by Lush, Tamara
“Round four later,” he murmurs, pulling the blanket over his body. “Can you turn out the lamp?”
“Absolutely. Night-night.”
At some point earlier, we’d turned on the lamp, figuring it would be hotter to screw with the light on. I reach over and flick the off switch.
Ah, hell. My phone. It sits like a neglected lover on the nightstand. Normally I’m checking it every fifteen minutes—or less—but the wedding and Max managed to tear me from the screen.
I grab the cell and move to take it into the bathroom where I can check my messages and accounts and then wash up.
“You’re not leaving me, are you?” Max’s voice is roughly sexy.
I lean over to kiss his warm cheek. “Nope. I’ll be right back. Going to check my messages in the bathroom.”
“Don’t be gone long.”
Fortunately, the bathroom’s only a couple of steps from the bed, and the curtains are open, illuminating the room enough for me to take a few giant hops into the bathroom.
I turn to the bed, wondering if Max saw my impersonation of a bunny—and my bare ass jiggling. He’s on his back, forearm draped over his eyes. He lets out a long snore, and I grin.
Even his snore is man-like and sexy. I wonder if I’d think that after twenty years of marriage.
Whoa, Lauren! Where the hell did that come from?
I shake my head as I shut the bathroom door, flicking on the light and hobbling over to the edge of the oval whirlpool tub.
The hopping, and maybe the sex, has left me out of breath, and I sink down onto the wide lip of the whirlpool tub.
I tap my phone, and it comes to life. There are so many Instagram notifications, and my heart rate spikes even more.
Maybe the photo I’d posted of Kate and Damien’s sunset vows was getting a lot of likes. First, though, I’ll check my email…
Oh, sweet! There’s a message from Ahmed at the hotel in Dubai.
Dear Ms. Sinclair,
We regret to inform you that we’re unable to accommodate your request to reschedule your tour. And after careful consideration, we’re not certain you’re the influencer who would best showcase our brand. Thank you for your time.
What?
I read the email twice, my heart sinking down to my broken ankle. There must be some mix-up. He’d been so enthused in his earlier emails. What happened?
Tears well in my eyes, and my posture sags. How could he have changed his mind so fast?
The email was sent only fifteen minutes ago, so perhaps I can try to ask him why. I lick my lips. Is it smart to question him?
Without thinking, I tap over to Instagram. Maybe I’ll remind Ahmed a single photo of my best friend’s wedding garners tens of thousands of likes. That’s it. I’ll screenshot my metrics and ask him to reconsider.
What the hell is this? Yeah, I have a lot of likes for my wedding photo. But I’m tagged in another post, one by someone I don’t know…
Oh, shit.
It’s a video of me, zooming down the wedding aisle on the scooter. Dress aflutter. Ribbon on the scooter flapping in the breeze. I’m waving like I’m the freaking Queen of England.
On. A. Scooter.
Apparently one of Damien’s military contractor friends—some globetrotting alpha soldier of fortune type dude who’s got a solid five thousand followers—had posted it first. But he’d tagged me, and a few other influencers somehow noticed on video.
And reposted it. Thousands of times.
People immediately commented. Some were nice, saying I looked sweet and cute. But others, Jesus.
They’re awful.
Mean things. Hateful things. Horrible things, about how I’m “retarded” and “crippled” and how I show a different, fake side on my own account. I gasp at the vitriol. Why are people this nasty? Are they right, that I’m falsely portraying my life? Isn’t everyone?
They’ve posted and reposted, how I’m a fat fake and how ugly I am. Questioning why any travel company would work with me.
I clap my hand over my mouth to muffle my sobs. This is ridiculous—people have turned a sweet moment from a beautiful night with my best friend into something ugly and basic.
My first instinct is to share everything with Kate, and I start a text. Then I freeze. She’s probably still at the reception, having the time of her life. Or with Damien, showing off her sexy lingerie. It’s her wedding night. There’s no way I can send her a barrage of texts telling her how her wedding has made me Insta-famous.
I’ve gone viral, all right. For all the wrong reasons. And it’s going to kill my brand.
Sixteen
Max
I’m roused out of my post-sex slumber by a sound I haven’t heard in a long time. Not since my ex told me she was moving for good to Australia have I heard the strains of this.
A woman’s sobs.
Blinking several times in the dark because I’m not sure if I’m dreaming, I realize the noise is coming from the bathroom. A line of light glows at the door’s bottom crack, and a pang hits my stomach.
Lauren.
Lauren is crying.
Huh?
I sit up, tossing the covers off my body.
Shit, what did I do wrong? Did I say something stupid in my sleep? Did I not make it obvious I wanted to snuggle and sex her up all night?
I take a few steps to the closed bathroom door. My first instinct is to barge in and find out what’s going on, but I hesitate. Then knock.
“Lauren? You okay? What’s wrong in there?”
All I can hear is a long sniffle, and the sound of her blowing her nose. “N-nothing.”
“Sure sounds like something. Can I come in?”
The door opens a crack, and I take this as an invitation to enter.
She’s wrapped in a towel, sitting on the floor with her back to the tub.
“What the?” I kneel and peer into her beautiful face. The skin around her eyes is puffy, and her eyes are glowing red. “What’s going on?”
A new river of tears runs down her cheeks, and she hands me her cell phone, one of those huge-ass iPhones. It’s covered in a pink case.
I scowl and look at the screen. It’s a video of the two of us walking down the aisle. My hand is on her back, and she’s waving. She looks positively gorgeous, even with the scooter and the broken ankle. As if she’s a supermodel selling mobility scooters.
And I don’t look too bad, either. Next to her, I look damned handsome.
“What? That? It’s a great video of us. Your smile is gorgeous. You’re adorable.” I look up, confused. Sometimes I don’t understand women.
“Read the comments,” she wails.
Oh, shit. I’m not up on the latest social media trends, but I know one rule: never read the comments. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I scan the responses.
And wince. Someone used the r-word when describing her.
“Jesus Christ, people are assholes.”
“I could handle it if they were simply assholes.”
I glance up, confused, and she tries to snatch the phone out of my hand. I don’t give it back.
“Wait. Don’t read this crap, Lauren. It’s toxic. It’s also meaningless. This is the internet. It’s not real life.”
“It’s my real life. This video of me is ruining my brand. My career. My goddamned future.”
“But how? I don’t understand. Did you post that? I’m sorry; I don’t get how all this works. Why would a video, or what a few jerkoffs say, affect your career as a travel blogger nomad person?”
She shakes her head. “Someone in the wedding posted it and tagged me. Someone else posted a photo. And then it all went viral, because there are a few social media stars”—she makes little quote marks with her fingers—“who get off on being nasty to others. They’re brutal. I try not to give them ammunition. Everything I post is curated.”
“Let me guess, the ones being nasty are guys, and they’re targeting gorgeous popular women like you,” I mutter.
“Lauren. Christ. You’re the opposite of that. You look like a queen, broken ankle or not.”
“I am a little hunched over,” she wails.
“You’re a human being. With flaws. Flaws I happen to think are incredibly sexy. Who gives a rat’s ass what people think?”
“I do, because that’s how I make money.” She shoots me a sharp look. “Already the hotel in Dubai has canceled my trip, saying they don’t want me representing their brand.”
I ease onto my ass, so I’m sitting with my back to the tub. Between the sex and my six-mile beach jog this morning, I’m sore as hell. “That does suck. But it’s only one place, right? Can’t you move on to another hotel or whatever?”
She shrugs. “I guess. It was a rare junket for social media influencers. Maybe it was also because of my inability to go on the dates they’d offered, and I’d asked to reschedule. But I’m almost positive they’ve seen these posts. Things like this can kill a social media influencer overnight. You should hear some of the horror stories.”
Hopefully she’ll spare me. “That seems harsh. You seem to work with lots of brands. I was looking at your account. What about all those people at the parties you go to? Can’t they vouch for you or something? Don’t your connections mean anything to companies? People love you. You have, ah, influence.” I throw my hands in the air. “I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t know shit about social media. But I’d think if you’re well known in your social sphere, this will be a blip.”
She sniffles again and leans her head on my shoulder. “None of it’s real, Max.”
“Hunh? I’m confused. What’s not real? I saw the photos. Of you at the parties and the fashion shows and the exotic locales.”
“Yeah, I was there, and I’m in the photos, but it’s all for show. I’m basically a hired PR person. Half those people can’t even remember my name. Most of those companies herd me in and out of the events. They know my Instagram handle and that I have a ton of followers. That’s all they care about.”
“Well, that’s fucked up.” I pause. “How did you get into this? Why do you still do it, if it’s that superficial? You don’t seem like that kind of person at all.” She’s the warmest, most genuine person I’ve met in a long time, and I should probably tell her this, but she opens her mouth.
“Remember I said I was a photography major at the Art Institute of Chicago? Well, years ago, I’d started an Instagram account, and I’d post my photos. But I noticed when I was in the photos, I’d get more likes. Kate and I hunted the city for cool sites and interesting places. A few magazines featured me as a Chicago travel Insta-blogger. We did a few trips to New York, paid for by companies. Everything took off from there, and I was getting offers to travel the world. I’ve only been nomadic for about a year. It was our plan I’d travel and make sure the business was solid, while Kate stayed in Chicago to work. She was supposed to join me, but…” She lets out a choked sob. “That won’t happen now.”
I shift in my seat so I can wrap my arms around her. Yeah, a short while ago we had mind-blowing sex, but I’ll come off like a dick if I tell her what I think about the people who don’t remember her name. And about the companies willing to drop her because of a photo. She definitely doesn’t want to know my thoughts on the assholes making comments.
She rubs her cute nose on my bare shoulder.
“Sometimes I can’t believe I’ve gotten involved in this world. I just wanted to travel and take photos.”
“It’s late.” I work my hands into her hair. “Everything’s better in the morning. You’ll have all sorts of new solutions and ideas by tomorrow. You hustle. By noon tomorrow I’ll bet you’ll have this worked out. I have faith in you. Let’s go back to bed.”
She pulls away, and there’s hurt in her green eyes. “I’m a little too keyed up to sleep right now. I’ll be fine in here.”
“I have an idea to relax you.” She glances at me. “No, not sex. Want me to run you a hot bath? I’ll help you in. Would it make you feel better?”
“Yeah,” she mumbles. “I’d like that. I guess I could rest my foot on the side of the tub.”
“Okay, good. C’mon.” I scramble to my feet and pull her up. Then I go to the toilet and put the lid down. “You sit here.”
I busy myself with the tub, running the water, making sure it isn’t scalding, finding the bath bubble soap stuff Natalia insists on stuffing in every room.
I glance over my shoulder and find Lauren staring at me while tying her hair up. “What?” I grin.
“You have such a cute butt.”
“You have a pretty cute butt yourself. Now let’s get you in the water and relax, okay? I’ll help you in and we’ll prop your leg up on the side.”
She nods, all serious-like, and allows the towel to drop.
Now isn’t the time to ogle. Now’s the time to be a gentleman.
I ogle, discreetly. How could I not, with all that smooth, naked skin? My mouth waters when my glance grazes over her pussy.
Later, Max. Later.
She hops once, her breasts bouncing. I ignore the twitching in my dick and help her over to the bathtub.
“Sit on the edge, then put your uninjured leg in. Yeah. Like that. Hold on to the handle where the soap’s supposed to be. I’ll brace you while you get in the water.”
Lauren gracefully slides into the water, all while keeping her cast propped on the edge of the tub.
Of course, this means she’s spreading her legs, and it’s supremely distracting for both my cock and me.
“Okay, holler when you want to get out. I’ll come and help.”
She shrugs. “Can you turn off the light and leave that little night light on?”
“Done.” I flick out the light, and the scene is erotic, with her breasts covered in bubbles, her hair piled on her head.
I go to walk out.
“Wait. Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you join me?” She looks up with hopeful eyes.
Because I’ll want to fuck again. Nah, I can control myself. She’s upset and wants comforting. And how can I say no to that?
“Can you scoot forward?”
“Yep. I think so.”
She does, and I ease into the big tub behind her, so she’s nestled between my legs.
“Oh, Christ, this feels good.” I groan. “This was a good idea.”
“You’re full of good ideas,” she whispers, trailing her fingers over my knee and making little sparks shoot right to my dick.
I kiss her neck. “Want to know my other good idea?”
“Tell me.” She allows her head to loll back onto my shoulder.
“I think you should hang out here on Paradise while your ankle heals. Take a break from traveling and parties. It sounds like you’ve had a hectic schedule, and a little downtime is always a good thing. Figure out how you want to handle this current situation with your business. You can spend time with Kate. She’s gonna need you when Damien leaves in a couple of days.”
“Mmhmm. I was thinking about that.”
“Stay with Kate and her mom, if you’re more comfortable.”
“They live in a small house. Probably don’t have the room.”
“Then stay here. We’ve got a great breakfast buffet. I’m sure Kate would appreciate it.”
“Is Kate the only one who would?” she whispers.
My hands slide underwater, to her ribs.
“No, there’s someone else who would like you to hang here for a while. I think he could promise dinners on most nights, but you’d be on your own for lunch. He can offer many other side benefits, too.”
She giggles, and my muscles relax
because her mood’s improved.
“That seems like a fair deal. I could also take those photos for the resort before I leave.”
I move her forward and massage her shoulders. She moans.
“The invite includes massages.”
“You’re making me an offer that’s impossible to refuse, Max Hastings. Thank you. Maybe I do need total relaxation here on your island. You seem to be an expert at getting me to let go of my worries. I could stand to chill for a few weeks.”
Her words make my throat tighten.
What the fuck am I doing, making myself vulnerable to another unavailable woman who will leave me?
But then I melt, because Lauren’s hands are on my thighs and she’s letting out a little, pleasurable sigh that makes my stomach clench with desire.
Seventeen
Lauren
“I’m sorry it was so difficult to say goodbye to Damien today. I can’t imagine.”
I slide my sunglasses off and squint at Kate, who’s slumped miserably on the beach chair next to me. We’re both out of breath because she helped me hop, hobble, and limp from the resort door to the nearest seat on the sand. The scooter only goes so far, and its thin wheels don’t do well on the beach.
“We had to get up at like O-dark-thirty, and we’d barely slept.”
“And why was that?” I ask in a singsong voice.
“Because we couldn’t sleep. We were doing…stuff.”
“Yeah,” I snort. “So what happened? You drove him to the airport and then what?”
“It was painful. We hugged, and we kind of stared at each other, and I started to sweat.” She pulls off her T-shirt dress and stretches out like a cat in her navy blue bikini. I’ve always been envious of her athletic build. Next to her, I’m all soft, rounded, curves.
I lift my T-shirt over my head and fold it into a neat square. “I came here prepared to dislike the entire situation, but I have to say I’m now Team Damien.”
“I hate the idea of him being in Syria. Hate it. The next three hundred sixty-five days can’t pass soon enough,” she mumbles.