All I Want is You_A Second Chance Romance

by Carter Blake

  As I’m speaking, I gesture toward the area of the bar, where you look out onto the beach and the water while you drink.

  With the right amount of ambience, she’ll be putty in my hands, and this place has ambience for miles. Literally.

  “Just look at that view. Like nowhere else on Earth, wouldn’t you say?”

  She doesn’t look. Maybe it’s time to change my approach.

  Nah.

  “The view? What view?”

  “The sand, the beautiful blue water stretching out to the horizon, the tropical skies on a perfect spring day—that view. You can’t miss it.”

  She shakes her head, not even glancing in that direction.

  “I don’t see any of that. There’s a giant fucking ego blocking all of it.”

  “You see? I knew you had a great sense of humor. It’s another thing we have in common.”

  She raises one of her eyebrows into a perfect arch.

  “My bad. I wasn’t trying to be funny—I was trying to insult you.”

  I laugh.

  “You crack me up. Would you be interested in getting dinner later?”

  “Of course. Just not with you.”

  She takes a single step forward, back towards me, and crosses her arms. Her face is projecting a stern self-assurance. I bet she’s so hot in bed someone would need to call the fire brigade.

  “Hurtful.”

  “Look, it’s not you—it’s just everything about you. And, also you.”

  She crosses her arms and smirks, slightly.

  And my imagination runs away with me again. Already I can picture our two naked bodies entwined, arms, legs and bodies, tangled in wild passionate embraces and different positions.

  Smoldering. I feel the flames flicker in me and grow into a raging inferno.

  Fuck.

  “What about lunch?”

  Surely, this woman’s got to eat.

  “Are you hard of hearing, or hard of understanding?”

  Man, the way she’s tilting her head to the side and giving me her most sexy look is fucking driving me insane.

  “So, no lunch?”

  “Dinner was bad enough—don’t you dare drag lunch into this.”

  “You don’t think I’m worthy of even mentioning lunch?” I put on the pout.

  The one the ladies fucking fall for every fucking time.

  She continues to stare at me with a growingly glacial expression.

  “Were you born like this, or did you get raised with too much praise?”

  “So, is this an either-or question, or can it be both? Cause I was definitely born like this, like the beautiful creature you see sitting before you now.”

  “You’ve always looked exactly like you do now?”

  “I’m talking about my soul, babe. My beautiful, shining soul, that my outrageous good looks sprang forth from, all creating the perfect package.”

  She steps backwards, back in the direction of the hotel.

  “Sounds like you’ve got a lot to unpack. Maybe I should leave you to it.”

  I shrug.

  “It’s simpler than it sounds, what I have to offer. It can be the simplest, purest, most beautiful thing in the world, if you want. Nothing to unpack, everything to enjoy.”

  “Sounds great. Hope that all works out for ya. Bye, now.”

  After those last few words soaked in sarcasm, she turns on her heels and strides to the hotel.

  Mesmerized, I watch her walk away. I’m mesmerized by the way she looks in those jeans, and I’m mesmerized by everything else about her.

  Yet, she’s still walking away.

  Once she’s out of view, I sigh, and turn back to the bar. I may as well have another drink and start thinking about plan B.

  I must fucking admit that I’m not used to this back to the drawing board stuff, not in this arena, at least.

  On some of the more challenging productions I’ve worked on, that’s a different story.

  But that’s Tinseltown, and I’ve got a fucking reputation that extends beyond any of that bullshit.

  And at the end of the day, I’m fucking Aaron Michaelson, sex god extraordinaire.

  Sex god extraordinaire who’s going to have to think of a new plan.

  Maybe.

  But, holy shit, what a fucking vacation so far.

  Macy

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, as this almost comically cocky dude keeps trying to flirt with me from his barstool.

  I don’t bother checking it. I can tell it’s the front desk sending a text reminding me that my room—no, suite—is ready, and I’m just about ready to stop with these delays that are keeping me outside.

  I’m well aware that I can’t spend an entire tropical vacation indoors, but I do crave some quiet time after that long trip.

  And long trip or no, this guy is too much for me to handle right now—or probably anytime.

  The whole situation is just further evidence of how fucking deceptive looks can be. Even a guy like this—who I could safely say would be a ten in almost anyone’s book—was insufferable to begin with, and he keeps getting worse.

  “Sounds great. Hope that all works out for ya.” Hey, I’m classically polite until the end. “Bye, now.”

  Grabbing my carry-on, and, with some regret, leaving my cocktail on an empty table on the way, I walk purposely back into the lobby to get my key. There’s no one at the front desk except the clerk.

  She takes one look at me and smiles as I approach.

  “Ms. Evans, Miguel here will show you to your room.” She gestures to a small man walking up behind me. “He can take your bag and get you settled in.”

  This place is fucking huge. Even though I’m perfectly fine carrying my own shit wherever I go, my brief encounter with Mr. Personality has drained the last of my energy.

  I turn what I’m sure is a weary smile on Miguel. He reaches for my carry-on.

  “Thank you so much,” I say.

  “Just call us if you need anything, and enjoy your stay.”

  Quick, efficient, and polite without being overbearing—if the rest of the staff is as good as this receptionist, I think I’ll enjoy my stay here.

  “Thank you so much.”

  I slide my plastic key card into a folding envelope. It has my room number printed in bold turquoise numerals, with the words Honeymoon Suite printed in even larger red letters under that.

  Miguel walks at a leisurely pace. “Where are you from?”

  “New York City.”

  That’s one thing about New York. People always know where it is, none of that time-wasting, state-saying necessary.

  “Ah, very big place.” Pushing the elevator button, he turns toward me. “Much better weather here, yes?”

  “Definitely.” Walking into the elevator, he demonstrates where to insert my key card for my floor.

  We stand in silence until the elevator dings and the doors open.

  “Honeymoon suite. Very nice.” I tag along, noting the wide halls, tile floors, and muggy air.

  Taking a deep breath, I enjoy the briny, ocean air the open corridors contain.

  He stops in front of a door decorated with a ribbon that states “Congratulations.”

  He inserts the key into the door, and it flashes green briefly as he pushes it inward.

  Alright! Now this is what I’m talking about.

  I can see the ocean outside even from the door. The glass on the entire back wall showcases the view perfectly.

  As my post-flight fatigue kicks up another notch, I hold in a yawn and try to listen to Miguel give me the rundown.

  Nodding politely while zoning out with exhaustion, I think I have absorbed all the important details: fancy built-in closets on the right with complimentary robe and slippers, a refreshment bar farther into the room, which he shows me is fully stocked with all sorts of sugary and alcoholic crap which I’ve got no time for because it’s nap time.

  I’m sorry Miguel you’re the best and I’m trying to listen but I�
��m falling asl. . .

  Hey, now he’s showing me a good-sized, serious-looking desk. It’s much bigger and nicer than I’ve seen in any other hotel. That’ll be perfect for working on ideas for my thesis. Score!

  Just past the desk is a glassed-in soaker tub with a control panel out of fucking Star Trek or something.

  Okay, I’m impressed enough to wake up a little.

  It gets even better when we walk upstairs—yeah, that’s right, fucking upstairs—to the full-sized balcony. There’s a plunge pool, a seating area, and the view of the endless blue sea is overwhelming.

  It’s enough to put that view from the plane to shame. I could see it inspiring boundless ideas. Maybe I can work here and feel like I’m actually on this tropical island for a reason.

  This may end up being much better than I thought it would be.

  Cara never really got into any specifics of what she had set up for her honeymoon.

  Come to think of it, did she even set this up? Oh well, whatever.

  I follow Miguel back down the stairs and into the bedroom.

  On the table and chairs closest to the bedroom door is a small ceramic tray with four chocolate-covered strawberries, each with a slightly different swizzle of white chocolate that makes the whole thing look like an exquisite piece of modern art—an exquisite piece of modern art I plan to devour the fuck out, once I get some sleep.

  “Let the front desk know if there’s anything you need.” He hesitates out of uncertainty as I fish out my tip.

  “Thank you again, Miguel. It was great meeting you, and I’ll let them know if there’s anything I need.”

  I escort him to the door. I breathe a sigh of relief as it clicks shut.

  I know that sleepy time is coming soon, but first thing’s first.

  Cara has to see this, and I don’t want to forget to thank her again.

  Fucking profusely.

  Starting at the door, I use my smartphone to record a video clip working clockwise around the bedroom, capturing the giant, tastefully decorated and sexily modern-looking space in high-def glory.

  Cara needs to see more than just that one room. Starting another video, I stroll through the living room and into the bathroom—which I haven’t seen yet.

  There’s an awesome—as in genuinely awe-inspiring—walk-in shower that could probably hold at least a dozen people and spray all of them at once with the ceiling-mounted showerheads. I swing around to see the floating double vanities are set up with auto sensor taps.

  After stopping the recording, I send a text Cara.

  Girl, you’re not going to believe this place.

  I send the first video clip next. In one of the biggest surprises in my life, the Wi-Fi’s lightning-fast, and the video is sent to Cara in a flash.

  This is like no other resort I’ve been in, that’s for damn sure.

  As I record the desk, table and chairs, my fatigue makes a reappearance to jostle with my excitement, and I realize that my shot, as beautifully framed as it is, is lingering on the furniture a bit too long.

  Okay, cut.

  After stopping the video and sending it to Cara, I force myself to keep moving, over to my luggage, so I can unpack, before finally showering and resting.

  The cool air circulating as I walk into the bedroom brings a few, tiny drops of energy.

  With determination, I move every damn item of clothing and pair of shoes into its proper spot like I’ve lived here all my life.

  At long last, I move my bathroom stuff into its place, the walk-in shower beckoning my tired soul.

  My phone, resting on a marble counter, buzzes with a text from Cara.

  Looks awesome!

  Alright, I need to get my profuse thanking out of the way first.

  Yes, I can’t thank you enough. Seriously, I don’t even know what to say. This is incredible. You saw it, right? Holy fuck! Thank you so much!

  Her response comes unnaturally fast.

  Well, thank God someone gets to enjoy it. I know it sounds weird, but I’m super relieved it’s not me there.

  I think my friend, the best friend anyone could ever fucking hope to have, is on the right track with that one.

  Ha ha! Then you would’ve had to put up with him “whose name must not be spoken.” No vacation would be worth putting up with a dick like that!

  You’re preaching to the choir, sister! Have an awesome time!

  I wasn’t a fan of Cara’s fiancé, to put it mildly. The woman—or maybe one of the women—he was cheating with angrily confronted her at her office, like a week before their wedding date.

  Yes, she was angry at Cara, the fiancée of the guy she was banging. She should’ve been angry at the guy, of course, because he’s an asshole.

  A typical fucking asshole.

  Oh well. Worked out well for me!

  I’m glad Cara’s spirits are up, and I may be tearing up a little at the thought of her heartbroken because of all that shit, then turning back into her real, happy self again.

  Life is too fucking short to keep dealing with the same shit over and over.

  Fatigue continues to settle in, and I postpone my shower for a nap on the sofa. I just barely made it there without passing out.

  I wake up feeling not that bad, and there’s still light outside.

  After looking at my phone, I see it’s only been like twenty minutes. But I feel amazingly refreshed as I walk toward the bathroom.

  At this point, I don’t want to let naive optimism take over and have Pollyannaish thoughts like Maybe it won’t be too bad.

  Because that’s the future, and you can never fucking know.

  But here in the present, getting out of my worn travel clothes and activating the private cleansing rainstorm of a shower, this suite is working out A-Okay.

  Aaron

  The tropics are especially fucking hot this year.

  Watching the lady from the bar walk away, full of fire with a bit of anger, I think that this week may turn out to be much more fun than I expected.

  She’s plenty sexy to begin with, she obviously takes good care of herself, and even her taste in jeans seems fucking solid—I mean, she looks really good walking away—but she’s got fiery fucking self-confidence to spare, and she knows how to keep up with me the way even Academy fucking Award-winning screenwriters cannot.

  And that, my friends, is sexier than even the shapeliest ass in the most form-fitting pair of designer jeans.

  Yes, based on our conversation, I can tell she’ll be the perfect vacation fling.

  Vacation flings have their own sort of baked-in perfection—once they’re over, they’re over, with all parties involved free from the risk of lingering, festering bullshit that comes with the territory from more serious relationships.

  As much as I appreciate the beauty of a vacation fling, I wasn’t sure if I’d find a single woman on this little jaunt to the Caribbean.

  Especially a woman so immensely fucking alluring and just purely fucking hot as this woman from the bar.

  Her appeal started to light me on fucking fire the moment I saw her, and her sassy, sexy wit and no-bullshit approach—even to a deadly sexy stud such as myself—have added countless alarms to that blaze, which are still ringing loudly as she disappears into the hotel.

  My phone vibrating in my left pocket brings my attention to that part of my body.

  And it makes me realize that my cock might be starting to act up already.

  Yeah, I’ll admit it. I’m just that impressed—but I’ll try to keep things under control for the time being.

  I rearrange myself discreetly while pulling out my phone.

  Looks like my room is ready, too. Nice of them to text me, I guess. I hope it’s still ready whenever the hell I end up going inside.

  I still have half a drink left, which makes me optimistic about this trip. A nice, healthy gulp leaves me feeling even better.

  This bartender makes a mean mojito, but where did he go? I might need another one of these soon.


  Oh well, I can’t stand up and look—I need a little “down time” before that. I look around, admiring the architecture, while willing my cock into submission.

  The bartender, John, lifts my glass and slides a coaster under it. “Would you like another, sir?”

  I’m about to instruct him to just keep ’em coming, but, all of a sudden, I felt weirdly antsy. I would rather get up and walk around now.

  “No, I’ll just finish this. I just got the text—my room is ready.” The fresh minty taste of my mojito seems to awaken all my senses. Leaning back in the comfortable barstool, I watch John work his way around the circular bar.

  This resort is incredible, and I can’t wait to check the beach out. It’s like they designed everything on a grand-enough scale that it would be impressive to every last motherfucker who walked through here, and then they made it larger—from the huge entry doors to the long, vast reception area.

  Even this bar must be twenty-five feet around, shaped into a huge oval. Liquor bottles are showcased on glass shelves behind it.

  There are random clusters of chairs grouped together on every side. It’s quieting down now, transitioning from the rush of sun-blanched tourists inhabiting the area just a few minutes ago.

  The wall behind the bar is all glass, utilizing the natural light and framing the ocean view.

  I savor the last couple of sips of my drink, before returning the cool, ice-filled glass to its coaster. Sliding a tip under the coaster, I wave to John.

  “See you a little later?”

  “For sure. I’ll be here until this bar closes at midnight.” He tosses his hand towel over his left shoulder; I can’t help chuckling at how he reminds me of all bartenders around the world.

  “Until then.” Throwing my duffel bag over my shoulder, I head to the reception desk.

  An older couple checking in are peppering the woman behind the front desk with questions.

  It takes five or maybe closer to ten minutes for her to patiently get through each question. I take the opportunity to admire the expansive layout and decor in this part of the resort. After they’re ushered away, with staff carrying their bags to their room, I step up to the front desk.

  “I’m here to check in—Aaron Michaelson.”

  At least half my career up until now has been spent being lectured by actors, directors, and studio heads about putting hotel and restaurant reservations under my own name. Apparently, I’m crazy for doing that and for not having assistants and other staff around to do everything for me wherever I go.