by Julie Olivia
Cameron balks at my statement as I collect the cards and room keys, pocketing Nia’s to give her later. “Who are you to talk? If I had to listen to you and Nia argue for one more minute…”
The sliding glass doors to the pool area open, and Ramona is waltzing back in, now with a giant straw sunhat and less a tote bag.
“Forgot sunscreen!” she laments, throwing her hands in the air and power walking to the elevators, arms pumping beside her.
“I’ll join you,” I say quickly, waving a hand back to Cameron. “Oh no, gotta go. Talk later!” I throw him a salute, having successfully avoided the conversation about Nia, and he throws me the finger.
Ramona is impatiently pressing the elevator button until it opens, and we both climb in. I would try to make conversation with her, but my sister’s tapping foot is keeping any words I could say at bay. I place my own foot on top of hers to stop it.
“Ew, gross feet,” she says, lifting her leg to shoo mine away.
“Ew, gross legs.”
The elevator dings and we both file out. I find my door and unlock it to drop off bags while Ramona rushes into her own room. The decor has that classic beach hotel look: cream-colored wallpaper with pastel watercolor seashells painted on them, the smell of sand and the cool tile practically seeping into my shoes, and the kitschy way every cabinet, baseboard, and chair is some creamy off-white color. In the center of the room is a seahorse bedspread on a king-sized wicker bedframe. Yeah, very kitschy.
I unzip my luggage and pull out a pair of navy blue swim trunks. When I put them on, they’re a bit shorter than they have any right to be, but with my height, it’s difficult to find shorts that are long enough to hit my knee. I look down to my thigh and see my scar is showing just below the hem. I tug the shorts down a bit to try to conceal it.
No dice.
When I walk out of my room, I see Ramona’s door still wide open as she audibly groans in frustration.
“Where is the damn sunscreen?” she wails.
“Maybe it’s scared of your constant yelling,” I call to her.
“Shut up, Ian!”
Ah, sisterly love.
I find Nia’s room a couple doors down and unlock it to unload her luggage. When I see her wicker bedframe with the starfish sheets, I gulp. God, I’d kill to see Nia on there—splayed out, tied to the posts…
Bad thoughts, Ian.
I leave the room, adjusting my shorts at the thought, and I’m immediately met with a face roughly running into my chest. A swirl of blonde hair greets me.
“Speak of the devil,” I get out. My hard erection bumps into her hip and I try to step back quickly, but there’s no way she didn’t feel me. Shit.
“You’re in my way,” she says, flustered, her cheeks reddening almost instantly. Yep. She definitely felt me. Double shit.
“You’re welcome for dropping your luggage off,” I say.
She breathes in as if debating whether or not to be cordial and then responds with a very small “Thanks” that is mumbled under her breath.
Baby steps.
The door slams behind me at the same time Ramona runs out of her room with sunscreen raised in the air and yells, “Aha!”
Successes for all of the Chambers family today.
6
Nia
I’ve been around Ian for ten hours and it still feels too surreal to be true.
He’s gotten hotter. Is that a thing? Do men get hotter with age? Even after eight months? Maybe it’s the hints of gray littered around his temples. Maybe it’s his ever-growing smile—the one that gets cockier with time.
Ian is a train barreling toward me, and I’m too blinded to get off the tracks. Didn’t I learn my lesson years ago? When the barriers come down, you get out of the way—you don’t admire the beautiful locomotive about to slam into your face.
But he’s everything I remember: witty, sarcastic, and so gorgeous I wonder if other men feel cheated in comparison.
I spend most of the late afternoon lying on the beach and soaking in the little bit of sun left in the sky. I still apply heavy sunscreen because my fair complexion is on very precarious speaking terms with the sun. I think they may have an agreement. You come out in my territory, you get burned! Capeesh?
While I also have Grace to accompany me in the shade, Ramona is lying starfish-style outside of the umbrella’s covering. Both girls are very scantily clad in tiny bathing suits while I, on the other hand, threw on my standard two-piece with no additional slits or cutouts. I feel almost plain in comparison, but I dare the sun to take a jab at me now.
“You guys are missing out,” Ramona says.
“By ‘missing out,’ do you mean ‘avoiding skin cancer’?” Grace asks, tapping around on her tablet with its pen. “Us pale girls don’t stand a chance.”
“No, by ‘missing out,’ I mean ‘doing work instead of relaxing,’” Ray replies, turning over onto her stomach.
Grace and I both look down at our laps. She has her tablet and a few pieces of paper, and I’m reading a book titled Difficult Conversations to Have with Employees.
Whoops.
“Hey, I like my job too, but this is vacation, you guys,” Ramona says. “I mean, seriously, Grace—it’s your wedding. Shouldn’t you be at some cabana getting fed grapes by a pool boy before you’re locked in with Cam?”
“A fantasy pool boy doesn’t sound too bad about now, actually,” I mutter, eliciting a raised eyebrow and a slow-spreading toothy grin from Ramona.
“What was that, again?”
“Ray, I think you’re projecting your fantasies onto mine,” Grace interjects. “I’d prefer a coconut with a little straw in the top.” She takes two fingers and mimics grasping the straw, to which Ramona laughs.
“Oh, a little straw? Poor Cameron.”
“Ha ha,” Grace says. Then she nods to me. “What about you, Nia?”
“Me?” What would be my fantasy? Some kind of sexy man with glasses, rippling abs, and a book. Yes, he would definitely be holding a book, and he would hand me a glass of ice-cold water because a girl has to be refreshed and he’s a sexy, responsible man. “I don’t know.” I laugh. Sexy men with water. “Probably pineapple or something.”
Grace scrunches up her nose. “Isn’t that supposed to help with the taste of…you know.” Her hands hover over her bikini bottoms.
Ramona laughs. “You ever tested the theory out?”
“One time I dated a guy who tried it out,” I say, absentmindedly shuffling my book in my lap. “There was some bit of a difference in taste.” I look up and am met with two ear-to-ear grins from both women.
“Oh really?” Grace says, scooting to the edge of her folding chair in interest with her arms cradling the tablet and papers. “You’ve never talked about exes before.”
That’s because I only have two exes. I tried online dating for a short stint, but after one particularly bad experience with a man who insisted on butt stuff after the first date, I said no thank you to the whole shebang. Or maybe he broke up with me? I honestly can’t remember. I recall always choosing whichever restaurant I wanted as opposed to his preference, and I picked the movies we saw, and the positions during sex. Yeah, now that I think about it, he might have broken up with me.
I can’t help the fact that I have a problem with losing control. I like knowing what I’m getting into. So sue me.
“They’re in the past.” I shrug. “It’s not a huge deal.”
“Sure, Nia,” Grace says, nodding and sliding back into her chair. “Sure.”
“Oh-kay, I can feel my skin melting.” Ramona lifts herself off the ground and sprints out to the water, stumbling through the sand and splashing in the ocean with her hands held high.
Even from the little amount of time I’ve spent with Ian’s sister, I can already conclude she is just as wild, open, and bold. In fact, I’m noticing a lot of similarities between the siblings—except for the one difference being that Ramona is actually really cool, and Ian is a douche.
I glance over at the guys. Ian, Cameron, and Wes are all by the beachside net punching a volleyball over to each other. I have a secret theory that they’re only playing so they can flex their muscles in front of the world without judgment. It’s clear all three of them hit the gym regularly, Ian especially. Damn it.
I admire—no, I loathe the way his shoulders connect to his upper arms and the way his forearms bulge out as he serves the ball over the net. His swim trunks sit on his hips a bit too well for my comfort, and his Adonis V dips low into his shorts, resting right below his abs that twist, turn, and ripple with every step he takes. Then I notice a scar peeking out from just under the hem of shorts. It’s a couple inches long with the skin puckering in the center, but I can’t get a better look before it disappears back under the fabric after he’s done stretching his arms above his well-proportioned head. Do people have well-proportioned heads?
Oh shit.
Ian’s very well-proportioned head turns toward me, and I bury my face back into my book, causing my sunglasses to slide down to the end of my nose. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ian’s cocky, lopsided smirk spread across his face. He caught me checking him out and, oh god, I can feel my face getting warm. Can I play it off as a sunburn like earlier? Do me a favor for once, you giant, blazing star!
I chance a look up after a couple seconds and shit! he’s still staring back at me over his sunglasses. My heart drops into my abdomen. My exes never looked at me that way.
I return to reading the same paragraph over and over and there’s no way in hell I’m actually processing the words. I can still feel his eyes drilling into me, but I refuse to acknowledge him. Then I hear a loud thunk! and jerk my head up to see a ball land on the sand near Ian’s feet as he grips his ear. Cameron and Wes double over laughing.
Ian looks back up at me to check if I saw him get mercilessly whacked upside the head. I slowly swivel my eyes over to him with a smirk and a single thumbs-up.
You bet I saw that.
That night, we all decide to put on nicer clothes and meet in the hotel bar. I stall in my room, looking at myself in the mirror. I told Grace I just needed some time to check up on emails, which I did, but I’m also much too busy running my hands along my dress hem and evaluating whether I can pull off this type of cut. It’s not exactly scandalous, but I figure—what the hell! I’m on vacation! I can be a bit sexy if I want to. I can be different!
It’s definitely a deeper, sexier red than I would have picked out normally, and the material is thinner than my usual well-made cotton tops, but the lack of material in both the structure of the dress and the length of its skirt lends to a breezier feeling, which maybe I need.
I think about the fantasy pool boy again.
Yeah, I look like I could seduce a pool boy…or distract a man from a volleyball game.
I would kill to see that ball hit Ian’s face a thousand times.
Those abs, though. That grin… He’s never had much of a problem getting women, no matter how young or inappropriate the relationship is.
No, don’t think about that night. You’re better than that.
I hear my phone buzz on the bed and see that it’s my brother, Harry.
“Are you checking in on me?” I immediately ask.
He laughs. “I have to make sure you haven’t killed anyone yet.”
“Now who would I kill?”
“Something something Ian something?”
“I don’t need your sass. How’s Jiggy?”
“Your cat is fine.”
“And her food bowl is full?” There’s a moment of silence, and it lasts longer than a comfortable pause. It feels weird—not at all like I’m just waiting for him to speak and confirm the cat food situation. “What?” I ask. “You’re quiet. You didn’t call to talk about my cat, did you?” Oh god, is she okay?
“Grant called.” I breathe a sigh of relief but immediately tense back up.
Wait, what?
“Well there’s a name I haven’t heard in a few years. You’re talking about Dad, right?” I say. “Surely you are.”
“Unfortunately not.” Harry exhales. “A mister Grant Smith, Junior.”
One step forward and then three steps back to the bed where I sit on the edge, staring at the door I wish I would have walked through already.
I may have identified Ian as my worst enemy, but my eldest brother Grant might take the cake. He’s the oldest out of the six of us children, and he is undoubtedly the worst. You know that one sibling who abandons the family for better things, thus breaking up the band? Yeah, he’s that sibling.
“What does he want?” I ask. No, I think I might hiss it. Honestly, I’m too distracted to know.
“Not sure.” Harry sighs. “He says he’s moving back.”
“Moving back?!” I yell.
Harry continues as if I didn’t interrupt. “He wants to stay with Mom and Dad, and by association, me and Cara.”
I stand to pace, trying to wrap my head around what I’m hearing. My brother’s daughter, Cara, is a pure, wonderful child with a great heart. Taking on the role of both father and mother figures, Harry has tried to instill in her a solid work ethic and moral compass. The last thing she needs is a hotshot new uncle barging in with his arrogance and frivolity.
“He’s never even met his niece,” I scoff. “She’s going to be freaked out by this weird man.”
“Think we haven’t considered that?”
“Sure, but has he said why he needs to stay?”
Harry doesn’t speak for a moment, but I can hear his inaudible mumbles as he tries to find the words to say next. “I think he needs money.”
“Bullshit,” I snap before I can think.
Harry laughs, and I start to laugh myself. It’s a ridiculous thing to imagine. Grant, a man with no money. He’s made of money. He probably sleeps with a quilt made of hundred-dollar bills and pillows filled with quarters.
“I’ll let you know when I hear more,” Harry says, “but I figured you needed to know he called.”
I nod before realizing he can’t see me. “Right. Thanks.”
“Anyway, I also stopped by and took another look at your car.” He sighs. “There’s nothing I can do for it. You’re going to need another one.”
“Not happening.”
“You make enough money, more than the rest of us—apparently even Grant nowadays.”
I laugh, and he can’t help but let out a chuckle as well. “No, no new car, Harry.”
“You’re too stingy.”
“No, I’m avoiding ending up like Grant. Whatever he did to screw up.”
“Too soon, Nia. Too soon.”
I look at my watch. I’m running much later than I should be.
“Hey, I gotta let you go. We’ll talk later.”
“Have fun. You need it,” Harry says. “And don’t kill the lawyer.”
I try to respond but he hangs up too quick. Jerk.
I inhale and look at myself in the mirror once more.
Yes, my dress is entirely too short.
After I spend the entire elevator ride tugging down on the garment in a struggle to get comfortable with the amount of thigh I have on display, I’m greeted by Ramona and Grace’s small chorus of wolf whistles. They wear dresses similar to mine—short and fitted—but while it’s clear they feel right at home in theirs, I feel like I should be having money thrown at me.
We meet up with the boys at the bar. An old couple at the opposite end, who both happen to be wearing fisherman hats and short-sleeved tropical floral button-ups, looks at our party. I’m honestly not sure if they’re the same person. I wonder for a moment if maybe the old couple will take me in and we could be wonderful wallflowers together, but the fantasy is lost—poof!—when I stop at Ian’s ice-cold eyes staring back at me.
It’s hard to break away when he’s giving me that type of look with those type of eyes. He’s letting them wander across my stomach, legs, ankles, and back up to my chest. I feel st
ripped naked and suddenly very hot and uncomfortable.
“You look nice,” he says.
“Thanks,” I snap and cross my arms.
He laughs. “It must be exhausting hating me. Let’s pretend for a second that you don’t.”
“I have a limited imagination,” I sneer.
“Well mine is stellar.”
Abort mission. Abort mission!
This isn’t the first time he’s told me I look nice—in fact, I wrote him up for it a couple years ago—but the way he looks at me in this moment is definitely out of the norm. I’m accustomed to goofy, pushy Ian with a boyish grin and an ultimately harmless way about him. What I’m not used to is seeing the way his eyes scour my body as if he’s ready to do anything and everything to me.
But I know his games.
I bark out a laugh. “Women must eat that up.”
“What?” he asks as his head shoots back up to look at my face. Yeah, eyes up here, buddy.
“You. This whole act.” I wave my hand up and down to gesture at him. “The compliments and the staring. I thought you were just going for shock value in the office because you thought it bothered me, but god, you really are like this.”
Ian’s eyebrows shoot up and he chuckles, leaning back with his hands in his pockets like he always does when he thinks he’s got the other person all figured out. It must be a lawyer thing because he also strikes the same pose when he’s resolved an issue he’s been working at for days. I can’t count how many times I saw him pacing his office only to stop and grin to himself once he cracked something.
Yes, he’s even cocky when he thinks nobody else is looking. It’s infuriating.
“Well you’re just pulling out all the stops tonight, aren’t you, Polly?”
“I’ve told you not to call me that,” I respond through gritted teeth.
“You’re sexy when you’re angry,” he teases. “Keep going. Please.” The tone in his voice gets deeper, as if he’s daring me. I’ve never heard him call me sexy before. Maybe it’s the dress. Maybe it’s how far away from an office environment we are.
“Getting embarrassed?” he asks.
