by Tamara Lush
ALL I DESIRE
Paradise Beach #4
Tamara Lush
Copy Editor Sara Elice
Cover Design Najla Qamber
Proofreader/Book Bible Claire Milto
Contents
All I Desire
Also by Tamara Lush
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
A FREE BOOK FOR YOU
About the Author
All I Desire
When Natalia Hastings is paired with a handsome older guy during a quirky photoshoot for the Paradise Beach tourism board, sparks don’t just fly. They explode.
Matthew Mancini is everything she’s looking for: gorgeous, smart and super sweet. But he’s also a divorced single dad, and Natalia isn’t sure she wants to be a mother, much less a stepmom.
When she discovers that Matthew has ties to the worst part of her past, she’s forced to make a difficult choice. What if you meet Mr Right…and he’s got more baggage than the belly of a 747?
Welcome to Paradise Beach. Land of sugar sand, shirtless men, and endless sunshine. Strange and wonderful things often happen here. And island life is even hotter after dark...
* Content warning: this book contains mild references to past physical and sexual abuse, and bullying. *
Copyright © 2020 by Tamara Lush
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Also by Tamara Lush
ALL I KNOW (Paradise Beach Prequel)
ALL I WANT (Paradise Beach Book One)
ALL I ASK (Paradise Beach Book Two)
ALL I DO (Paradise Beach Book Three)
ALL I DESIRE (Paradise Beach Book Four) — Coming January 2020
Sign up for Tamara’s mailing list for new book alerts:
http://bit.ly/LushList1
Welcome to Paradise Beach.
There’s sugar sand, warm water and endless sunshine.
It's a state of mind. A place with the most stunning sunsets in the world. An oasis with a legacy of passion. And island life is even hotter after dark...
Come to Paradise and fall in love.
Prologue
WANTED: Paradise Beach Residents for Photo Shoot
Nina Michaels Photography is looking for men and women to be part of an unusual promotion for the Paradise Beach Tourism Board. No modeling experience required. Subjects will be paired up and photographed on the beach, so if sand, sun, or surf annoy you, this isn’t your gig. You must be comfortable with a certain level of intimacy with people you don’t know. The campaign is called "Strangers in Paradise," and will explore how the island's natural beauty inspires connection and attraction between perfect strangers. Models of all ages, races, and genders are encouraged to apply. Compensation will include snacks catered by The Square Grouper, the chance to see your picture in a nationwide tourism campaign, and making new friends. Apply via the link below.
Chapter One
NATALIA
"You're doing what?"
Isabella shifts on the sofa, tucking her feet underneath her butt. She looks at me in horror, almost as if I’ve done something offensive, like spit on her five-hundred-dollar ballet flats.
I fasten my latest creation at my nape. It’s a baroque pearl and pink coral bead necklace, and it might be the prettiest one I’ve ever made. “I was chosen as an amateur model. It’s for a tourism campaign promoting the island. The photo shoot is today."
Isabella grimaces. "Sounds like torture."
"Well, of course you'd say that, with your background." Isabella is actual, honest-to-God, European royalty. She’s the most proper, private person I’ve ever met. Pretty much the opposite of me, who lets it all hang out, and then some. It was only by a random stroke of fate that Isabella ended up on our Florida island. I consider it sheer luck that she became my brother Tate's fiancée — and one of my close friends.
She grunts and rolls her eyes. Well, she doesn’t grunt, exactly. It’s the Isabella version of grunting, which sounds more like a dissatisfied, adorable bird chirp.
"What it sounds like," says Lauren, my other sister-in-law to be, glancing up from her phone, "is a great opportunity to showcase your brand. I’d definitely advise against wearing a ripped tank top and black shorts, though, babycakes."
Lauren, like her fiancé — my oldest brother Max — is effortlessly preppy. The two of them look like they’ve just stepped out of the pages of a Brooks Brothers catalog. She tosses off nicknames like “babycakes” and “baby boo” as if she’s a living, breathing Instagram caption. Which she kind of is, considering that when she posts a photo of her and Max doing something adorable, like rescuing wild baby bunnies or making oatmeal cookies, her two million followers go apeshit.
At first, she annoyed me a little, but her relentless, aggressive positivity has somehow wormed its way into my cold, dark heart. And dammit, I love her because she’s taken my cranky, Type-A brother and turned him into something almost human.
I turn in Lauren’s direction and shrug. "Dunno. Doesn’t this outfit look okay? I was also going to wear my gladiator sandals, the black ones." I might design delicate jewelry, but my personal fashion sense can be best described as utilitarian and, well, black. When I’m at the resort, I wear simple black dresses that are mistaken for elegant. The rest of the time? Black tank tops. Black shorts.
Sometimes I mix it up and wear a grey t-shirt. Occasionally I dye my blonde hair something colorful. It’s my way of standing out, I guess.
"No. Not okay. Nowhere close to okay. Give me five minutes." Lauren springs off the sofa and sprints out of the room.
"Oh, God. She's going to find me a new outfit, isn't she?" Lauren and Max live in the carriage house behind my parents' home. That's where we are now. I live in a condo a few miles away, because I can only stand so much family togetherness.
"You definitely want to wear something beachy," suggests Leilani, who is stretched out on the floor, head propped on a giant pillow, reading a book on her iPad. She's my third sister-in-law to be, paired up with my brother Remy. Somehow, the crassest, raunchiest brother of all landed an angel turned flesh. Not sure how it happened, but whatever.
"This is pretty typical of her. She used to do this to me all the time in college," chimes in Kate. She's my only real sister-in-law; she married my brother Damien seven months ago. She, too, is incredible: a warrior who’s given up her life to help her mother fight cancer. She’s also inherited a handful with Damien.
Goodness, I adore these women.
In the past few months, the five of us have become something of a girl gang. Not that I mind, because growing up with four brothers, I often felt starved for female attention. It was just me and Ma, and we’d retreat to the beach to talk about girl stuff.
I endured years of fart jokes, fistfights, and enough testosterone to fuel a football team. Probably, that's why I'm a
bit of a tomboy. How could I not be?
Now, though? The girl gang taking over the Hastings house has been pretty freaking awesome. Dad calls it “hand cream hour” when we gather, and we just giggle at his crotchety self. He loves it, too, I think. Mostly because he knows his sons have finally found love like he did with Ma.
I fling myself onto the giant, u-shaped console sofa, in between Kate and Isabella. "Is this a stupid idea, doing this?”
"Absolutely," insists Isabella in her formal, slightly British accent. “You’ll probably be paired with someone unsuitable. Or someone who will end up being a stalker.”
"Maybe not. Maybe you’ll be paired with someone who will love your jewelry. Or your necklace will end up on a billboard in Times Square.” Kate smiles beatifically. She’s always the voice of moderation and hope.
"It’s an amazing idea. Maybe you'll be matched with a really hot dude," Leilani says in a bubbly voice.
“Yeah, right.” I shoot her a smirk. Of all of them, she’s the one most concerned about my status as the last single Hastings sibling. Or maybe she’s just grateful that I saved her bacon when her abusive ex came to the island and attacked her. I whacked him with a two-by-four and ran the prick out of town. (Don’t worry, I’m a black belt in Kendo. I’m not a total gangster).
I shrug. "I’ll probably be with someone a little eccentric. I mean, who isn’t weird on Paradise Beach? Which is cool. What are you guys doing tonight?"
"You’re taking a definite risk. You don't have to do this, you know. You can cancel," Isabella asserts. “Oh, and Tate and I are going to the first meeting of the dragon boat team.”
She and my brother are always doing random things like that. Kayaking. Windsurfing. Turtle habitat restoration. Tonight, it’s dragon boats.
"That’s cool. You know, Lauren’s right. This is a good branding opportunity for my jewelry. And the resort. That's why I'm doing it. Ahh, screw it. I'm going to leave. Not waiting for Lauren. I look fine the way I am."
As I'm getting to my feet, Lauren flits in, carrying a dress encased in a plastic dry cleaner's sleeve.
"Here. Put this on. It'll be perfect with the necklace." She hands me the bag.
"Fine," I grumble. "I'm going to concede that you probably know more about this kind of thing than I do, being a famous Instagram influencer and all."
Lauren points to the bathroom. "Go. You don't have much time. Here, let me help."
She follows me into the bathroom and helps to extract the pale pink dress from the hanger. "It's ethereal. See how it's several layers of thin fabric? It’s from a boutique in London. I’ve only worn it once, when Max and I went out to dinner. I was worried he’d rip it when we were kissing—"
I pantomime a gag. “Stop. Please. You know the rules.” That’s the one downside to being friends with my brothers’ love interests. They slip up and talk about intimate stuff, as if my brothers have the sexual prowess of the most experienced porn stars. It makes me shudder to even think about.
Lauren giggles.
I take the flimsy material of the skirt between my fingers. "It looks a little delicate." I squint as I strip off my tank top.
“That black lace bra won’t go with it, not even a bit.” Lauren’s voice is matter-of-fact.
I sigh and undo the bra, letting it fall to the floor. “Braless? Really?”
“Arms up.” She slides it off the hanger and gathers the material. "It's sleeveless. You shaved, right?"
"Reluctantly." I lift my arms and inspect my pits, sniffing. “At least I smell good today.”
She slides it over my arms and down my body. "Take off your shorts."
Winking at her lasciviously, I do, fumbling with them under the layers of gossamer-like fabric. "What do you think? It makes me want to twirl like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music."
I take a spin, the uneven, gauzy hem brushing against my legs.
Lauren takes me by the arm and drags me in front of the mirror on the back of the door. "It's gorgeous. See? You look like a beach goddess. Like Botticelli’s Venus.”
I blink at my reflection and wince at the pink, frothy dress. "It looks like I've fallen into a cloud of unicorn diarrhea."
"It's perfect for the beach, and it shows off your toned arms and your curves. And it’ll look amazing in the sunset light. Golden hour. Trust me.”
“I have no curves.”
“Bullcrap, buttercup. It fits nicely up top, too. You don’t even need a bra.”
I press a hand to the deep V-neck. Admittedly, the dress almost makes me look as though I have cleavage. “It’s like an optical illusion for my boobs,” I murmur.
Lauren adjusts the necklace. “And look how it makes your jewelry pop and sparkle."
I bite my bottom lip. The necklace I've designed does look pretty incredible next to the pink of the dress. "Cool, cool. Unicorn poop it is. Thank you. What shoes should I wear?"
"The white flip-flops. You'll be on the beach, so I assume that you'll be barefoot anyway. Thank God we got mani-pedis the other day and you didn't get that awful black matte color again."
No, this time, at her encouragement, I'd gotten a pale nude color. Totally unlike me, but I'd done it to appease her because she’d wanted all of us to try out different potential colors for her wedding. Which is still months and months away.
Lauren yanks on the door and makes a trumpet sound. "Ladies, meet Natalia Hastings, Paradise Beach’s top supermodel."
I strut out, channeling my inner Tyra Banks.
There are audible gasps from Isabella, Leilani, and Kate — and from my mother, who has joined in the fun. Ma’s holding Chunky, my brother Tate’s pug, in her arms, and she’s so excited that she fumbles his rotund body. I think she’s going to drop him.
Isabella obviously has the same thought, because she whisks the snoozing canine out of Ma’s arms. Ma doesn’t notice and comes at me with outstretched hands.
"Oh, my pumpkin. I don't think you've looked so beautiful since Kate's wedding. Or that time you went to prom. You really need to wear colors like this more often. They bring out the natural pink of your cheeks. You don’t look so…" her voice trails off.
“Goth?” Kate offers.
“Dead?” Lauren says.
“Yes. Those things. See how fresh you look?” Ma is plucking at the dress and petting my hair. She scratches behind my ear.
I wrench my head away and mumble how I’m not Chunky. Ma ignores me and runs a hand over the skirt. "Such beautiful fabric."
"This is something like you'd wear, Ma." My mother, Ginger Hastings, is famous around the island for her hippie attire. Today, she’s wearing a long, cotton, bright tie-dye dress, like she’s about to hop in a VW van and follow The Dead from city to city.
“I’d love to wear something like this if your father and I renew our vows. I’m trying to talk him into it. You know how he is.”
I narrow my eyes at Lauren. "Is this a boho wedding dress?”
Lauren shrugs. “Possibly.”
I turn back to Ma and kiss her cheek. “Maybe Lauren will let you borrow it when I'm done."
"I don’t know if it’ll fit,” Ma burbles.
We all know that it won’t fit Ma because she's doll-sized, and Lauren and I have almost a foot and tens of pounds on her. I’ve never understood how Ma gave birth to the five of us — my brothers are huge, and I’m not tiny, either.
"Okay, chicas. I'm off. Wish me luck."
“Sell some jewelry,” Kate trills.
“Don’t forget to pimp the resort,” Lauren instructs. “And while you’re getting your photo taken, point in the direction of the property.”
I point to the horizon, while staring off into the distance like a mannequin. Leilani cracks up and Lauren groans.
“Not like that. Be natural about it. Loosen up. And don’t forget to suck in your belly and tilt your head. And smile, for God’s sake. You usually look sullen in photos, like a tragedy just occurred.”
I roll my eyes, and Leilani looks up
at me from her pillow on the floor. “I hope you’re paired with a handsome man and you end up having a palpable attraction. And hot monkey sex.”
“Yeah, right.” It’s been a long while since I’ve had any kind of sex, monkey or otherwise.
“Call us if you need us to do a background check on him,” Isabella counters. “We’ll be standing by with The Googles.”
Grabbing my purse, I giggle and flit out of the room. This dress, with its layers of silk and uneven hem, makes for dramatic entrances and exits. Which fits my personality.
I decide that I'm going to flit, flounce, and flutter all fucking day long. Before I head out the front door, I pause. My boots are resting neatly on a doormat that says “WELCOME. WE HOPE YOU LIKE DOGS.”
“I’m putting on my Doc Martins with this dress,” I holler to anyone within earshot.
“What? Nooo,” Lauren cries.
Donning a pair of socks I’d left atop the boots, I shove my feet in, giggle, then slip out the door before Lauren can stop me.
As I walk to my dad’s wagon, I admire how the black leather boots look hella good with the pink, cloudlike dress.
Today’s going to be epic.
Chapter Two
MATTHEW
The photographer’s gaze roams down my body, and I laugh nervously.