by Havana Scott
What the heck?
Finally, by the end of Day 3 (but who’s counting), I heard footsteps coming up the planks outside, shuffling just outside my door. He knocked and said, “Paris,” pulling me out of a scene I was having trouble envisioning anyway. One thing was for sure—he hadn’t been out on his boat, or he would’ve appeared on my dock. I opened the door, and hello, handsome—wearing dark pants, a solid white short-sleeved island type shirt, and a frazzled look. “I hope you’ve gotten good work done,” he said.
Really? That was his first comment? “On your book? Yes, I’ve gotten good work done.” I struggled with the bite in my tone, and when he walked in and gave me a kiss on either side of my cheek, I was even more confused.
“I meant on yours. I know you’re mad at me. Can I come in?” He looked frazzled.
“I’m not exactly mad.” Being alone had helped me get work done, but I did feel a bit hurt. “Is everything okay?”
“No. Yes.” He sat on the edge of the bed, then moved to the table and chairs, as though he wasn’t sure if he was still allowed on the bed. As though three days of radio silence would set him back to Square One.
“You can sit on the bed, Tristan,” I reminded him. “Tell me what’s wrong.” He dropped his head into his hands, knees apart, still at the table and chairs. I took his hand and gently led him to my unmade bed, but he didn’t lie down.
“Just work. Surprise visit. Investors are here.”
Oh, so that’s what was going on. “Is that bad? You run a tight ship. It looks like all the guests have a great time. Are they worried? Or you’re just stressed because they’re visiting?”
“It’s just, one of them I’ve known a long time, and…” He paused, maybe gauging how much he wanted to tell me. “She lent me a good amount for my part of the purchase, and I still owe her a large sum.”
She. Hmm. Okay… “So, she’s upset that you haven’t paid it back yet?”
“No, I’ve paid a good amount back so far. It’s not that. I’m just feeling pressure to pay it off completely. We were hoping for a strong winter season, but it didn’t pan out the way we’d hoped, which is why we’re revamping with the whole essay thing, the articles, the book.”
“Did my article help at all? I tried to highlight Sorendi as the best well-hidden secret in the Caribbean,” I said, tracing the lines on his palm. I still loved his hands and had missed them. “And I thought my new name for the island was clever too.”
“Oh, it was! It is,” he said, and for the first time, he smiled.
I was glad to see a different side of him. Who knew the breezy boat captain would feel pressure to succeed, and honestly, it was nice to see him concerned. It made me care for him even more. “The article was wonderful. Simon submitted it, and now we’re hoping they’ll run it tomorrow. We paid them a hefty extra for that, so they better. So thank you, Paris. Brilliant, as usual.”
“But?” There had to be more.
He swept up my hands. Something had changed. I couldn’t say what it was, but something was different. “Paris, remember when I told you that to succeed, you have to cut some people loose? Anyone who’s toxic? You have to cull your friends? Even if it sounds bad or makes them feel bad?”
“Yeah…” Was this about Ben? I was worried that we would reach this point, that he would stop being understanding and start demanding that I stop talking to him altogether. I couldn’t say I blamed him.
“Well, for me, one of those people is my investor, a good friend. While I owe her a lot, and I’m grateful to her, I’m stuck in a dynamic that’s making things difficult.” He shook his head. “Fuck, I’m not making any sense.”
“Shh, it’s okay. I understand you’re stressed.” Taking him into my arms, I hugged big, muscular Tristan, loving the solid feel of him in my arms. “You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.”
“What makes you so amazing, Paris?” His head shook against my shoulder, as he squeezed me tight. Pulling back, he got a good long look at me. “You’re understanding. You don’t demand explanations. You let me be me, you don’t make me feel like I owe you anything when I owe you so much. Seriously, you’ve opened my eyes to a lot these last two weeks.”
I softly cupped his stubbly face. “If anybody here owes anything, it’s me. Tristan, I’m indebted to you for hiring me, for paying me, for keeping me afloat another few months. I can’t even tell you what that means to me. You saw something in me I could barely see for myself. Because of you, I feel more confident that others can hire me too. For the first time ever, I feel like writing is my true career, not just a side job. So, for whatever it’s worth, thank you.”
There. Take it or leave it.
“Paris, let’s remember what we’re worth and never forget it. Look, for six years, I’ve been living a completely different life as you. Sorendi Isle is beautiful. I love it here, but in the hotel, restaurant, and real estate business, you meet a lot of people who feel they have a right to you. When you go around borrowing millions of dollars, it can make you feel like you have no right to your own happiness, like someone else achieved it for you. When you come from middle class family like I do, it can make you feel indebted. For once, I just want to cut people free and feel like my own man.”
“I totally get it.” I did. Nobody wanted to cut others loose and fly freely like I did.
He kissed me, stroking my jawline with his fingers, and I can’t tell you how relieved I felt that Tristan was back. I would’ve been worried if he hadn’t kissed me. “That’s why I love you, because we understand each other. You know I love you, right, Paris?”
No, I didn’t know. I never imagined that a man like Tristan would ever fall in love with someone like me, but I was grateful for it. “What did I do? Sometimes, I don’t know what you see in me. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m sexy as hell, and my pasty white body is shiny and spectacular, and my freckles are mesmerizing, but otherwise…”
“See?” He snorted out a laugh. “That’s what I love about you. That, what you did right there. I know you’re being funny, girl, but don’t forget that you’re beautiful for real. Come here…” He drew me in, and I rested my head on his chest, elated and excited all at the same time. I loved when he said “come here” and pulled me in. I loved that dimple in his cheek right after I said something funny. I could say funny things all day just to see it appear.
But did I love him? I was so scared to tell him the same. Yes, I felt like I was falling in something—love, possibly—but something gnawed at me. It was easy to love someone who had it all together—looks, money, a whole island… It was easy to love someone in a setting consisting of sun, sand, surf, and exotic flora and fauna. But what if Tristan and I stayed together and he lost everything down the road? Would I still love him then? Did I love him only because of how easy he made my life?
Ben’s infamous words to me that one night long ago haunted me: Would you trade me for an easier life, Sugar Bear?
Well, would I? Here I was in the most luxurious, naturally stunning place I’d ever seen, bedding the owner of the whole establishment, a man with power, money, who loved nature, who loved me for me, who was bending over backwards to make my life easier, and I felt guilty as sin.
Would I ever stop feeling guilty?
Sigh. Yes, Ben. I would trade you for an easier life. I’m sorry. I’m not as strong as I thought I was.
Had I known he was about to receive another text to kill our mood, I would’ve hugged him tighter, but he blew out a heavy breath in reaction to his buzzing phone and sat up rubbing his face. “I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll figure all this out, okay?” Then, he kissed me softly, gave my arms a squeeze, and was gone again.
I lied on the bed disheveled and confused.
Dark in my room now, with only shreds of orange light left on a navy blue sky, another knock came at my door. What did he forget? I opened it and there stood a woman in her mid-30’s, reddish hair, wearing a floor-length tube dress, and I could see she’d been surg
ically enhanced at several points in her life. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, looking backwards, as though she were at the wrong villa. In her hand was an adult beverage sweltering in the heat.
“Sorry for? Hi, I’m Paris.” I extended my hand.
“Paris. Hi…Fiona. Fee. My husband and I just arrived. We stay here several times a year. I just…I thought Tatianne was in this villa, and I came by to say hello to her. We see each other every couple of months when she’s in town.”
“Tatianne?” I winced. I never realized I was in anybody’s villa.
“Mr. Giovanetti’s…um…you know… I saw him leave this villa, so I thought she was here.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not following.”
“Oh, never mind.” She brushed it off, trying on a different kind of smile. “It was a pleasure meeting you. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”
“Not at all,” I said. “The pleasure was all mine.” I faked a smile and closed the door.
But there was no smile to cover the tangled mess of emotions that coursed through me just then, the cloud of self-doubt coming back to slap me again. Who was Tatianne? Why would that woman assume she was here just from having seen Tristan walk out of here? I didn’t like where my brain was going. There could be a thousand explanations for it.
My phone rang, jarring me in the darkness of my room. Maybe I should rejoin the world of the living and turn on a freakin’ light. Switching on the lamp, my eyes readjusted, and I glanced at my phone. Dayton area code. “Hello?” I answered, sounding irritable even to my own ears.
“Mrs. Walker?” a woman asked.
Whoa. I hadn’t gone by that name in a year and a half. My stomach plummeted. “Yes?”
“This is Nancy Eaton calling from Kindred Hospital in Dayton. Your husband, Benjamin Walker, has been involved in an accident. He’s been admitted to the ICU.”
Chapter 16
Another great day to be out on the open seas, sailing the ocean blue, flying far, far away.
Instead, I was slipping my UM hat onto my head again, getting ready for our meeting. Granted, this time, it was at my house on my pool deck, so Tatianne wouldn’t have to “be alone,” as she pretended to feel misery over. Simon and Tasha were there, looking particularly distracted. Tatianne sat catching rays in her black and white bikini. Bottom, that was, since her top was off as usual, displaying her full, generous breasts, whether in an attempt to maximize her tan or kill me, I wasn’t sure.
Still, it was a meeting.
“So it’s already out there?” I asked Simon. Focusing on Simon. Simon’s face. Anything but Tatianne’s goddamn eye magnets jiggling by my pool.
“Yes, and it’s circulating all the social media platforms, getting lots of likes and shares. It’s pretty awesome, actually.” Simon leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. “It was a pretty kickass article, funny but informative. Shit, it made me want to visit ‘Surrender Isle,’ and I fucking live in Surrender Isle! Tell Miss Jones good job, good job.”
“Yes, do tell Miss Jones ‘good job’,” Tatianne blurted, adjusting her sunglasses. “Who is Miss Jones again?”
I’d already explained this, but I knew what Tatianne was up to. She wanted to hear me describe her again. A woman could tell a lot about the way a man described another woman. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. “Our writer in charge of promotional material. She was the winner of the essay contest.” No more, no less.
“Ah, bon,” Tatianne said. “And it has generated activity?”
Natasha crossed her legs in her sexy sundress and tapped her iPad with a long nail. “Actually, as of an hour ago, bookings were up fifty percent.”
“Fifty percent? After only a couple hours of going viral. Damn.” I had to go see Paris and give her a huge fucking hug. She’d done it—she’s branded us as the go-to island destination for people looking to give up their past lives, let go, and start anew.
Surrender Isle. I liked it. I liked it a lot.
Tatianne made an egg-frying noise, a cross between a scoff and a hiss. “Yes, sooo amazing. Maybe now that business is up, you can get rid of that smelly hat, Tristan. You’ll be up to date on payments in no time,” she said, sipping from her watered down orange juice. With vodka, no doubt.
Simon and I exchanged looks. “You won’t become irrelevant, Tatianne,” Simon said. “We’re always going to welcome you here. You’re a part of our family.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Why say all that? It would be difficult to move on in my life with Tatianne lingering around, being a part of the family.
“A homeless member of the family,” she muttered. “How long is the plumbing issue going to take to solve, Tristan? For goodness sake, I’ve been here three days and still no ocean villa. I need my view.” More sips of her morning screwdriver. Heaving sighs making her breasts rise up and fall.
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Tatianne was sore for many reasons, the least of which had nothing to do with my rejecting her the other night. She’d tried getting me back into bed like old times, but I made excuses. I felt like a chick with a headache, claiming I just wanted to go to sleep, but the thing was, I wasn’t feeling it.
Yes, she was gorgeous. Yes, I was a red-blooded straight male. Yes, yes, yes.
But I couldn’t.
No, Paris wasn’t my official girlfriend, but she was my friend, a thousand times more than Tatianne was, and that was pretty impressive for someone I’d known just shy of four weeks. We’d briefly kissed that night, Tatianne and I, and I’d held her a long time, sensing that she needed more than sex, an intangible I couldn’t give her. But that was all we did—and I didn’t feel as bad denying her as I thought I might. Tatianne was a good woman. She was. But I was not the man for her. I would always be a boy to her, and she would always be like a mother to me, and that was not a dynamic I was interested in exploring, no matter how amazing her tits were.
There was only one explanation for my rejecting the most sexually charged woman I’d ever been with, and that was because I loved Paris. I loved her. In just a month, she had managed to wedge her way into my heart and take up residence in the biggest section, just moved in, smiled, and started typing there. Right in my heart. A tiny Paris writing a story of us right in my left ventricle.
Suddenly, I felt odd in my own home. Though these were my friends, and I loved listening to their conversation by my glistening pool by an even more shimmery ocean, I wasn’t complete. I wasn’t where I wanted to be. It wasn’t until I was with Paris, lying on her bed, and stroking her pretty arms, massaging those hands that had worked so hard—for us, but also for her—would I be at peace.
“Would you all excuse me?” I got up and headed for the house.
“Where you going, dude?” Simon asked. “We need to talk about the travel book and the photographer. When can he come and what do you feel comfortable paying him?”
“He’s ready at any time, and we pay him what he’s worth. You always pay someone what they’re worth, Simon. Or they won’t want to come back.” I registered the look on Tatianne’s face, turned back to watch me go. It was the sixth sense thing again. I was sure she had it completely figured out by now. I didn’t want to sleep with her, I’d mentioned Paris a few times now, and I was keeping her locked in the tallest tower on the island, away from everyone else.
Someone else was on my mind, and it wasn’t her.
When I arrived at the bay and made my way through the thick trees, curve of beach, up to Paris’s villa, I paused. Not only because Michel’s Jeep waited on the sand but because it hit me how I never hesitated in replacing Tatianne with Paris. I’d given her the best villa in the house a lot like I’d given her my heart right from the very first day. Maybe I’d fallen for her before I’d even realized it.
Excited as I was to tell Paris about the BuzzFeed article and the attention it was already starting to receive, Michel’s Jeep there wasn’t a good sign. “Good morning, Mr. Giovanetti.” Michel sucked on another cigarette, exti
nguishing it out on a wooden dock post then shoving the butt into his pocket so I wouldn’t yell at him about litter.
“Good morning. What’s going on?” Why were Paris’s bags by the front door?
“Miss Jones is leaving.”
“What?” I couldn’t have felt more shocked if someone had punched me in the stomach. I entered the villa to find her stuffing the last of her items into her suitcase. “Where are you going?” Was it because I hadn’t been coming by to see her?
She sighed and let her arms fall by her side. “Ben was admitted to the hospital last night. He overdosed on sleeping pills and alcohol.” She avoided all eye contact with me. “They’ve stabilized him, but it’s going to be a long stay. I need to go.”
She had to be fucking kidding. Her ex-husband pulled this shit in the middle of the best gig she’d ever had, not to mention being with me, only for her to run to him? “You can’t go, Paris.”
Daggers flew from her eyeballs to my face. “Who says I can’t?”
“He’s not a child. He’s doing this for attention.” There, I’d said it. I didn’t care how mad she’d be with me, the truth was the truth was the truth. “You’re giving into what he wants, and it’s only going to make him worse. You need to live your own life, Paris. If you go, you’ll be giving in.”
“Tristan, he overdosed on sleeping pills! I can’t just leave him there alone.”
“And I feel sorry for the dude! But there must be someone else who can go to him.” Yelling. I was yelling at her for the first time, even though I’d wanted to yell at her before over this. Clearly, trying to be understanding and patient wasn’t working out.
“No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t have anyone else in Dayton. He’s not close to his family. His friends have all abandoned him. I need to be there for him. What kind of person would I be if I just left him to suffer it all alone?” She tossed a dress into the bag and smushed it in without any neatness whatsoever.
“Paris,” I spoke slowly, trying my best to calm down. I needed to be sympathetic here, or she would never forgive me. Even though I hated that guy for pulling this move. Fucking dick. “I know he needs help. But you are in the middle of a crisis yourself. You’re trying to move on with your life. You had to come three thousand miles to achieve some distance, only to let yourself get dragged back again.”