All I Do: Paradise Beach #3

by Lush, Tamara

  Then she surfaces, and my heart practically fucking stops. Holy shit.

  She’s gorgeous. Like Playboy centerfold-gorgeous, with blue eyes the color of the Florida sky. Tanned skin. Ruby-red lips that are pouty and perfect for kissing. This chick can’t be real. She ducks back into the water.

  I glance over at my brother and Isabella to see if they’ve noticed her, or if I’m having some sort of mental breakdown and conjuring a crazy porn fantasy I’ve had for years.

  Yeah, they’re staring at her, too. So is their dog, Chunky. We’re all gaping at the serpentine form in the water.

  Then she pops above the surface and looks right at me. Sweet Jesus. Yeah, she’s totally my type.

  Of course, within a second of her bobbing up near the boat, I’m also checking out her rack. She’s wearing a blue bikini top that looks like it’s covered in glitter, I think. I’m not sure because I can’t stop staring at her tits. I should be ashamed to admit that I’m openly checking her out, but I’m not. I’m a guy, what can I say?

  I’m a breast man.

  Her tits are big, and I lean forward to get a better look. Who is this woman? I’ve lived on Paradise Beach my entire life; it’s not that big of an island. I would have remembered if I’d met a woman this pretty in a bar or at a party. There are a lot of tourists, though.

  Had I met her on land, I’d have definitely tried to sleep with her. And I’m certain I haven’t had the pleasure of getting to know this woman in a biblical fashion.

  Not yet. All it’ll take is some of my charm. I’m not known as the Playboy of Paradise Beach for nothing. My lips curve upward into a grin.

  “Where did you come from? I’ve been fishing these waters for years and never caught a mermaid.”

  She blinks and smiles. Oh, baby. This is going to be good.

  I lean further over the boat’s side, enjoying the eyeful I’m getting of her body. Underwater, her blue mermaid outfit shimmers. What possessed a grown woman to don a tail and swim alone in the Gulf on a Sunday afternoon?

  I’m about to ask her this — and tell her that there could be sharks in these waters, hint, hint, so she’d better get that beautiful tail of hers up here on my boat — when she opens her mouth.

  “Who says you’ve caught me?” she asks, her voice throaty and seductive.

  The game is on, you sexy, little siren.

  “I’d love to catch you,” I say.

  She crooks her finger, and I notice that her nails are painted scarlet. Everything about her screams sex. “Come and try,” she says, still smiling. Her eyes flit downward.

  She’s checking me out, just like I’m doing with her. Now, I’m not as jacked as my twin brother Damien. He’s a beast, and spends God knows how many hours in the gym every day. He’s also a Marine. But I’m no slouch. I’m a champion sport fisherman, and I spend a lot of time on the water wrestling with fish, which means I’m tanned and pretty ripped.

  According to what women have told me in the past, me and my hard abs are “a snack.” That’s a direct quote.

  Clearly, Sexy Siren agrees, because she can’t take her eyes off my stomach. I’m sure she’d enjoy what’s directly below that, too. I’m pretty well endowed in that department. But it’s not like I can just take off my swim shorts and show her my dick, which is feeling the most pleasurable tingles. I’m not an animal, for God’s sakes.

  Anyway, Tate, Isabella, and their ridiculous, farting dog are with me, so it’s not like I’m going to score with Miss Mermaid right here and now. I’ve got to get her name and her number, though, then nail down a time when we can be alone. As in, tonight, if at all possible.

  She’s still grinning. Her eyes shimmer, and that’s when I notice her skin also has a sheen to it. Like she’s wearing body lotion that doesn’t come off in the water or something.

  “I love a challenge,” I retort, loving the flirtation.

  She floats a foot closer to the boat.

  I lift myself up on the rail, hoping my arm muscles are pronounced. Really, though, I’m trying to get a better grip on the boat’s rail so I can get check out her bronze, shiny skin. And that’s when my hands slip.

  I tumble over the side and splash into the six-foot deep water, right in front of her. For a split second, I’m worried that I’m going to fall on top of her and knock her out cold. But she’s obviously nimble in the water, and I sense her body moving aside.

  I allow my body to submerge in the warm Gulf, so I can have a beat of recovery from my stupidity.

  Normally, I’m pretty suave around women — there’s that Playboy of Paradise Beach thing again — but falling overboard wasn’t graceful at all. Especially for me, a seasoned boater.

  But if I’ve learned anything about women over the years, it’s that making them laugh goes a long way, more than any muscular chest or rock-hard abdominal muscles.

  So, I’ll play this off as a joke. Like I’d intended to be a buffoon.

  I surface, laughing, slicking back my hair and wiping the water from my face. I stand, rising to my full height. She’s bobbing in the water and looks up with those sky-blue eyes. Her lips part, and her pink tongue slips out of her mouth to wet her pouty, top lip.

  We’re now only about eight inches apart, and my laughter fades. Because the breath has been sucked from my lungs.

  There’s that summer lightning again. Only this time, it’s like one of those intense storms that send bolts of pure fire down from the sky. The kind of lightning strikes that incinerate trees and houses and people on golf courses. The attraction between us has rendered me senseless. I open my mouth, but I’m not entirely sure what to say.

  You mermaid my day.

  I think you’re mer-mazing.

  Can we fuck, please? Yes, I will beg.

  Yeah, none of those will work.

  My dick is the only thing on my body that’s functioning, because I’m sporting a raging hard-on. Thank God my crotch is underwater. I’ve never been this instantly hot for a woman before. It’s something primal that I don’t quite understand. Don’t want to. Going to just ride this wave to shore. Or her bed. Preferably her bed.

  “Hey,” I say softly, finally finding my voice and my balls. “What’s your name?”

  The electricity crackles between us. I take in her long eyelashes, the freckles on the tops of her cheekbones, the perfect bow of her glossy upper lip. Her wet hair is slicked back, hanging past her shoulders. And I was right — there is a sheen to her skin. I inhale sharply and detect notes of a coconut-based sunscreen.

  She blasts me with a risqué grin, then turns and dives headfirst into the water. Her body sinuously dips below the surface, revealing a perfect ass in that blue mermaid outfit. The tail is the last thing to go under, flicking upward like a dolphin’s. Little drops of water land on my face.

  And she swims away. My heart dissolves into the water.

  I blink and wonder if I should go after her. But she’s too fast, and within seconds, she’s almost to the far tip of the sand spit. I turn and look up at Tate, Isabella, and Chunky.

  They’re all laughing. Well, Tate and Isabella are. Chunky barks twice, a low, snuffle noise.

  “Did that just happen? Was that for real?” I ask.

  Because I’m not sure what did just happen. All I know is that for a few minutes there, my world shifted off its axis, and I’m not certain if it will ever be the same.

  Chapter Four

  LEILANI

  I swim like I’m being pursued by a great white shark.

  A man is the last thing I need right now. Even if he’s a honey-eyed dude with the nicest abs I’ve seen since that time I went to another mermaid’s bachelorette party in Tampa. We’d gone to that male stripper show and all the guys had incredible stomach muscles.

  That man who fell off the boat looks similar to one of those guys. Except he’s a little rougher around the edges. No fake tans or hair gel for him. That guy’s tan is the real deal, earned from long hours in the sun. I could see where his broad should
ers had gotten a bad sunburn a time or two. His scruff is probably a week old, his hair a little too long.

  Rough. Messy. Edgy.

  Not my normal type. Wait, what am I saying? I don’t have a normal type. I’ve had exactly one serious boyfriend, plus a couple of casual hookups in my early twenties. One of the casual hookups ghosted me. The other had been wanted for auto theft, so that relationship had been short lived.

  Come to think of it, my track record with men is abysmal.

  Another reason why it’s best to swim far away. If I’m attracted to him, it’s a good bet that he’s a bad idea.

  I swim around the little sand mound of an island until I’m out of sight of the boat, hidden behind a couple of palm trees. I come up for air and realize I’m out of breath. Not because of exertion, but from sheer excitement.

  My mind’s reeling, which is absurd considering I was in the guy’s presence for all of five minutes.

  For a bad boy, his voice had been soft and kind.

  If he’s rough and edgy, what is he doing on an expensive-looking sailboat?

  And why did he fall overboard? That was weird.

  “Guess you’ll never find out,” I whisper to myself, then dip back underwater. As intriguing as he is, I’m not here for a relationship. Not now, not after all I’ve accomplished in such a short time. No, no, no.

  It had been a fun, brief flirtation. A confidence-booster. Nothing more.

  I swim in the direction of my kayak, trying to reclaim my playful, blissful state from before. But the memory of the guy’s eyes lingers. When I reach the sand bar island, I turn to glance at the sailboat as I roll the waistband of the mermaid tail down over my hips.

  It’s moving away from me. That’s a relief. There’s no telling what I’d do if he came after me. Probably something stupid.

  For the next hour, I sit in my bikini on the shore of the tiny island, munching on the sandwich I’d packed in the cooler. The memory of the guy is replaced with all the things I have to do for the bar, and I wish I’d brought a notebook so I could make a new list. That wouldn’t have been practical, though.

  I recite all the things as I paddle back to shore, and while I pull my plastic kayak out of the water. I sling the strap of my soft-sided cooler over one shoulder, then hoist the kayak up over my head. On my way to the truck, I hear a man shouting.

  “Hey, hey!”

  Since I’m carrying a kayak, I can’t easily see if the voice is calling to me. And since I’m not a horse, I don’t respond to hey. So I keep walking in the direction of my truck.

  I hear the thwack of flip-flopped footsteps striking the asphalt — it’s a uniquely Florida sound — and I turn, kayak and all. It’s hard for me to know if the person is to my right or left because my boat’s obscuring my vision.

  The tip of my kayak makes contact with someone’s body. Eek.

  “Ow! Shit!”

  “Eep. I’m so sorry!” I gingerly set the kayak on the asphalt and gasp.

  Oh dear. It’s the guy from the sailboat. He’s clutching his right shoulder with his left hand and his face is contorted with pain. He’s still only wearing dark blue board shorts. No shirt. I glance down and take in his abs, which are even better on land.

  I gape at him lustfully. Probably inappropriate since I just injured the poor guy with the kayak. What if I broke his arm or something?

  “Oh my God, I’m such a klutz,” I cry.

  He grins. “S’okay.”

  “Is it? No. It’s not. Did I break your arm?”

  “Aw, hell no. Just a little flesh wound. Don’t need that arm anyway.” He removes his hand and there’s a bright red spot on his muscular shoulder. I step forward to inspect it, acutely aware of how much taller he is than me. How his skin is taut over those muscles. How he’s disarmingly attractive.

  “When I’m carrying the kayak, I have no peripheral vision.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get away from me again. Unless, of course, you want to get away. Then I won’t stop you. Just don’t hit me with your kayak again.”

  The fact that he’s giving me an out is endearing. I wave my hand in the air. “You’re the guy from the boat.”

  Um, duh.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, the one you swam away from.”

  Our eyes meet and I begin to perspire. “I was trying to be mysterious. Or something.”

  He cocks his head. “Well, you accomplished that.”

  We stare at each other without blinking, then both of us bust out laughing.

  “Hey, instead of standing here in the middle of the parking lot on the hot asphalt, want to come to my boat for a beer? I’m docked there in the marina.” He points over my shoulder and I twist my body, following the direction of his finger.

  I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. I have a list to write and a bar to open and a million things to do. But I’ve been basically alone for four months, just me and my plans, holed up in my bungalow. No dates, no parties, no social life. Which has been great, but…

  But he looks so hopeful. And friendly. And delicious.

  And I’m lonely as heck. That’s probably why I was so instantly attracted to him back there in the water. I’m starved for human interaction. Another reason I should chat him up: I’m going to open a bar, and at some point, I’ll need to network with other locals. He might introduce me to others at the marina. This will be like networking.

  “Sure,” I say briskly, like I accept offers from men every day. “But let me put my kayak in my truck.”

  “I’ll help with that.” With those big hands of his, he picks up my plastic boat and hoists it over his head as if it’s a toy. His arm muscles flex. I stare, my skin growing warmer by the second.

  “Plus, it’ll save me from further injury.” He winks. A little shimmer of awareness goes through me when I spot how long his dark eyelashes are. Maybe this is more than just being starved for human interaction.

  “Funny,” I say, still gawping at his gorgeous guns.

  “Uh, where to?”

  “Oh! Right there.” I point to my truck.

  He loads my kayak into the truck bed, and I toss the cooler into the front. As I grab a T-shirt from the front seat and slip it over my bikini top, I wonder if I should go through with this. He could be a serial killer. A John Wayne Gacy on a sailboat.

  Then again, if we’re going to have drinks on a boat docked at a marina, we’ll be above deck. Out in the open. Just feet from other boats. It’s a busy marina — I spot other mariners busying themselves on the decks of their own boats.

  It sure seems safe.

  I’ll be fine as long as I don’t go below deck. I pop a mint in my mouth and check my hair in the side mirror. Somehow, I have perfect, near-dry, beachy waves. Whew. Salt water is like magic, I swear.

  Shutting my truck door, I make my way around back to where he’s standing.

  “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Remy Hastings.” He’s grinning and holding out his hand.

  Suddenly feeling shy, I tuck my still-damp hair behind my ear. “I’m Leilani Kostas.”

  We shake hands for a few seconds while eyeballing each other.

  “Leilani. That’s a great name. Leilani the mermaid. Love it. By the way, how did you learn to swim like that? You’re amazing. Do you do that often, swim around in the Gulf of Mexico with a tail fin? I thought I was hallucinating when I first saw you.”

  I let out a giggle. He drops my hand and his expression is genuinely interested. We start to walk back to the marina.

  “It’s kind of a long story.”

  He unlocks a door plastered with a sign that says, “MARINA MEMBERS ONLY,” and holds it open for me. “Well, we’ve got a couple of hours before sunset and a fridge full of Corona and limes, so there’s plenty of time for a long story or two.”

  We walk down a dock, past enormous, expensive yachts.

  “I used to be a performing mermaid in Weeki Wachee. You know, the famous Florida mermaid shows?�
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  We’re at the end of the dock and I recognize his boat. He stops and looks at me with wide eyes. “Really? Of course I know those. My parents took us there when we were little. That is so cool.”

  He steps onto the boat and holds out his hand. It’s a gentlemanly gesture, because his boat is so flush with the dock that I don’t really need help. But a zing goes through my body when I put my fingers into his big palm.

  One beer. That’s all I’ll allow.

  I sweep my gaze around at the cockpit. “This is a beautiful boat. It’s big.”

  “Thanks. It’s a Beneteau 28. I actually live here. Just finished fixing it up. It’s pretty spacious as a liveaboard, since it’s just me. It’s got a kitchen and a shower and everything. A separate bedroom and a living room. It’s really sweet, because my other boat is here too. I run a fishing charter, so it’s nice to live in the same place where I work. Well, I live here most of the time. My parents are here on Paradise Beach, so I sometimes go there. They own the big resort on the island. The Paradise Beach Resort. Have you heard of it? I only stay with them when I need to do laundry. Hey, what would you like to drink? I’ve got Corona, wine, and gin and tonic. Your choice. Also, water and some soda, I think.”

  Is he rambling because he’s nervous or because he’s talkative? I’m not entirely sure, but it’s adorable.

  “Hmm.” I don’t know why I’m being so indecisive. Normally, I’m not. But every time I look into Remy’s eyes, it’s as if my thoughts have been interrupted.

  “Want to come down below to poke around the fridge?”

  “Sure,” I agree without thinking. Derp. As I follow him below deck, I’m wondering why I’ve already broken my own rules. Somehow, I feel comfortable with him. Is it because of my intense attraction to him? It’s a potentially dangerous combination. A red DANGER sign flashes in my brain.