by Lush, Tamara
“Your wish, my dearest cupcake, is my command.” I hand her the large cup. “Although I have some other, more interesting wishes.”
She takes a sip and groans, which immediately makes my dick twitch to life. Okay, the faint hint of her nipple through the shirt is also making me hard, too. I pace a little at the foot of the bed. Can a person have sex when they have a broken ankle?
“Thank you for this. You were already on your way to get coffee for me when you texted, weren’t you? You are a god. You know that?”
I grin and nod. Truth is, I enjoy doing little things for people, and my heart thumps faster at the realization Lauren is appreciative of my efforts. My ex expected me to cater to her every whim and rarely acknowledged when I did.
“Thank you so much. You’re being way too kind considering I destroyed your cell phone last night.” She holds the cup under her nose, inhales, and makes another mmmm noise. Does she realize how sexy she is? Then she looks up, frowning. “How did you get a new cell so fast?”
I glance at her foot and ankle, encased in an inflatable black cast, then my eyes go to her knee. And her bare thigh.
“I actually have two. I texted you from my backup. I got your number from Kate last night.”
“Your backup? I like a man who’s prepared for every contingency. Still, sorry about the phone. I can totally slip you some cash.”
“Don’t give it a second thought. I’m glad you weren’t hurt even worse.”
“Most people I know would never talk to me again if I sent their cell phone to a watery grave.”
“Well, those people are dicks. It’s only a cell.”
The dimple that emerges when she smiles shyly is slaying my heart. How can someone I’ve only known for a day be this captivating? Lust and weddings do strange things to guys, and both are hitting me particularly hard with this woman.
“How you feeling? Better?”
“Eh, a little out of it because of the pain meds. Otherwise, I’m okay. I guess. This wasn’t the way I wanted to spend the weekend. Or my life.”
Are her nipples even harder? They’re like little mountain peaks. An image of shoving her tank top up and taking a breast in my mouth comes to mind. I decide right then to bring her coffee every morning she’s here, so I can see her nipples.
I wander over to the sliding glass door leading to the balcony so I’m forced to stop staring at her. The balcony has a view of the beach, and I focus on an elderly couple walking on the shore in an attempt to squash the testosterone running through my body.
I’m a fucking pervert.
“Glad to hear you’re not in too much pain. You’ll be up and around in no time.”
“I need to be up and around now. How am I going to be in the wedding? I have all sorts of other stuff to do, too. Did the doctor really say six weeks?”
I turn and sit on the edge of the bed, farthest away from her body.
“She did.” I sip my coffee. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need after the wedding. The whole place is closed while we do renovations, but since this part of the resort is finished, the construction shouldn’t bother you.”
I’d hoped for a weekend fling with her, but a couple week fling would be even better. Hanging out with her after long days of wrangling contractors would be a welcome way to spend the next few weeks.
“That’s really sweet. Thank you.”
“I remember you said something about being a digital nomad. Still not sure what that is, but if you don’t want to nomad around the world while you’re recovering, you can camp out here. Unless you have somewhere else you need to be.”
I’m really fishing for information, trying to find out more about her. She’d only told me the sketchiest of details about herself last night, and they were flirty bits and pieces about her life, shared while we were standing around the bonfire. The kind of stuff people talk about when they’re on the verge of kissing.
But I woke up thinking about her, wanting to know more about her, and not only the superficial stuff, either.
“I could go home and see my parents in Chillicothe, Ohio.” She makes a sour face and snorts. “That probably won’t help my recovery much, though. They’d have pain pills though.”
My eyes widen in surprise, and she laughs.
“No pity, please. My mom’s a pill addict and my dad’s a professional enabler. My brother spends his days playing video games.” Her shoulders lift into a bored shrug, but I suspect she’s merely acting like none of this bothers her. “I know I should have more compassion for the situation, but I’m fed up after years of trying to help. I try to visit as little as possible. And they’d probably end up asking me for money, anyway. I stopped giving it to them because they use everything I give them for Mom’s addiction.”
She pauses. “If I sound like I’m angry, it’s because I am.”
A stab of sadness goes through me. So that’s why she flipped out last night when the doctor insisted she take the pills. I nod sympathetically.
“Remember I told you about that trip to Dubai? I’m supposed to be there in two weeks. At the world’s only seven-star hotel. They’ve invited me.” Her chin tilts up a little, and it’s charming to see how proud she is of her work. “It’s part of being an influencer. Hotels, tour companies, fashion houses, whatever, they arrange for me to attend events. To have experiences. Then I take photos and post on social media. It’s like public relations, but not. The companies feel like it’s a more organic way to market, and I get to promote myself. My brand is luxury travel. But how do I travel with a freaking air cast? It’s not like I can mount a camel or go indoor skiing like this.”
She looks mournfully at her cast and shakes her head. Everything about Lauren looks classy and expensive, which is at odds about what she just told me about her family. Maybe that’s why she takes photographs of beautiful things. How did she end up being a luxury travel influencer? Now my lust mixes with an insane curiosity.
“You get paid for doing that?” I’m honestly befuddled at how it all works—I can barely master posting to Facebook. “I’m also in the hotel business, and I’ve vaguely heard of social media influencers, but it’s not my realm. I deal with buying and selling properties and try to stay away from the public relations side as much as possible. Marketing is a whole other language, one I don’t speak.”
“Yeah, I get paid. And well. My last campaign was a tour of a hotel chain in London. They paid me ten grand, and I toured three properties. All I had to do was post photos of the tour and of me in the hotel. Some brands seek me out because I’m…” she sweeps a hand down her torso.
“You’re…?” I grin and take this as an opportunity to sweep my gaze down her body. “Gorgeous?”
A pink flush creeps onto the tops of her cheekbones. “No, bigger.”
I frown. “You’re not big at all. You felt pretty light when I carried you in here last night.”
“I’m not a size zero-zero like lots of Instagram models. I’m more of a regular-sized woman.”
She’s a sexy-as-fuck sized woman. I nod as if I grasp the significance of her words, but honestly, I don’t. She names a few fashion designers I’ve never heard of, and says they’ve sought her out because of her “authentic” look.
“Well, if you’re that good and effective, which I’m sure you are, the hotel will reschedule your Dubai trip, right?”
She shrugs. “I’ve already emailed my contact. Got up at six to check my messages and my metrics. We’ll see.”
It’s unclear what she means by “metrics,” but I assume it’s some social media term. It’s also admirable how dedicated she is, getting up at six on the morning after breaking her ankle, to work.
“I looked at your Instagram last night.” Crap. Will she think I was stalking her? Because I was. A little. Her Facebook was locked down, but the Insta photos were fucking incredible. I won’t mention what I did when I saw the pics of her in the bikini.
Still, something about her sad expression makes m
e want to cheer her up and not only with a kiss. “I was really impressed. You take great photos. I mean, the photos of you are beautiful, of course. You’re model material. Loved the ones of you in Costa Rica.”
She grins and bats her eyelashes. Yeah, she knows those were the sexiest photos. What’s truly sexy, though, is this woman’s confidence.
“But the other ones, of the landscapes and flowers and nature, those are incredible too. You take those?”
She nods demurely and takes a few sips from her cup.
“Impressive. You’re a talented photographer. You have a real gift.” I’m not blowing smoke up her ass because I want to fuck her, either. Her photos are amazing. “I loved the ones of the children on the street in Rome. Very artistic.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe you could take some photos here on Paradise Beach, and I could display them in the hotel. In the lobby. They’d look nice in the entrance, especially when I start to show the place to prospective buyers. I don’t like how my sister put the surf photos up. They look more like Hawaii. I want Florida images.”
Lauren’s expression perks up. She’s got the most beautiful, sparkling green eyes I’ve ever seen, and we hold each other’s gaze for several beats. “I was a photography major in school. At the Art Institute in Chicago.”
“Ah, that’s where you met Kate. Damien said she was a graphic design major.”
Lauren nods. “We were roommates freshmen year. After that, we were inseparable. I’d wanted her to join me on my travels, but…” she sighs and waves a hand in the air.
“But she reconnected with my brother and fell in love.”
She rubs her lips together and pauses. “Something like that, yeah. About those photos. You’d like shots of the sunset, maybe? People on the beach?”
“Yeah. Whatever you want. You’re the artist.”
“I’d really like that. Not sure how I’ll get around to take the pictures, though.” She gestures at her leg, and her shoulders droop.
I reach for her uninjured foot and wrap my hand around her little toes. Her nails are painted a pale pink, and against her tan skin, the color’s so fucking sexy.
“If I need to carry you, I will. Trust me, I’ll work something out. I can be your faithful photo assistant.” I squeeze her foot, and she whimpers.
“That feels so good, Max.”
“Does it?” I set my coffee on a bureau and then turn to her foot, taking it in both hands and kneading. The way she says my name is like the best jolt of adrenaline.
She makes another little moan and sets her coffee on the nightstand. Christ, she’s sexy when she makes those noises.
“Oh, you are incredible,” she murmurs and flops back into the pillows. Her dark hair’s fanned out behind her, and her breasts are high and perky, and Jesus Christ maybe we will fuck right here. I’d been worried this broken ankle would slow her down, but possibly not.
Go, me.
Go, us.
I grin and focus on the soft pads of her little foot. Probably I should be asking Damien what he needs for wedding prep, me being the best man and all. Or calling Mom to see if she requires help with anything so we can welcome our dozens of relatives with some semblance of organization. But since Damien’s out in the other room probably smooching Kate, and Mom hasn’t texted, I don’t feel one shred of urgency.
I begin to lightly massage the top of Lauren’s pretty little foot, then move one hand a couple of inches up her ankle. Her skin is velvety, and I want to run my lips over every inch.
I sneak a glance at her crotch. She’s wearing little shorts, but I can’t see anything. The idea she might not be wearing underwear makes me immediately hard, and I knead her foot with more pressure.
She sighs pleasurably and throws an arm over her head. Her eyes flutter shut, and I nearly groan.
After a few minutes of the best foot massage I’ve ever given, I glance up.
Lauren’s asleep, her pouty lips puffing out with each exhale.
Awww hell.
I gently let go of her foot and stand, giving her one last look. She really is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time, and I’m determined to finish what we started last night. I am not a quitter. For a moment, I consider crawling in bed next to her and taking a nap, but she’d probably be freaked out, waking next to a virtual stranger.
Later. We’ll resume this later, after she’s gotten some rest. And after I’ve handled some things for work.
Stifling a sigh, I slip out of the room. Damien and Kate are lying on the pull-out in each other’s arms. Both are snoring like soft chainsaws.
“Jesus,” I mutter, as I let myself out. Guess I’ll get back to work, because that’s what I’m best at.
Twelve
Lauren
My ankle fizzes with pain, and I suck in a sharp breath.
“Does it hurt?” Concern casts a shadow over Max’s gorgeous face.
I shrug. “When I move a certain way. I’m not used to these yet.” I lift one of the crutches.
We’re standing at the altar during rehearsal. Well, Max is standing, and I’m propped on the wooden sticks. Yesterday, the first day after the accident, wasn’t so bad because I’d spent much of the day in bed or on the balcony. Today I’ve been forced into activity, and I can feel it in every nerve of my ankle.
We both glance in the direction of the garden’s far end, where Kate and Damien are having an animated conversation with Damien’s mom. Max’s sister and Kate’s mom are milling around, pointing at decorations, moving chairs, and laughing. Mr. Hastings has a screwdriver in his hand and appears to be tightening something on the gift table.
Remy’s grabbed a beer, and it looks like Tate’s chatting up the catering manager, a pretty woman in her forties.
“Why did we walk down the aisle, exactly? I thought we were rehearsing.”
Max had managed to corral everyone around the altar. His parents, and then us, made it down the carpet, and then things disintegrated into controlled chaos.
“My family tends to get distracted. It’s amazing we get anything done.” He pauses. “The painkillers aren’t working?”
I shake my head. “No, because I haven’t taken one today.”
He turns to me. “Why? Obviously you need them.”
I shift my weight onto my good leg and try to stand straighter so I don’t resemble a Disney cartoon villain. “I don’t like taking them. Because of my mom. I don’t want any chance of getting addicted.”
Normally I don’t tell people about my mother and her addiction. Due to the stupid pill I took yesterday morning, I’d let it slip to Max. Oddly, though, I don’t feel awkward about talking about it now with him. Something about Max is non-judgmental and kind, and it makes me feel comfortable enough to spill all of my secrets.
Well, all of my secrets except for the one that explains why we’re here: Kate and Damien’s fake relationship. Fake-ish, is more like it, because every time I catch a glimpse of the two of them, it’s like watching a commercial for breath mints. They’re always kissing and grinning with big, toothy smiles.
Normally, such saccharine displays of affection make me roll my eyes, but I’m actually finding it endearing. Maybe it’s something about this island that’s softening my normally cynical heart.
I look into Max’s disarming blue eyes. They’re close to the color of the Florida sky. What were we talking about, exactly?
“But if you’re suffering—”
I shake my head. “Not even then. I didn’t object in the hospital when they gave me the IV because it hurt too badly. I’m managing now.”
“You did object, if I recall correctly. You threw a fit. How many have you taken?”
I shrug. “I took one yesterday morning when I woke up. It was why I fell asleep while you massaged my foot.”
He scowls. “I’m sure a couple of days won’t hurt.”
“I took an ibuprofen this morning.”
Which isn’t doing anything for the pain, but I won�
��t tell Max that.
“This morning? It’s three in the afternoon.”
“I’m good. All I need is to sit or lie down.”
Frowning, Max hurries off the platform and grabs a chair in the first row of empty seats. He sets it next to me.
“Sit.”
“No, I’m ok.”
“Cupcake, they’re going to be talking for a while. I know Damien when he starts making those hand gestures.” We both look over, and he and Kate seem to be deep in conversation. She’s listening to him, rapt.
“See? We’ve got our part down. It’s everyone else that needs to rehearse.” Max pats the back of the seat. “There’s no need to stand here in pain. Look, I’ll join you.”
He steps down and grabs another white, wooden chair, plopping it next to the first.
Grumbling, I ease myself toward the seat.
“Careful,” he says, guiding me with gentle hands. He takes the crutches and leans them against the rose-covered trellis. The sight makes me grin. Ahhh. The fizzy pain’s gone.
“Better?”
“Yeah. It is. Thanks.”
He sits next to me and we face Damien and Kate. They’re now kissing—God, they kiss an awful lot—and Mrs. Hastings is fumbling with the ribbons on the backs of the chairs in the last row while talking to herself. She looks up. “Angus,” she calls to Mr. Hastings, “Have you seen Chunky?”
“He’s with Tate,” Mr. Hastings says without looking up from his screwdriver.
Max sighs and scratches his head. “This will definitely take a while.”
“Are you the only organized one in your family?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, pretty much. Me and Dad. It’s why he wants me to deal with the renovation and sale of the place. If it was left to everyone else, it would be a mess. Damien could probably help, but he’s too focused on playing war games. Although it seems like he now has one distraction in particular here at home.”