Soaked (The Water's Edge #2)

by Stacy Kestwick

  I’d just discovered a newfound passion for dancing.

  THE KNOCK ON the door came sooner than I’d anticipated. Tightening the belt of the thick white terrycloth robe around my waist, I hurried to let room service in. After last night, I wasn’t up for another meal with Nick quite yet. As attractive as he was, and as much as I appreciated some male attention, he was a little too much of a good thing. More than I could handle pre-coffee anyway.

  An older island man set my tray on the table and made a quick escape, refusing the tip I tried to give him twice. Shaking my head in exasperation, I shoved the cash in my pocket. Crossing the room to the tray, I doctored up my cup of coffee to make it sweeter and carried it into the bathroom with me. I removed the fluffy towel I’d had turbaned around my head and brushed out the tangles in my hair so it could air dry while I ate.

  Picking up my Kindle on the way back to the table, I propped it open and removed the stainless steel cover over my plate. French toast, strawberries, and bacon. The powdered-sugar-covered, maple-syrup-drenched fried bread was the closest thing on the menu I could find to doughnuts. I was reaching for the napkin rolled around my silverware when I faltered.

  Tucked neatly onto the corner of the tray was a paper airplane with my name on it.

  In West’s handwriting.

  Hand shaking, I plucked it from the tray, my brow wrinkling as I stared at it. How in the fuck had he managed to get this delivered?

  But before I could give in to temptation and actually read the note folded inside, I deposited it in the bottom drawer of my dresser and slammed it closed in satisfaction.

  Out of sight.

  Except, when I finally cut off a bite of my doughnut-substitute, I was thinking about the time West brought doughnuts for dessert on his boat, Vitamin Sea. I eyed my orange juice accusingly. The traitor.

  Had I even ordered orange juice? Had he arranged for that little reminder as well?

  And now my French toast was soggy after sitting in the syrup for too long.

  And it was absolutely all his damn fault.

  Waking up my Kindle and picking a romance to read at random, I tried to lose myself in the cowboy who dominated the opening. I dipped my bacon in the excess syrup and crunched my way through two chapters.

  By the time I finished my French toast—hey, it was soggy, not ruined—and my strawberries, I was a good forty pages into it.

  Then it hit me.

  I was reading a fucking Western.

  Powering the Kindle off in disgust, I apologized mentally to Foster, the book boyfriend I was going to have to abandon prematurely. He didn’t deserve a DNF.

  He was better than that.

  He was strong and loyal and sweet and so achingly in love with the rancher’s daughter my teeth hurt just thinking about it. The stupid, spoiled whore daughter didn’t realize what she was missing out on. Clare. What kind of name was that anyway? Especially since it was the newly hired veterinarian who was going to rock his world by the end. I liked her. Meghan. She had spunk. Foster had just helped rescue her after the stallion knocked her into the mud on her ass.

  And offered to let her use his shower.

  But forgot to give her a towel.

  Yeah, I was gonna have to leave her hanging.

  No happy ending for either of us.

  I swallowed the last of my coffee, but I refused to touch the orange juice. On principle alone.

  Take that, asshole.

  By the time the caffeine had fully hit my system, I was dressed and down on the beach, camera in hand, ready to attack this project head on. My hair was whipping wildly in the strong breeze, the damp strands drying in the humidity. Wavy, tousled beach hair was totally a look. The jury was still out on whether it was a look I could pull off.

  I surveyed the long, pristine shoreline, unsure where to start.

  The resort wasn’t very crowded yet, even though it was mid-morning. A handful of surfers caught some wind-enhanced waves. A couple who’d planted themselves on matching striped towels in the sand were a shade of brown that indicated they’d be roasting themselves again all day. Some employees dressed in royal-blue and white uniforms stood laughing in a small bunch near the catamaran shack. My eyes lingered on the color of their shirts, my fingers automatically circling my wrist.

  It was the same color blue as my hair tie that West had claimed. I hated that I couldn’t even see that color without thinking of him. Remembering us. Missing us.

  I wondered if he was still wearing it.

  Or if Aubrey had stolen that too.

  Blowing a strand of hair from between my lips, I twisted my mouth to one side, not seeing anything that inspired me right off. I aimed the camera at the palm trees edging the property, but it was such a generic shot it wasn’t even worth bothering with.

  “Good morning.”

  The greeting whispered only inches from my ear scared the shit out of me, making me gasp and almost jump out of skin.

  Thank God the camera was on a strap around my neck.

  “You look great this morning. Those beds are amazing, aren’t they?” Nick invaded my personal space, wrapping me in a one-armed hug I didn’t return.

  My loose tunic billowed around me, but the black bikini top protected my girly bits from his blatant perusal. My shorts on the other hand, did little to conceal my legs from his dark gaze.

  I side-stepped out of his embrace. “Morning to you too.”

  He lifted his own camera slightly, and dipped his chin toward mine. “What are we shooting this morning?”

  “We?” I repeated, raising my eyebrows.

  “Sure,” he said, his stance relaxed even as he maintained an almost uncomfortable level of eye contact with me. “We. I thought it’d be fun to shoot the same subject for a bit. Maybe compare results. Make sure our styles are gonna be complimentary for this campaign.”

  Well. When he put it that way, it sounded downright reasonable.

  I waved a hand at the empty lounge chairs that stood waiting to be filled with future skin cancer victims. “Not much really going on yet this morning.”

  “I disagree.” He winked. “I think there’s plenty going on here.”

  He reached out and snagged a wayward curl from my face and tucked it behind my ear, letting his fingers graze the length of my neck.

  Biting my lip, I twisted away and fashioned a loose, messy bun at the nape of my neck, securing it with the hair tie from my wrist. Pink this time. He was oblivious of my attempt at creating distance between us and stayed firmly planted by my side.

  He pointed past me to the water, his arm grazing me. “That surfer there? See him? The one with the tattoo of birds on his back? That’s our subject.”

  I studied the man he indicated. The guy was hot. Both his sculpted body and the way he handled his board—slicing smoothly through the water with an intuitiveness that spoke of years of experience and a fluidity the other surfers couldn’t match.

  Nice choice.

  “Check in with each other in twenty minutes?”

  He shrugged. “If you need that long to get some good images, sure. Twenty minutes works.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  Game on.

  Adjusting the setting on my camera, I edged closer to the shoreline. Nick followed, but then continued walking right into the ocean until he was waist deep. I hadn’t realized until just then his yellow trimmed navy shorts were board shorts. He seemed unconcerned about his shirt, not bothering to remove it.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled to be heard over the wind.

  “Taking pictures.” He winked. “What are you doing?”

  Shaking my head at him, I lifted my camera to my face, moving farther across the sand so Nick didn’t ruin my shot. I kept my angle wide. The way I framed the shot, the surfer acted as the exclamation point at the end of the sentence the wave was writing, its foamy curl chasing him.

  I zoomed out more, letting the focus on the bare-chested man grow blurry, featuring instead his smallness
contrasted to the vast expanse of turquoise water behind him, his red board a bright slash of color near the bottom edge of the frame.

  The wave dissipated and the surfer paddled back out to catch another one. A wall of water hid him from view, playing hide and seek with me. I took pictures through three more sets that he expertly rode, oblivious to the two photographers capturing the action.

  When time was up, Nick wordlessly handed me his camera and accepted mine.

  We flipped through each other’s work.

  Mine was good. I knew it.

  His was stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.

  He’d gone for more detailed photos. The surfer’s hand as it caressed the top of a swell. His victorious grin and upraised arm at the end of a good ride. The slope of his shoulder as he sat on the board, watching for the perfect wave to ride in. The beads of water running down his back.

  I sucked in a breath. It was fucking hot.

  “Today’s lesson.” Nick’s voice was serious this time, no hint of playfulness. “Sometimes the parts are better than the whole. There’s beauty in everybody, and choosing to focus on those details can be much more intriguing than looking at the entire subject. It’s more intimate. It lets the viewer fill in the blanks with their own imagination, substitute the missing pieces with their own fantasies. And that’s where the magic happens.”

  Handing my camera back, he tipped his chin at it. “Your technique is good. Nothing to be ashamed of. But step outside the box some and try it my way this time.”

  Nodding, I studied the surfer again, with new eyes. Not him versus the water. Or even him and the board. But the fragments.

  The bunching of his back muscles, obscuring the script of his tattoo. The way the waistband of his shorts was higher on the left hip than the right. The angle of his throat as he raised his head up to the sun.

  As I headed closer to the water, I realized Nick was walking the opposite direction, back toward the resort. “Where are you going?” I called after him.

  “I got my shots for the morning. I’ll catch up with you at lunch.” He didn’t wait for a response.

  My nose wrinkled at his arrogance, even though he made a valid point. His work was impressive, and I wasn’t too proud to accept I could learn a thing or two from him.

  Refocusing on the surfer, I concentrated on Nick’s words. Catching slivers of time that evoked a feeling but left the final interpretation up to the viewer.

  The surfer’s feet in the air, the surfboard a good foot beneath him, as he jumped off at the end of a wave. His profile, his jawline sharp and classic. His legs as he pushed up into the proper stance. A gratuitous shot of his ass as he bent over the board. It wasn’t until the end of my session that I moved my focus away from body shots and tried to get a few of his face. His eyes. The smirk on his mouth. The sun reflecting off the angle of his cheekbones as he flew by me.

  Finishing, I hurried to my room, eager to upload and edit my session.

  When I got to the shot of his eyes, I froze.

  I knew those eyes.

  The surfer with the beautiful body, who’s rippling muscles I’d captured in high-density megapixels, was Grady.

  LUNCH WAS STRAINED. I couldn’t look at Grady without blushing, even though I hadn’t really done anything wrong. It wasn’t that I was attracted to Grady—but taking a bunch of half-naked photos probably crossed the line of appropriate behavior toward your boss. Even if he was also a friend. Grady sent a few assessing gazes my way, cocking his head as if he was trying to figure me out, but whatever he was thinking, he kept quiet in front of Nick.

  And Nick, oh, he was enjoying himself.

  The twinkle in his eye and the way he laughed at my discomfort made it clear he’d known all along who the surfer was. The bastard.

  I was mortified. And felt oddly guilty, like I’d somehow betrayed Rue by noticing just how gorgeous Grady was. I mean, he wasn’t West, but damn, she had pretty good taste when it came to him. She could deny it all she wanted to, but she couldn’t stop staring at him whenever he was around.

  Dancing lessons later that night were even worse. Although, at least Nick wasn’t there for those.

  I was stiff and stepped on Grady’s toes repeatedly, half a beat behind the music. I miscounted the steps, turning left instead of right, crashing into him and knocking us into another couple. He’d finally given up and taken me aside, waving at the instructor to continue without us.

  “Are you okay? You’ve seemed off since lunch with Nick. Has he done something? I can have a word with him if I need to.” Grady shook his head in exasperation. “He’s always been a relentless flirt around pretty girls.”

  I shook my head in denial, my cheeks warming. “No. He’s fine. I . . . I was just embarrassed by how much better than me he was when we worked together this morning.” I improvised on the fly, hoping he bought it.

  Looking unconvinced, he studied my face. “He told me he was going to try to work with you some while you’re here. I thought you might be excited to work with someone of his caliber, but if he’s a problem, I need you to let me know. I told West I’d look out for you while we’re here.”

  The mention of West threw me. And pissed me off. I didn’t need looking after.

  I counted to five and forced myself to take a deep breath. It didn’t help. “West lost that right when he chose Aubrey over me.” I enunciated each word, trying to keep my anger in check.

  Grady bit back a grin. “Easy, tiger. Don’t kill the messenger.”

  “I’ll give you a message for him,” I muttered. “I don’t even need words. Just one finger.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass that along.” He tried to smother his laugh. “But seriously, about Nick—everything okay there?”

  I hesitated, but nodded. I was a big girl. He wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle myself.

  But speaking of messengers . . .

  A flash of inspiration struck. I’d email the pictures of Grady to Rue, as a present. And I’d leave the face shots until last. Although I doubted it would take her nearly as long as it did me to realize who the surfer was. I had a feeling she was more familiar with his body than she led me to believe.

  Finally able to relax, at ease with my conscience knowing I wouldn’t be hiding anything from my best friend, Grady and I struggled through a few new salsa moves, building on the basics we’d learned last night. He returned the favor from earlier, crushing my toes under his feet as we worked through the different elements.

  As I looked down, concentrating on the steps, I had another epiphany. Something I hadn’t noticed during my photo session that morning.

  And I couldn’t stop my smile.

  No wonder Rue couldn’t seem to move on from whatever history there was between them.

  Grady had some big ass feet.

  WHEN I OPENED my laptop the next morning to send the pictures to Rue, I already had an email waiting for me. A workout routine—complete with playlist—courtesy of Theo who warned pics or it doesn’t count and gloated that I’d thank him when I didn’t come back from vacation with a lard ass from lazing away in paradise. Theo was probably my closest friend after Rue and also my personal trainer. It was because of him working my ass off on a regular basis that I could indulge in my Krispy Kreme habit. He also mentioned I should expect another workout email tomorrow.

  Well, yay.

  But . . . he had a point. There might not be doughnuts here, but I wasn’t exactly watching my calories. I pinched my stomach and wrinkled my nose.

  After sending the shots of Grady to Rue with the simple subject line “You’re welcome,” I grudgingly put on workout clothes and headed to the resort gym. Better to just get it over with for the day.

  Turned out, someone else had the same idea. Nick was there—in all his sweaty glory—on the treadmill just inside the door, three-and-half miles into a workout, according to the red digital numbers. Damn overachiever.

  Except, wait. Theo’s words came to mind and, without a word of expl
anation to Nick, who was watching me quizzically, I snapped a quick photo of the treadmill’s workout summary display.

  Photographic proof of a workout. Maybe it wasn’t my workout, but now I had back-up if this session hurt as bad as I expected it to.

  Tugging his earbuds out, Nick slowed to a fast walk. He pointed to my phone. “What was that about?”

  “My trainer.” I stepped on an elliptical in the corner and began warming up. “He said I owed him three miles of cardio today. With photographic proof. Plus, it’s arm day.”

  He smirked. “Do you have to send him proof of that too?”

  “Weights are on the honor system.” I tried to look offended, but knew I failed when he laughed at me.

  “You’re clearly very trustworthy.”

  “Yup.” I popped my earbuds in and scrolled to the playlist I’d downloaded that morning. I had to smile—Theo remembered my penchant for organizing my music by letter. This one was chock full of J’s. Jason Derulo, Justin Timberlake, and Justin Beiber.

  “Need me to spot you for anything?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll be fine, but thanks. I don’t want to hold you up.”

  He shrugged and nudged the speed back up on the treadmill. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, but after the first few songs, as I got into the zone, I forgot about him.

  My mind wandered inevitably to West. Wondering what he was doing today, if he missed me, if his bed had felt just as empty as mine had last night. I daydreamed my way through an encounter where, instead of freezing like a deer in the headlights when I saw West carrying Aubrey in his arms in Charleston, I confronted them, and he obligingly dumped her overboard and whisked me away to the Caribbean aboard the Vitamin Sea. The newspaper ran the appalling story of Aubrey Perotti showing her face in public without looking pageant-ready, and she had an allergic reaction to her sunscreen which resulted in a permanent skin disfigurement, a red oblong phallic inflammation that started on her nose and extended to her forehead. People began calling her Dickhead behind her back, not that I ever saw her again.