Sunlounger - the Ultimate Beach Read (Sunlounger Stories Book 1)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘You were about to remove my shorts!’ he countered.

  ‘I was not!’

  ‘You were. You wanted to see my tattoo.’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  We both knew I was lying.

  ‘You only have to ask…’ he said, and now he was smiling so broadly, his teeth gleamed white against his tan. He slid his thumb into the top of his shorts. ‘Say “please”…’

  ‘Isn’t that a rather girly place to have a tattoo?’

  ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ he admitted.

  ‘After you’d consumed an entire hotel mini bar?’

  ‘Champagne. I was at the Grammys, remember?’

  ‘You sent me a text saying you had a big surprise for me, and the next morning the tabloids were full of photos of you with Destiny Swan. Bloody stupid name…’

  I realised what I’d said. Destiny – whose name began with a ‘D’…

  ‘Whose name is it?’ The words were out before I could stop myself.

  ‘You didn’t get to see?’ Now he was definitely laughing.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame,’ he said, flipping his thumb out of his shorts. ‘Better luck next time.’ He swung his legs off the sunlounger and strode towards the pool changing rooms, leaving me beneath the lemon tree feeling distinctly sour.

  I picked up the fallen lemon, tempted to hurl it into the pool. But then I’d have to fish it out again, which would mean getting wet. If I got wet, I’d have to shower and change before heading back into the villa. If I dripped pool water up the stairs I’d be in severe trouble with Stefano’s housekeeper, and I could hardly go into the pool changing rooms. Not with Ryan already in there.

  Possibly naked.

  Why was I grinning?

  I glanced back at the villa. It was Sunday afternoon and all the upstairs shutters were closed. Stefano would be snoozing, Gina was visiting a friend and I had a pretty good idea what Luca and Portia were doing behind the shutters of his room.

  I scooped up my towel and sauntered over to the changing rooms. The door wasn’t locked; it wasn’t even closed properly. It was practically an invitation.

  I pushed the door open.

  Ryan was standing in the shower with his back to me, stark naked, shampooing his hair. Unable to move, I watched him rinse the soap from his hair, and then he reached out and switched off the shower.

  ‘Perhaps you should close the door?’ he said.

  Damn! He’d known I was there all the time!

  ‘I surrender,’ he said, turning round and holding up his hands. ‘You can look if you want.’

  He meant his tattoo, obviously, but I did try to maintain eye contact – for all of five seconds. But if you were faced with six feet worth of gorgeous blond rock star, what would you do?

  My gaze dropped.

  And he chuckled – blast him!

  Abruptly I slapped my hand over my eyes and threw him my towel. ‘Here, take this.’

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ he said.

  I gave him a few more seconds to be on the safe side, and then peered between my fingers. Even with that ridiculous pink towel half falling off his hips, he was breathtaking.

  ‘Should I be worried,’ he began, ‘that you’re looking at me in exactly the same way that you were looking at that ice cream last night?’

  ‘I am not!’

  He smirked. Then accidently-on-purpose let the towel slip an inch.

  ‘Go on,’ he sighed, in feigned martyrdom. ‘You know you want to.’

  Curiosity got the better of me. I moved closer.

  It turned out he only had the one tattoo, located low on his right hip. It had been inked in a curling black script, making it hard to read.

  ‘Well?’ Strangely, he didn’t sound so confident.

  ‘It’s very small,’ I grumbled. ‘I can hardly see it.’

  ‘Please tell me you’re still talking about the tattoo!’

  Now it was my turn to grin. ‘Why is it so small?’

  ‘Because they’re bloody painful!’

  I tilted my head sideways. There was the ‘M’, followed by ‘a’, and then ‘r’, and then another ‘r’ –

  Abruptly I stood up.

  As Ryan had been peering down, I almost cracked the top of my head on his chin. He put out his hands to steady me.

  ‘Marry me, Megan?’ I said in disbelief. Talk about an indecent proposal!

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Um, that is, I’m supposed to say “Marry me, Megan”, and you’re supposed to say “yes”.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why do you think? Because I loved you – love you,’ he quickly amended. ‘I still do. I’m making a right mess of this, aren’t I? I’d wanted to ask you to marry me for weeks, but I was stuck in America and I didn’t want to do it over Skype. So I got it into my head that I should make this grand gesture – not helped by getting completely rat-arsed at the Grammys, I admit.’

  Maybe I ought to offer him a get-out clause, in case he’d changed his mind. ‘Removing tattoos can be as painful as having them done in the first place—’

  ‘Never,’ he said, quite fiercely. ‘Even if you say ‘no’, I’d never—’

  I couldn’t help myself. I took that one remaining step to close the gap between us, flung my arms around his neck and kissed him. Immediately he was kissing me back, hot and sweet.

  ‘Come with me to Rome,’ he said, sometime later. ‘Please? I don’t want to be parted from you again. Not with your overactive writer’s imagination. You’d have me married to the Pope by Wednesday.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll marry you,’ I said, curling my fingers into his blond hair and reaching up to kiss him again. ‘And yes, I’ll come with you to Rome. But first…’

  And that was when I made an indecent proposal of my own.

  About the Author

  Louise Marley writes chick lit mixed with crime, and short stories for magazines such as Take a Break and My Weekly. Her first four books were all Amazon bestsellers and she is now working on her fifth. Louise lives in Wales, surrounded by fields of sheep, and has a beautiful view of Snowdon from her window. She loves loud music, big old spooky houses and the kind of celebrity magazines which you know you’re not really supposed to read but somehow can’t stop yourself. Her latest novel is BREATHLESS.

  Website: www.louisemarley.co.uk

  Twitter: @LouiseMarley

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/louisemarley

  Facebook page: www.facebook.com/pages/Louise-Marley/511329825575723

  Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/louise-marley

  We have everything you need to make this your Best Summer Ever!

  You can also chat with the authors on the Belinda Jones Travel Club Facebook page.

  Return to the contents list.

  ONE HUNDRED PROPOSALS

  ***

  Holly Martin

  Destination: Australia

  ‘Okay, you can open your eyes now,’ Harry said.

  I blinked in the gloom of the cave. Moonlight tumbled through the opening above us, reflecting off the waterfall as it cascaded into the pool below. We had been in Australia for just a few days but I knew it would never cease to amaze me. Dancing in the pockets of the cave walls were hundreds of glow worms, sparkling like fairy lights.

  Natural Bridge in Springbrook National Park was home to one of the largest glow worm colonies in Australia and I’d been keen to see it myself. Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

  The glow worms started to gather together and slowly a shape was formed. I frowned in confusion and then within seconds the words, ‘Suzie, Marry Me,’ stood proud against the cave walls, written by the glow worms.

  I whirled round to face Harry in shock. ‘How did you do that?’ I looked back at the glow worms, not wanting to miss anything. Would they perhaps move to form the lyrics of my favourite song? Were they super-trained glow worms and in a minute they’d all whip out their mini cheerleader
pom-poms and start some kind of dance where they would balance precariously on each other’s backs?

  ‘It’s some kind of fruit juice, they love it.’

  I fumbled in my bag for my camera. ‘We have to get a picture for the website.’

  I fired off a couple of shots and I could see a few other tourists had entered the cave and were clearly waiting for my answer. They’d be waiting for a long time.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Harry said. ‘Is this the perfect proposal?’

  ‘It’s definitely one of your best, very romantic.’ I focussed my attention on the photos I was taking. They were going to look fantastic with the waterfall in soft focus in the background and the glow worms in sharp detail set against the inky blue light of the moon.

  ‘But still not the perfect proposal?’

  ‘Not for me, but someone else would love it.’ I watched the faces of the other tourists fall at my callous response. ‘We’re not together, we just work with each other.’ One couple looked at me dubiously, so I pressed on. ‘Our company creates the perfect proposal – this kind of thing is our bread and butter.’

  I resisted the sudden urge to rush over to them and start handing out business cards. As if reading my mind, Harry slung an arm round my shoulder, restraining me with his hand.

  I looked up at him innocently but he didn’t seem convinced.

  The tourists moved further down the cave leaving us alone.

  ‘You always do that,’ Harry said.

  ‘What, promote our business? I know, I can’t help it. I’m just so proud of what we’ve achieved that I want to tell anyone that listens and anyone that doesn’t.’

  ‘No, not that. You always say our company, our business. It’s yours, you started it, I’m just the tech guy.’

  It was just me to start with. I created the.perfectproposal.com over two years ago when my boyfriend at the time proposed drunkenly to me over a greasy kebab. It struck me that maybe the men folk of this world might need a little helping hand to create a proposal their girlfriends would remember forever. Although the greasy kebab is not one I’m likely to forget.

  Harry was my web designer. When the business first started he would come by my office, the back bedroom in my house, every day to help update the website with my new ideas, photos and special offers. In the end it made sense to make him a permanent feature. Our website looked fantastic and as an online company this was integral to our success.

  But Harry wasn’t just the geeky IT guy, far from it. He was the biggest man I had ever seen in my life, with large thighs and big feet. He had stubbly, dark hair and chocolate doe eyes. But he also had a vivid imagination and while I was organising the logistics for a champagne helicopter trip, he would be the one that would come up with something completely unique like using glow worms.

  ‘And you always put yourself down. We’re equal partners now, you helped to make the company a success too,’ I said.

  He shrugged, never keen to accept that he played such an important part in it. He gestured to the glow worms that were starting to break formation now. ‘Is it too sickly?’

  I let my camera hang round my neck and leaned into him. I loved the way I fitted against him. ‘I love it, I really do, it’s…magical. But there’s still something missing.’

  Was there really such a thing as a perfect proposal? Three months ago, just before Valentine’s Day, Harry had made it his mission to provide me with one. But deep down I knew what I wanted and I doubted Harry would be able to deliver it. I should have told him that when he first started this wild goose chase. It would have saved me a lot of heartache.

  *

  I put the phone down on another excited client and sighed. It was February 10th and we’d had a surge of customers all desperately wanting to propose on top of the Eiffel Tower on Valentine’s Day. I felt like screaming. It was only by careful planning that I’d arranged for my customers not to all be there at the same time. That’s just what a girl wants to feel special, to see other girls being proposed to at the same place and time that you are. Was there no originality anymore? Harry was brilliant at coming up with unique proposals, but no matter how many times I had tried to sell Harry’s ideas to them, they wanted the traditional option and that was that.

  ‘Another Eiffel Tower?’ asked Harry as he absently uploaded photos to our rolling gallery.

  ‘He wants a dozen red roses delivered to the observation deck at eight.’ I rubbed my head in defeat.

  He swivelled in his chair. ‘What would be your perfect proposal?’

  I looked at him and had a sudden flash of him holding me in his arms and asking me to marry him.

  ‘I don’t know. The perfect guy would definitely be a bonus.’

  ‘Okay, so you have your perfect guy and it’s not greasy kebab boy–’

  ‘Let’s be clear, it was the kebab that was greasy not the man.’

  He waved away the details. ‘So Orlando Bloom or some other non-greasy hunk is asking you to marry him, how would he do it?’

  I took a sip of tea whilst I pondered this. If one of my customers phoned up at a loss for inspiration I had a hundred ideas. But for me, my mind was blank.

  ‘I have an idea.’ Harry’s eyes were suddenly bright with excitement. He whirled round on his chair and started tapping away furiously on his computer. I peered over his shoulder at our website.

  Proposer’s Blog

  How do you propose to a Proposer?

  Over the next hundred days I intend to find out. I will find one hundred ways to propose to our Chief Proposer Suzie McKenzie and post the results here for your enjoyment. One thing’s for sure, not one of my proposals will be on top of the Eiffel Tower with a dozen red roses.

  ‘You can’t put that – we’ve had fifteen customers that want to propose like that over the last week,’ I said, ignoring the sudden thundering of my heart that Harry was going to propose to me.

  ‘Then maybe they’ll have a rethink.’ Harry was already uploading a picture of a diamond ring onto the blog.

  ‘Or ask for their money back.’

  But Harry was still writing.

  Day 1. The traditional proposal. Location: Our office.

  He stood up and got down on one knee; yanking the snake ring off his thumb he held it aloft to my shocked face.

  ‘Suzie McKenzie, you are my best friend and I cannot imagine finding anyone I would rather spend the rest of my life with. Marry me.’

  The world stopped. My mouth was dry. How unfair was it that the one thing that I wanted most in the world was happening right in front of me and it was as real as a pair of breasts on Sunset Boulevard.

  I wanted to snatch the ring off him, stuff it on my finger and march him down to the nearest registry office. But I didn’t.

  I cleared my throat of the huge lump. ‘Too clichéd, wrong location, wrong ring.’

  He grinned as he appraised his ring and stood up, clearly not fussed by this rejection. He started typing.

  Crashed and Burned. Apparently a snake ring with evil red eyes and the beige walls of our cramped office isn’t good enough for her. I’ll try again tomorrow.

  Surely not. A hundred days of this torment? I didn’t think I could bear it.

  *

  I stood on the boat deck watching Brisbane disappear from view. After leaving Springbrook National Park and the Gold Coast the day before, we were now heading out to spend a few days at the beach resort of Tangalooma on Moreton Island. It was a convoluted boat trip, not taking the most direct route but the one most likely to encounter whales and dolphins.

  It was one of the funniest experiences of my life. A shout would go up as to the direction of the whales and a whole boat of people would run, en masse, to that side. You could actually feel the boat tipping under the weight of such a force. We would stare at the waves, taking photos of what we hoped could be a whale but was probably just a dark patch of seaweed. Then another shout would go up from the other side and the boat would groan at the mass exodus as w
e ran to the opposite rail. I was just waiting for the boat to pitch us all into the sea in revenge.

  We had reached a quiet lull in our journey. There had been no sightings for a good fifteen minutes now and many of the tourists had returned to the inside of the boat to escape the chill of Moreton Bay. I had stayed. The beauty of the sea was incredible. The turquoise waters, the sun glinting off its surface. In some parts you could see right down to the sea bed. I had been lucky enough to see a turtle swimming happily along, unperturbed by the large boat bearing down on it.

  It had been one hell of a ride over the last three months. Initially, I’d had reservations about how I was going to protect my heart. A hundred proposals from a man who didn’t love me was a cruel and unwanted punishment but I had become adept at shrugging them off now. And a lot of the proposals had been fun. In trying to find the ultimate proposal, Harry had taken me to the most amazing places.

  I’d been snowmobiling in Colorado, kite surfing in San Francisco, scuba diving with seals in Northumberland, hot air ballooning over the city of London and most recently he’d taken me to Skomer Island to see the Puffins.

  I’d been to places in the world I’d never even heard of. We had stood on the beautiful, uninhabited ice capped shores of Kotelny Island, which felt like we were standing at the very top of the world; we had seen Caribou and beavers in Adak and penguins on Robinson Crusoe Island.

  Harry’s daily blog now had a huge following and a magazine had picked up on the story of a hundred proposals and had even funded some of our excursions.

  The proposals hadn’t disappointed either. One of the biggest had been in New York. We had stood at the top of the Chrysler building and in the windows of a nearby skyscraper the letters of the words ‘Marry me’ had appeared, stretching across eight floors. Proposals had been written in pebbles on sandy beaches, in flowers on barren moors and in Easter eggs in his back garden.