’s your brother?” I ask, finally glancing around the small room in search of others.

  “He’s not here, after all. He and his fiancée are doing some wedding planning. I’ve been in here making calls to some criminal defense attorneys I know. We should have someone for you by tomorrow, Monday at the latest. You ready to roll?”

  I nod. It’s my experience that people rarely do things for me from the goodness of their heart. They always want something. Money, fame, the thrill of doing a favor for a royal princess. What does Tate want from me? I hate that I automatically mistrust him, although there’s something about him that’s causing my normally thick, impenetrable walls to crumble.

  “I’ll get this.” He reaches for my suitcase, and I let go of the death grip on the handle. I step out into the hall.

  “Thanks.” I pause for a beat and stop in my tracks. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  Shutting the door, Tate frowns and comes close. His big hand wraps around my black suitcase handle. “Are you not worthy of kindness?”

  I shrug. “Sorry. I’m suspicious of everyone. It comes with the territory, I guess.”

  He tilts his head, and the corners of his mouth turn up. “Bella, don’t forget that I asked you to dinner before I knew you were royalty.”

  And with that, he brushes past me, the warmth of his body lingering on mine.

  He’s got a point.

  The Lime and Salt Tiki Bar is not much more than a thatched-roof hut in a parking lot nestled near the beach. Since it’s dark, I can’t see the water, but I hear the sounds of the gentle surf in the distance.

  “You sure you’re okay with going inside?” Tate asks.

  “Yeah, I am.” On the way here, I’d checked my phone obsessively and found no evidence on Twitter, Google, or Facebook that anyone knows my whereabouts. Mother had emailed, asking if I was making any headway on an engagement dress.

  I didn’t answer. Headway, indeed.

  Mother would die of embarrassment if she knew I’d been arrested today. Part of me wants to tell her out of sheer spite.

  As Tate and I stroll toward the entrance, the strains of a familiar song waft through the air.

  “‘Margaritaville’?” I ask.

  “It’s state law that every tiki bar plays Jimmy Buffett twice a night,” he jokes, pointing to a space between two potted palm trees. “In there.”

  We step inside, and I brace myself for the entire bar to stop and stare. I steel myself for the silence and the discomfort and edge closer to Tate. His fingers press firmly against my mid-back.

  But three women at the bar keep doing shots of tequila. Couples at the tables remain deep in conversation and don’t gape at me. The elderly guitarist continues to warble the Jimmy Buffett song into the microphone.

  Tate leans down and speaks in my ear, sending tingles through my body. “That’s Biloxi Bob. He’s played guitar here for years. Legend has it he came from Mississippi to Paradise Beach during a hurricane in the late sixties and stayed.”

  “I see,” I murmur.

  Tate waves at Bob, who nods in our direction between lyrics. Tate also gestures to a few others at the tables, and that’s when I realize that Tate’s the real celebrity here. Well, and Bob, who seems to be whipping the room into a dancing frenzy.

  Everyone’s ignoring me.

  Bob ends his Buffett tune, and the chatter in the bar swells.

  “Gotta find Kate, my sister-in-law,” Tate mutters.

  And then, I spot him.

  Chunky.

  “Ohhh!” I cry out. It’s obvious the little guy recognizes me from yesterday because he’s loping up to me on his stubby legs with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Or maybe it’s because I smell particularly good, and he’s coming to wee on my sneakers.

  Either way, I’m irrationally excited to see the pudgy pug.

  “Jesus, I’ve never seen him so happy to see someone,” Tate says.

  Chunky wags his curly little tail, his butt wiggling furiously.

  “Who’s a good little bear-dog?” I easily hoist him into my arms and turn to Tate. “He’s not as big as you claim he is.”

  “He’s lost a bit of weight. Oh, there’s Kate. Come on.”

  Still carrying the dog—who is slobbering on my neck, but I don’t care—I follow Tate to the bar.

  “Bella, this is my sister-in-law, Kate. Kate, this is my friend, Bella.” He touches my shoulder.

  “Nice to meet you,” Kate says. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with a sweeter smile in my life. This woman shouldn’t be tending bar; she should be frosting cupcakes with unicorn poop. Especially with those dimples. “Chunky’s already eaten, so you don’t have to feed him dinner. I have his dog bed and toys all packed and ready to go, if you’re taking off right away. Unless you two want a drink.”

  Tate turns to me and quirks an eyebrow. I do a mental scan of what the judge had said earlier—no leaving the county, no interacting with wildlife, no kayaking while out on bail. He didn’t say anything about having a drink at a tiki bar.

  I glance around one last time, searching for paparazzi. I find none.

  Oh, what the hell? Why not loosen up? I’m already practically a hardened criminal.

  “Sure,” I say, shrugging. “I think a drink is exactly what I need.”

  Two mojitos later—Tate’s only had one—I’m in his arms, and we’re loosely swaying to a Biloxi Bob original blues jam in the corner of the tiki bar. No one seems to notice or care that we’re doing this.

  Probably because Tate knows everyone in this bar. Literally. He pointed out his second-grade teacher, his tenth-grade soccer coach, and the girl he took to eighth-grade prom (I think she still has eyes for him, which made my stomach tighten with a twinge of jealousy. Good thing she left).

  He’s reassured me there are no reporters, and no one’s shooting video of us with their phones.

  With each passing minute, I’m feeling more like a regular human being. Someone who has drinks on a Friday night
with a hot guy, someone who dances without a care in a crowded tiki bar. Someone who gets arrested in the afternoon and throws caution to the wind by sundown.

  Well, that last part isn’t exactly normal. But I’m trying to embrace my wild side, okay?

  Kate had even asked if I’d like to grab coffee with her next week, and I said I’d think about it. In years past I would’ve immediately dismissed the idea. Now, I’m open to it—if the media doesn’t find me first. Even if they do, maybe I can hang with her.

  I’m totally not acting like myself. Jetlag. Rum. The rush of being so physically close to Tate’s rock-hard chest. Whatever it is, I’m beaming and giddy.

  “Do you always dance with your clients?” I ask, forcing myself not to trail my nose down his tanned neck.

  He leans back and stares at me, his eyes half-lidded. “Do two drinks always make you tipsy?”

  “Absolutely yes. I have a total inability to handle my liquor,” I retort.

  “I see. We should probably get some food in you. Why don’t we go home, and I’ll make you dinner?”

  He pats my back as if burping a baby. Uh-oh. Maybe I’ve mis-read his flirtation. It was my idea to dance, and I’d coaxed him into it. He probably only did this to appease me, and because Biloxi Bob egged him on from the makeshift stage.

  “Yeah, that little bag of chips at the bar wasn’t exactly satisfying. But you didn’t answer my question, counselor.”

  He leans in, his mouth the closest it’s ever been to my ear. I shiver. “I don’t normally dance with my clients, no. But I happen to like this song, and you were extremely persuasive, so…”

  “Are you saying I’m special?”

  “I’m not saying you’re special, Bella. I know you’re special.”

  My insides melt everywhere, and I sigh. Is he dreamy or what? “I don’t know what it is about you, or about this place, but I’m totally okay with letting go. Why do you think that is? Do you think it’s the mojitos? Or is it something about Paradise Beach?”

  He pulls me close and tightens his grip. “Don’t let go too much, babe. A couple of guys I don’t recognize just walked in. One’s got a camera slung around his shoulder.”

  My muscles tense up, and I instantly sober. My back is to the door, something I normally never allow when I’m in public, and this is why. “Oh, hell. So much for being normal.”

  “No need to panic. We’re half-hidden behind the partition. I don’t think they can see us. We’re going to sway casually over to the other exit, the one with the life-sized Elvis cutout. You’re going to slip outside. I’ll give you the keys and then grab Chunky. We’ll meet at the car. You ready?”

  “Ready.”

  My heart pounds as Tate and I—glued tight together—shimmy past the bar to the cardboard Elvis figure perched in the corner. “Go,” he hisses, pressing his keys into my palm.

  “Which way?”

  He gently takes my arm and spins my body toward the exit. “Got it,” I say, my heart thundering.

  I untangle myself from him and smack into Elvis. The cardboard wobbles, and I grab it with my hands so it won’t topple over. “Sorry,” I whisper to his smirking face, then book it out of the tiki bar.

  Thank God I’m wearing sneakers. I run to the left, then realize the parking lot and Tate’s SUV are in the other direction. With all the grace of a chicken, I dash the other way while fumbling with the key, pressing every button on the small fob.

  BEEP BEEEP BEEEEEEP

  Crap. Tate’s SUV lights up like a slot machine, its headlights and taillights and various other lights flashing in yellow and white alarm. It’s also bleating like a loud sheep, the sound of the alarm echoing across the parking lot and adjoining beach. I swear out loud as I careen toward the vehicle, waving the fob wildly in the air and pressing each button.

  From the other entrance, I spot Tate dashing out of the bar, Chunky under his arm like a football.

  “The red button,” he yells. “Press it. Hard!”

  I do, and the car stops blinking and honking. I pull open the passenger door and dive in, just in time for Tate to open the driver’s side. He heaves Chunky toward me, and I shove the keys at him.

  I start to laugh, mostly out of sheer nerves. “We probably could’ve just calmly walked out,” I remark as Tate starts the car.

  “Yeah, I don’t know why I suddenly thought running out of there like we were in some action flick was a bright idea.”

  As we peel out of the parking lot, two men emerge from the bar, cameras in hand. One of them throws up his arm in frustration.

  Tate and I are now laughing for real. So hard that tears are leaking out the corners of our eyes.

  “We make quite a pair, don’t we?” he says.

  As we zoom down the street, Chunky licks my face and lets out a soft snuffle.

  “Actually,” I say between hiccuping giggles, “We make quite a trio.”

  Nine

  Isabella

  Tate’s house is exactly like Tate.

  Dreamy.

  Sure, I might have been raised in an actual European palace filled with antiques, endless swaths of gold, and paintings of long-dead ancestors who look like they just took the biggest fart of their lives.

  But I’ve always adored American homes. There’s a certain coziness to them. Like they’re filled with love and laughter. Orderly and homey and new. Well, new compared to what I’m used to.

  “I adore it,” I whisper as Tate gives me the tour of his two-story home. “What is this kind of structure called?”

  Tate glances at me with that panty-melting grin. “I dunno. The developer called this one ‘The Norchester.’ I think that was a made-up name to make it feel swanky.” He chuckles. “I chose this one because of the big living room and kitchen combo. I have my family over a lot, and I like to entertain. And I figured someday I might have kids. Check this out.”

  He wants a family. This realization sends a zing of happiness through me.

  We’re standing in a large room, and Tate moves toward a glass door. I think this is the living room, because there’s a comfy-looking, L-shaped tan sofa on one end, a huge TV on another wall, and over there is the kitchen. I’d noticed that when I went to friends’ houses in college: Americans like to congregate around the kitchen, so they put their televisions and sofas close by.

  Americans also like to eat on sofas and not at dining tables. I look around for a formal dining area and don’t see one.

  “See, you can get to the pool from here, too.” He slides open the door, and I stick my head out. The enormous, in-ground pool is enclosed by a large, screened-in cage. Americans are so ingenious.

  “Oh, beautiful,” I murmur, imagining myself stretched out on a lounge chair. “That’s probably where I’ll spend most of my time while I’m here.”

  I pull my head in and straighten my spine. Tate’s standing next to me, so close that if I stood on my toes, I could kiss him. His grin and his eyes—lazy and teasing—make my face flash hot.

  “Goodness, I’m hungry,” I murmur.

  For him.

  “Right! Yes. Dinner. Even though it’s late.” He bounds away into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. I’ll whip something up. You like pasta?”

  “Of course,” I call out, meandering around the big room.

  I stop at a bookshelf to scan the titles. There’s a mix of fiction and nonfiction, with many unfamiliar-to-me authors.

  “Thank God, I’ll have something to read while here,” I say, then squeal as I pull out a book. “I’ve been meaning to read this.”

  “Which one? Oh? Drawdown by Paul Hawken? Yeah, that’s excellent. Probably the best book I’ve read on climate change yet.”

  Tate’s eyes are positively glittering with excitement. I slip the book back into place, biting my lip to prevent myself from grinning like a fool. He’s gorgeous, he’s hilarious, and he’s passionate about the environment. And those tanned, strong arms. I sneak a glance, just in time to see his forearm muscles flex as
he opens the fridge.

  Oh dear.

  Everything I’ve ever wanted in a man, but never found. Until now.

  I’m in deep doo-doo here on Paradise Beach.

  My fingers trace the spines until I reach a framed photo on the shelf. There are seven people in the photo, and Tate’s standing in back. I pick it off the shelf and walk to the massive island counter separating the kitchen from the living space.

  “Is this your family?” I hold the picture up and round the counter.

  Tate shuts the stainless steel door of the fridge and sets a carton of mushrooms down.

  “Yep. That’s the seven of us. Mom and Dad,” he points to the two people in front.

  I study his parents. His father is handsome, with close-cropped silver hair and impressive muscles for an older man. “Your father has tattoos.”

  “Yeah, he used to be a singer in a punk rock band in the eighties. Before he met Ma.”

  My eyebrows shoot into my hairline as my finger hovers over his mother, who is wearing a cream-colored hippie frock and no shoes. Is that a flower in her hair? “Your mother is gorgeous.”

  “She’s a little different. Don’t be surprised if she comes over and wants to read your tarot cards.”

  I giggle. “And these are your brothers and sister? Or is that your brother’s wife?” I point to the only other woman in the photo. She has long, platinum blonde hair.

  “That’s Natalia. My sister. In order, there’s Max, who you met. I’m second oldest. Nat’s third. Then these two clowns”—he points to two guys who look nearly identical to him—“are my twin brothers. Remy and Damien.”

  “Okay, so Kate from the tiki bar. She’s married to Remy.”

  “No, Kate’s married to Damien.” Tate turns back to the counter and grabs the mushrooms. He continues talking while washing them at the sink, and I openly admire the broadness of his back. “Remy lives on-island and is a sport-fisherman. Damien’s in Syria right now. He’s a military contractor. He’s been there a few months, and we’re all worried sick about him. He’s got this crazy addiction to adventure and war. Well, that’s my opinion. We’re extremely different.”