Extraordinary.
That single word was better than any five-star rating I’d ever received. Better than Level Ten Minion or Top Grubber status. It was the abundance.
“My lips are feeling better,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “In case you were wondering. Totally healed.”
Trey’s mouth curved into a wry smile. “Good to know.”
The space between us disappeared. I closed my eyes and tasted his salty-sweet lips, and as one big, strong hand reached up to cradle the back of my head, there was only one word to describe the sensation spreading through my body, across my skin, down to my bones.
Extraordinary.
Chapter 18
The bedroom exceeded expectations. While the rest of the bungalow may have lacked luster, everything contained within these four walls shined like a diamond. Though I’m pretty sure that glow had nothing to do with the furnishings and everything to do with Trey. His luminous body, his generous heart. He was simply incandescent.
That kiss he’d planted on my hand the other day was merely a taste of the pleasure to come. In his bedroom, there weren’t just sparks; there were full-blown flames. His fingertips on my skin, his palms on my flesh, his mouth on mine—each touch was the strike of a match, building a heat within me I’d never felt before. He discovered nerve endings I didn’t know existed, revived atrophied muscles, paid careful attention to parts of my body and soul I’d neglected for so long.
For the first time, I felt worshipped. Extraordinary.
Now it was the morning after, with sunlight melting through the translucent window shades and those newly discovered nerve endings still tingling. I felt spent from my lips to my toes. Used, in the very best way.
I’d awoken to find Trey missing, and my heart sagged. Even though I knew surfers often got up at the crack of dawn to catch the morning’s first waves, it was still disappointing to find myself alone, without an explanatory note inviting me to make myself comfortable and assuring me he’d return as soon as he was done.
Then a clatter arose in the kitchen, the distinct sounds of a pan scraping the stovetop and a whisk whipping up batter. A loud sizzle, followed by the smell of buttery sweetness, and it finally hit me. Trey wasn’t surfing. He was making me breakfast.
It was difficult to wrap my head around it, and the longer I lay there staring up at the ceiling fan, cocooned in what felt like trillion-thread-count sheets, the harder it was to believe. But this was happening. I was here, in my dream home, with my dream guy cooking me dream breakfast after an extended evening of dream sex. Sometimes, dreams do come true.
Trey’s phone was propped in a charging stand on his night table like an alarm clock, the time visible on its screen: 7:35. Fortunately, my first job didn’t start until nine. I had at least another hour to bask in this brilliance before returning to the colorless drag of reality.
The smells emanating from the kitchen grew stronger, and my salivary glands worked overtime. With all the distractions of the previous evening, I hadn’t eaten dinner. Not that I’d minded, but now my stomach was angry and demanding compensation. I scanned the room for my clothes before remembering I’d abandoned my dress and bikini somewhere in the living room (we’d gotten things started on the couch). So I did that totally cliché thing you always see in movies, and wrapped myself up in a sheet, bunching the ends in one hand and holding it against my chest.
Man, this sheet was so soft. It put the linens on Natasha’s guest bed to shame.
With quiet steps, I made my way down the hall, padding into the kitchen just as Trey turned away from the stove, holding a frying pan in one oven-mitt-covered hand. He smiled at me. “Good morning, beauty.”
I smiled back. “Good morning yourself.”
He was shirtless, gliding around the kitchen in boxers and bare feet. When he tilted the pan toward a serving dish, I gasped when I saw what slid out of it.
My reaction made him wince. “Do you not like French toast? If not, I can make you eggs or oatmeal or whatever else you’d like.”
It took a second to find my voice. “No, I love French toast. It’s my favorite breakfast food, actually.”
“Good, because it’s my specialty. I like to coat it in a coconut crust.”
When Trey turned back to the stove, I pinched the fleshy inner part of my forearm, hard. The pain was sharp, and most definitely real, which meant I was wide-awake and standing in this room. This moment—the one I’d fantasized about just a couple of weeks ago, eating coconut-crusted French toast in this kitchen—was actually happening.
I had manifested my dream into a reality.
“Grab a seat.” He motioned toward the breakfast bar, where he’d laid out two matching place settings, forks on the left, knives on the right. There was a carafe of orange juice beside a pitcher of maple syrup, and the creamer and sugar bowl were a matching set, with identical palm trees painted on the side. And now that I took a closer look, those same palm trees were also painted on the lips of the plates.
“Love the dinnerware.” I tied a knot in the sheet to hold it in place, then slipped onto a stool as he poured steaming coffee into a palm-tree-embellished mug. “You’re a regular Martha Stewart.”
“Not really,” he said. “My decorator picked it all out. Said it added charm to the Airbnb rental.”
“Your decorator was correct.” I held the coffee cup under my nose and took an intoxicating sniff. “This smells like heaven.”
“It’s Kona.”
“Fancy.” Kona coffee was grown exclusively on the Big Island of Hawaii, making it one of the most expensive—and delicious—coffees in the world. This was no economy-sized Folgers, like I stocked in my kitchenette. This was luxury.
“Do you ever think you’ll move back to Hawaii?” I asked, as he flipped a piece of bread in the frying pan.
“Definitely in the future, but not for a while. A few months ago, my parents moved out to California—my dad had a job opportunity he couldn’t pass up. They’re in Orange County now, about an hour north of here. I love the island, but I wanna be near my parents, especially as they get older. You know what I mean?”
“Sure.” I did, but I didn’t. Aging parents were a concern I’d never have to deal with.
As if sensing where my mind had wandered, he asked, “Your sister lives in San Diego, right?”
“Yeah, in Encinitas.”
“Is the rest of your family here, too?”
“Nope.” I took a huge mouthful of coffee so I wouldn’t have to elaborate. Nothing killed a cheerful, flirty moment like talking about your dead mom and absent father. I wasn’t interested in making things awkward or uncomfortable. I simply wanted to enjoy the sex hangover.
Fortunately, there was a sudden buzzing sound coming from somewhere in the living room, distracting us both from the question at hand. I peered across the breakfast bar and saw my phone vibrating on the coffee table, its screen lit up with an incoming call.
“That’s probably my sister,” I said, making no move to get up from my stool. “She calls all the time, even though she knows I hate talking on the phone. I don’t get why she can’t send a text, instead.”
“My mom is like that, too.” Trey slid the final piece of French toast onto the serving platter. “She says it’s because she needs to hear my voice. That’s how she knows I’m okay.”
I’d never thought of it that way, but as soon as Trey said the words, they rang true. It’s not like Natasha didn’t know how to text; she texted her friends and clients all the time. I’d seen her. Maybe she called me because she needed to know I was okay. After all, she was always telling me it was “her job” to take care of me, which usually translated to her saving my ass. Kind of like a substitute mom.
At once, I felt ashamed for ignoring her call, and guilty for giving her grief in the past. With one arm holding the sheet tightly to my chest, I hopp
ed off my stool and crossed the room. By the time I reached my phone, it had already stopped buzzing, but when I checked my missed-call logs, it wasn’t Natasha.
“I was wrong.” I tossed the phone onto the couch beside my discarded bikini bottoms and returning to my spot at the counter. “It was some restricted number. Probably spam.”
“I’ve been getting a lot of those lately.” Trey pulled a silver shaker from a cupboard and dusted each slice of French toast with powdered sugar. Martha Stewart, indeed. He surveyed his tablescape, beaming, then looked at me. “Please, dig in, before it gets cold.”
The first bite was rich, tender sweetness, a perfect balance of crisp crust and chewy dough. So much better than my usual breakfast of protein bars, or on occasion, store-brand Pop-Tarts. Licking syrup off my bottom lip, I said, “This is incredible. Where did you learn to make this?”
“Mostly trial and error, though I did borrow heavily from Alton Brown’s recipe.” He leaned in, as if letting me in on classified information, and whispered, “The secret is warmed honey.”
“You’re totally Martha Stewart.”
The pride on his face couldn’t be disguised. It was adorable. “Cooking is one of my hobbies. One of the perks of ditching the tour is that now I can spend more time in the kitchen.”
I stuffed another massive bite of bread in my face. “What’s on the menu for lunch? I might come back if it’s as good as this.”
“Unfortunately, I won’t have time to cook any more today. I’ve got lessons lined up from ten until five with only a few twenty-minute breaks in between.”
“Wow. SurfRack’s really working you hard, huh?”
He shrugged. “They let me set my own schedule. I like being out there all day, teaching other people to love the ocean.” His eyes suddenly lit up. “Speaking of which, we’re still on for tomorrow morning, right?”
“Absolutely. I’m working today from nine until six, but tomorrow morning, I’m all yours.”
Trey’s cheeks flushed a little, and with the cutest little nose-scrunch, he said, “You know, I feel like an asshole for not knowing this already, but what do you do for work?”
“Right now, I’m a HandyMinion.”
“What’s that?”
“Um, I guess you could say I’m sort of a handygal? I do whatever odd jobs people need me to do. Yard work, furniture assembly, housecleaning. That sort of thing.” Shame and self-doubt cropped up instantaneously. “It’s not very glamorous.”
Trey raised an eyebrow. “Glamour’s an illusion. Trust me.”
I thought of all the #glamorous Instagrammers, their perfectly framed photographs, how easy it was to buy an audience. Were Shayla’s followers bought in bulk, too? Was anyone really living out their #goals, or was it all an elaborate ruse?
“You’re right,” I said. “But I do wish I was doing something a little more fulfilling. Working toward a meaningful goal, instead of living task to task. I just don’t know what that something should be.”
“Well, what are you passionate about?”
Here we go again.
“Nothing,” I said. “There is absolutely nothing I’m passionate about.” He opened his mouth to respond but I held up my hand to stop him. “There isn’t. I’ve tried so many times to figure out what my passion is, and I’ve always come up empty. I know that must seem crazy to someone like you, with such a serious passion for surfing.”
“Oh, surfing isn’t a passion.” He swallowed a big bite of French toast and shook his head. “It’s a way of life. My passion is actually teaching people to surf. Spreading that way of life to others.”
Interesting. “How did you figure that out?”
“By doing it.” He shrugged one shoulder. “It started out in Hawaii. A few years back, when I was on break from tour, one of my childhood friends opened a surf school in the touristy area. He was still getting it off the ground, so I taught a few lessons here and there, just to help him out. I didn’t think I’d actually enjoy it, but I did. Watching someone ride their first wave...it’s like I’m reliving that magic all over again.”
His eyes got this faraway look, and he added, “I’ve never said this out loud, but one of my secret dreams is to start a surf school for kids in tough circumstances who don’t have the money to pay for lessons. Like a nonprofit or something. I feel like getting those kids out in the ocean could change their lives forever.”
“Wow. That’s a really noble goal.”
He shrugged again, finishing off the last of his breakfast. “It’s not about being noble, it’s about doing what’s right. The world is an unfair place, and so much is out of our control. I like to think about what I can do to help level the playing field, even if it’s something small.”
Starting a surfing nonprofit to benefit underserved children didn’t seem small by any stretch of the imagination, but Trey was nothing if not humble.
“Anyway,” he continued, “that isn’t my point. My point is that there’s definitely something you’re passionate about, even if you don’t know what it is yet. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself to figure it out, though. It’s all about what makes you feel your feelings.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t totally convinced. Right about now, the only thing making me feel my feelings was the memory of last night. My insides went soft as I flashed back to scenes from the bedroom, and the urge to pin him against this breakfast bar overwhelmed me.
But before I could make a move, he was on his feet, dishes in hand. “We’d better get cracking so we’re not late for work.”
When I reached for the juice glasses, Trey chided me. “Leave cleanup to me. You go get dressed.” Then he kissed my lips and started loading the dishwasher.
I studied the curve of his ass as he bent down to slide plates in the bottom rack and realized he was quite possibly the perfect man. He could cook, he could surf, he cared about disadvantaged kids, he knew his way around a California king bed and a dishwasher. Plus, he was patient and supportive, letting me move at my own pace without giving up on me—in both the bedroom and the ocean.
More than anything, he was genuine. Or at least, he seemed genuine. It would be easy to doubt him, easy to fear his intentions, but I was choosing to trust that he was who he appeared to be. Maybe this is what it meant to choose happy.
Because I certainly felt happy as I grabbed my bikini and dress and wandered into the bathroom. When I looked in the mirror on the back of the medicine cabinet, it was my own happy face smiling back at me. It was like that selfie I’d taken after Trey had saved me from the stingray. Another vision manifested into reality.
I emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, replacing the sheet on his bed before returning to the living room, where Trey was straightening the pillows on his couch.
“Your phone was buzzing again,” he said.
My call log showed another restricted number. “These spammers are out of control.”
“Whatever you do, don’t answer any unexpected calls from Slovenia. I did that once and wound up with a two-hundred-dollar charge on my phone bill.”
Trey stood up and turned to me, caressing my upper arms while gazing into my eyes. “This was great. Thanks for coming over.”
“Thanks for having me.”
“You’re welcome here anytime.” His voice was a growl, so low and so close I could feel it in my chest. I sank my fingers into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck and his mouth touched mine and it was a struggle not to drag his perfect ass back to bed.
But I had a job to do, so when our lips parted, I reluctantly headed toward the door.
Trey followed closely behind. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. I’d suggest we meet tonight after work, but you need a solid eight hours of sleep if you’re gonna surf in the morning, and we both know that won’t happen if we’re together.”
In the foyer, I slid my fe
et into my flip-flops, then spun around to plant another kiss on his pillowy lips. “You’re right about that.”
He wrapped his hands around my waist and pulled me toward him so our hips pressed together. “Does eight work for you?”
“Eight’s perfect.”
With a last kiss, we said our goodbyes, and I headed down the path toward his picket fence with a smile on my face. After a night of phenomenal sex, it was hard not to feel like things were looking up.
Though they weren’t looking up for everyone. Because as I walked the few feet home, I saw a car parked at the curb, a woman sleeping in the front seat, the back seat packed with what looked like all her worldly belongings. Trey was right, the world was an unfair place.
So what could I do to help level the playing field? I certainly didn’t have the money to start a nonprofit, but maybe I could volunteer for one. When I got home from work, I’d search VolunteerMatch for an opportunity.
You know what I was not going to do? Waste another second of my time or energy on trying to become an Instagram influencer. In fact, I was tempted to delete my account altogether. It was self-absorbed and shallow and fake, just like Mari had said.
My brief foray into Instagramming had been completely misguided, and I couldn’t allow it to drive a wedge between me and my best friend. I needed to fix this, immediately. As soon as I opened my front door, I flung myself onto the futon and whipped out my phone, ready to text and make up. But a notification from the HandyMinion app stopped my thumbs in midair:
Urgent Message for Minion BREE: Your worker account has been suspended.
Chapter 19
There must have been some mistake.
I’d passed the quiz during the onboarding process, and I knew what it took to be a good HandyMinion. I never swore on the job, I was polite to all my clients, I had a five-star average rating, for crying out loud! There was no reason my account should have been suspended.
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