Take Me To The Beach

by K. L. Grayson, Karina Halle, A. L. Jackson, Marni Mann, Monica Murphy, Devney Perry, Kristen Proby, Rachel Van Dyken

  “You don’t have a shirt on.” She waves a hand at me again, keeping her head averted. “You should put one on.”

  “This is what I wore to bed last night,” I tell her. Not mentioning that I shucked the pants halfway through the night because I was too hot. “And we shared that bed. Remember?”

  “Like I could forget.” She turns so she’s facing me fully. “This entire situation is weird, Alex.”

  “I know.” I rub my thumb along my jaw, contemplating what she said. Remembering everything that happened tonight. The more time I spend with her, the more I like her. The more I want to be with her. And not just in a fake way either.

  Will she think less of me because I broke off my engagement only a couple of weeks ago? Supposedly I was in love with Tiffany. I can admit to myself that I wasn’t. Does that make me some sort of asshole who doesn’t understand what true love is? Will Caroline think less of me?

  I can’t blame her if she does.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have kissed,” she says, her voice tinged with sadness. “Kissing changes everything.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” I suggest, trying my best to keep my tone light.

  She’s frowning. “What do you mean?”

  “We kiss.” I shrug. “Hold hands. Hug.” Throw out a no big deal hand gesture. “Maybe. Eventually. Have…sex. What happens in Paris, stays in Paris. What do you think?”

  Caroline is full blown gaping at me. I think I just rocked her world. And not necessarily in a good way. “I think—I need to sleep on it.”

  And with that, she flees the room, running into the bathroom and locking the door behind her.

  I run a hand through my hair, frustration making me tense. This could be a long night.

  Chapter 31

  Caroline

  I tossed and turned all night, sleeping in short bursts, feeling like I got no sleep yet dreaming about the strangest things.

  The weirdest one involved Alex and I, naked in bed in our suite, with Louis and Manon sitting on the sidelines. Watching us as we have sex, and holding up score cards when we finished.

  Yeah, I don’t need to see a shrink to know what that dream means.

  At one point I woke up to find Alex lying suspiciously close to me. Only maybe the suspicions were all one-sided, because he was asleep. I could tell from his breathing. At first I recoiled away from him, not wanting us to touch. But then ever so slowly, I gave in and scooted closer. Closer…

  Until I was smashed up right next to him. He murmured a few words of nonsense I couldn’t quite make out, slipping his arm around me and pulling me toward him. I went willingly, snuggling close, enjoying the feeling of being wrapped up in his arms, in bed. No one else around, no one judging us—literally and in my dream.

  His skin was warm. And smooth. His muscles hard. The hairs on his chest tickled my cheek but I didn’t mind.

  It was…

  Nice.

  And when I say nice, I don’t mean the awkward nice or the polite nice. I mean the actual, pleasant, wow I could get used to this type of nice.

  Yes, that nice.

  Kind of scary, am I right?

  I took a shower last night, which means I’m allowed to sleep in somewhat, but part of the reason I can’t sleep is because I’m going shopping with Manon in—let me check my phone—less than two hours.

  Shit.

  Climbing out of bed, I make my way to the bathroom and pee. Wash my hands. Brush my teeth. Smooth my hair out with my fingers—my hair is so bone straight, I wish it held curl better—notice that tiny zit forming right at the beginning of my left eyebrow. I lean in close to the mirror and pop it, grabbing a tissue so I can dab at it.

  Then I have to wash my hands again because eww.

  When I finally emerge from the bathroom, I see Alex is still in bed, but he’s awake, scrolling on his phone. Sitting up with the covers bunched around his hips, showing off that most spectacular chest he has.

  I come to a stop by the foot of the bed so I can glare at him. “It’s really unfair you know.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “What’s unfair?”

  “How good you look when you first wake up.” I should probably lighten up, considering I’ve been griping at him since last night. I about tripped over my own jaw—my mouth flew open when I saw him standing in the bedroom in just his underwear. He looked like he walked straight out of one of those sexy underwear ads. You know the ones I’m talking about. All muscly and broad but not too muscly and broad.

  “Thank you.” He seems perfectly unfazed by my nagging at him, which makes me sag a little in relief. “You look good first thing in the morning too.”

  “Oh.” I stand up a little straighter, my mood lifted by his compliment. “Thank you.”

  “Did you sleep well?” He sets his phone on the bedside table and concentrates fully on me.

  “Not really,” I admit, sinking my teeth into my lower lip. “I tossed and turn a lot.”

  “I think at one point we uh—cuddled.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to do it, I swear.”

  “I know.” I round the bed and sit on the edge of the mattress on my side, reaching out to touch my embroidered initials on the pillowcase. “I’m the one who snuggled up to you.”

  “Really?” He sounds surprised.

  Nodding, I say, “I hope you didn’t mind.”

  “I definitely didn’t mind.”

  I smooth my fingers over the sumptuous bed cover. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a jerk. I’m nervous about shopping and lunch with Manon.”

  “You haven’t been a jerk. There’s no need to apologize. And you’ll be fine with Manon. Remember what I said last night? Anytime she asks you a question that makes you uncomfortable, deflect,” he says with all that usual self-assuredness he’s got going on. I wish I was feeling like him right now. “I’m meeting with Alain and his lawyers this afternoon to go over the rest of the paperwork. We’ll be on video conference with my father and our lawyers as well.” He grins. “The deal is definitely going through.”

  “I’m so happy for you,” I say, and I mean it. He came here to close the Paris deal, and he made it happen so easily. I figured he’d have more of a struggle, but apparently not. “You and Alain seem to have clicked.”

  “We did. Going to dinner with them last night is what helped seal the deal.” Alex sits up straighter, pushing the covers off of him and rising to his feet. He’s wearing only the boxer briefs again. He must’ve shed the pajama pants sometime in the night. I can’t help but check out his perfect butt as he stretches with his back to me.

  His back is perfect too. And his shoulders. Everything about Alex Wilder’s body is masculine perfection. I bite my lower lip as I continue watching him, and I wonder if he’s putting on this show just for me…

  Seriously.

  What the hell are we doing?

  I’m waiting just inside the lobby of the hotel for Manon’s arrival. She’s late. No surprise. It’s already ten-fifteen and of course, she’s still not here. I decide to go sit on one of the plush chairs near a window and scroll through my phone, trying my best to ignore the nerves that are trying to take over me.

  But they’re there, lingering on the surface. Ready to sweep me under and remind me that I am going to spend the next few hours of my life with a woman who probably doesn’t actually like me.

  I need to remember Alex’s wise words from last night and this morning. We ordered breakfast via room service earlier, taking a break while we were getting ready for our day, but I just picked at my plate. I wasn’t that hungry. I was too worried about what I would wear, how I should style my hair, what if I’m putting on too much makeup, and should I wear the jewelry Alex bought me at Chanel?

  Alex said—yet again—that I needed to act confident. Not let Manon’s snide remarks bring me down. He also reassured me the jewelry would be too much. He told me the normal way I style my hair would be best. And when I modeled my outfit for him—li
ght rinse skinny jeans, a black and white striped T-shirt and a black blazer—he told me I looked beautiful. Stylish.

  I noticed the appreciative glow in his eyes. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s attracted to me. That’s not our problem.

  No, our problem is we’re playing around at a relationship that feels way too real. And we have no business doing that, especially Alex. I’m still so hung up on the Tiffany thing. I know I sound repetitive, even in my own brain, but I can’t help it.

  If one of my close friends—say Stella—was in a situation like mine, I’d tell her to steer clear of that guy. He has constant danger! Warning! signs flashing above his head. I’d tell her to run, and fast.

  Yet here I am, constantly thinking about him. Wanting to spend more time with him. Wondering when he’ll kiss me again. Wondering what might happen next.

  Um. Yeah. I know what I want to happen next…

  There’s electricity in the air. No, I’m not kidding, I can actually feel Manon’s presence before I see her. I rise to my feet and start heading toward the front entrance, when suddenly she’s there, surrounded by hotel employees who all seem to be fighting for her attention. Eager to take care of her every need.

  What the hell? She’s not even a guest here.

  “Caroline! Darling!” She throws her arm up in the air, waving at me like mad and I’m pleasantly surprised at her eager greeting.

  Once I’m standing directly in front of her, she pulls me in, kissing my right cheek, then my left. The hotel employees seem to step back all at once. “Bonjour,” she murmurs, setting me away from her so she can examine my outfit, her hands still grasping my shoulders. “Looking very chic this morning.”

  I stand taller at her compliment. “Merci,” I say, studying her as closely as she did me. She’s in all black again—black button-up shirt that’s sheer but not quite, black camisole beneath, black skinny jeans with red loafers and a matching red crossbody bag. Her lips are bright red too, and her blonde hair is styled into a sleek bob, reminding me of my own. “I love your shoes,” I tell her, because I seriously do. I love a good loafer.

  “Gucci,” she tells me, though I didn’t really ask for the brand. “Same with the bag. Do you like Gucci?”

  “Sure,” I say as we exit the hotel together.

  “We’ll stop in then. At Gucci. And Dior. Vuitton maybe? Though I don’t know, I’m so tired of them. I crave something different.” She stops in front of a black sportscar. “I drove myself here. Can you believe it? Louis doesn’t like me driving in the city, but I begged and begged.” She pauses, her eyes narrowing. “You won’t be nervous riding with me, no?”

  I shake my head, recognizing the emblem on the front center of the car’s hood. She’s driving a Porsche. I’m guessing this car costs more than what I make in a year. Maybe even two years. Not that I’m too dazzled. Plenty of residents back home drive this type of car. They’re pretty common, especially around downtown Carmel.

  “Then let’s go.” She opens the passenger door for me and I climb inside, the new car smell hitting me as soon as she shuts the door. The interior is black leather with silver accents, and I wonder how long she’s had it. It’s exceptionally clean, not a speck in sight. No leftover change in the console, no Starbucks straw wrapper crumpled on the floor.

  This car is immaculate.

  The driver’s door opens and Manon settles in, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she smiles at me. “Ready for an adventure?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell her as she starts the car. The next thing I know we’re shooting out of the circular driveway of the Ritz, tires squealing as she turns onto the street. I hurriedly put my seatbelt on, not about to risk it, and she throws her head back, laughing in delight when she sees me scramble.

  “Not as adventurous as I thought,” she says with a smirk once we’re stopped at a streetlight.

  “I love a good adventure,” I tell her, though I feel a little shaky.

  The moment the light turns green, Manon guns it, the tires slipping on the street and making a squealing sound. She’s smiling as she maneuvers her way through Parisian traffic, and that’s not easy. Everyone in this city seems to drive like an insane person, making their own lanes, squeezing in where they couldn’t possibly fit, yet somehow do.

  I’m clutching the interior door handle, white knuckling it really. This car has so much power and Manon has a bit of a lead foot, so she’s always giving it a lot of gas. By the time we’re on Avenue Montaigne, the street where we’re shopping, I’m so relieved we’re in one piece, I almost want to cry.

  But I keep my shit together. Manon would probably love to see me sniveling and crying after a crazed drive through the city. I won’t give her the satisfaction.

  We end up valet parking the car at the Plaza Athenee, which is directly across the street from the designer shops. “We’re going to eat here for lunch,” she tells me once we exit the car. “They have a lovely menu and the service is impeccable. Every time I come here, they make me feel like a princess.”

  “The Ritz has been wonderful so far,” I start to tell her, but she waves a dismissive hand.

  “I’m sure they have, but they’re so…commercial. Everyone wants to come to the Ritz. The Plaza Athenee is far more elegant and discreet,” she says, her upper lip curled ever so slightly.

  I don’t bother protesting. I have no idea what the hotel is like. My only hope is that I’ll actually have an appetite when it’s lunchtime.

  “Let’s go to Gucci first,” she tells me as she hooks her arm through mine and we cross the street side by side. It’s cloudy this morning, and the ground is damp, like it might’ve rained earlier. The air is cool and I’m thankful I wore my blazer, or else I’d be freezing.

  Manon keeps up constant chatter, telling me about her kids, how they didn’t want her to leave this morning, but Louis distracted them and she made her escape. It’s kind of weird to hear her talk about her children.

  I can’t imagine her as a mother.

  We enter the Gucci store and I immediately regret the fact that I’m wearing the blazer. All the lights inside make the building so hot, I can literally feel myself start to sweat along my hairline.

  “You should get a pair of loafers,” she says when we’re standing in front of the shoe display featuring every style and color of loafer they offer. “They’re less expensive here in Europe. Which one do you like?”

  The next thing I know, I’m trying on a pair of the palest pink Gucci loafers. They’re beautiful. But how often would I wear a pair of pale pink shoes? Once I check the price, I know I won’t be wearing those shoes, and when the sales associate asks if I like them, I tell her no, I won’t take them.

  “Why not?” Manon sounds downright offended. “They are amazing.”

  “They’re beautiful, yes.” I take one shoe off, stuff the paper back inside it before I set it in the box. “But I don’t need them.”

  “Oh darling.” Manon laughs, and it sounds vaguely fake. “This shopping excursion isn’t about need. It’s about what you want.”

  “Well, I don’t think I really want them.” I shove the other shoe inside the box and stand, ready to get out of here. “I’m sure I won’t wear them that often.”

  “I wear my red ones all the time. In fact.” She speaks to the sales associate in rapid French, the woman snapping to attention and running off toward the back. “I want to try them on.”

  I watch as Manon tries on the same shoes, marching up and down the entire length of the store, asking everyone she sees if they like them. They all say they do, most likely in fear of her reaction if they dared say they didn’t. She wastes fifteen minutes of our lives walking around the store in those stupid pale pink shoes, and in the end, she doesn’t even buy them.

  “You were right,” she says after we leave the store and heading to another location. “I would never wear those shoes. Too pale pink. I like more intense colors.”

  I say nothing. It was such an odd experi
ence, what just happened in that store. Almost like she wanted to prove a point and show me she could get those shoes too, if she wanted.

  We end up in Dior next, and we oooh and ahh over the varied selection of bags they have. They’re all simply gorgeous, but there’s no reason for me to get another bag—I already have my beautiful Chanel one. I leave Manon who’s still figuring out which bag she wants, and wander around the store, which is huge. They even have a housewares section, which is surprising. When I end up in the jewelry department, I carefully examine everything they have on display, impressed with the quality. Manon enters the room followed by a sales associate, and she immediately asks to look at some earrings.

  The sales associates practically bows in front of her as she opens up the hidden compartments in the wall and brings out the earrings for Manon to try on. She places each of them by her ears and turns to look at me, her brows raised.

  “What do you think?” Manon asks. “Do you like them on me?”

  They’re large and dangly and they aren’t my taste, but they do look good. “Yes, I do,” I tell her, making her smile.

  The next thing I know Manon is looking at more pairs of earrings, and necklaces too. I spot a bracelet I want to try on. It’s gold, with tiny little stars and hearts charms dangling from it. I ask the associate helping Manon if she could get the bracelet for me, but she pretends to not hear what I said.

  And I know she’s pretending. I’ve worked in customer service long enough to know a pretender when I see one.

  “Excuse me,” I say, my voice a little louder, “I’d like to try on this bracelet please.”

  “One moment,” she tells me, though she doesn’t bother looking in my direction.

  Manon doesn’t even notice. She’s too busy trying on necklaces, and I sort of understand why the employee doesn’t want to deal with me. I may be carrying a Chanel bag, but I’m not worth a lot of money, and I’m sure she can tell. Manon, on the other hand, is one of the most famous women in all of France. She is worth millions.