All I Ask

by Tamara Lush

  Impressive. You’re going to have to show me your wrestling technique. You’re tiny but apparently quite lethal. Maybe I can be your WWE manager, and we can go on tour.

  His text makes me flash warm, and I fan myself with my hand at the fantasy of play-wrestling with him. We’d be in bed. I imagine me trying to push against his large body, and he’d flip me onto my back, trapping my wrists in his hands. He’d lean down to kiss me, slow and deep…

  I groan in frustration. While I’d thought I’d detected crackling sexual tension between us last night, in the cold light of day I realize that it might have been my boozy perception. There’s no indication that Tate’s going to make a move anytime soon. In fact, I’d probably made a fool of myself last night, when I cajoled him into dancing with me.

  Sighing, I stand up and make my way to the kitchen. First, I pour a cup of coffee, then do a deep dive into the fridge and Tate’s cabinets. As is typical when I travel, I’m not particularly hungry in the morning.

  Probably I should grab a magazine and lounge by the pool, but something in me wants to be more productive. Perhaps even—dare I say it—domestic?

  My eyes settle on a giant jar of orange blossom honey in the cabinet. While I never mastered the art of cooking, I can make an incredible layered honey cake. It’s my country’s national dessert, and I’d taken part in more than one royal festival where I had to bake my own. I could impress the hell out of Tate with my sweet cake. Americans love sugar.

  I take it out and turn the bottle around in my hands. It’s obviously some kind of gift—a red-and-white checkered cloth is attached to the lid with a ribbon. There’s a gift card affixed to the ribbon. I open it and read the neat cursive.

  A Jar of Honey for my Sweet

  xoxo

  I frown. Is this from an ex-girlfriend? A pang of irrational jealousy hits my gut. Would he mind if I used some of it? He said I could use anything in the cabinets, and this was front and center. I drum my fingers on my chin and scan the contents of the shelf.

  Flour. Check. Baking soda. Check. I’d spied eggs and butter in the fridge.

  Honey cake it is.

  Over the next half-hour, I busy myself by arranging my mise en place, getting everything in one place and prepared for cooking. For a bachelor, Tate has an impressive array of cookware, and I line up my bowls, measuring tools and pan.

  I grab my mini speaker out of my suitcase and tap a music playlist on my phone. As bouncy Euro-pop fills the kitchen, I carefully measure my ingredients into different cups.

  Just as I’ve sifted the flour into the bowl, there’s a noise at the front door, as if someone’s jiggling the doorknob.

  I glance up to see the top lock turning. Expecting to see Chunky wander in closely followed by Tate, I grin.

  And then gasp, because a blonde woman steps inside.

  “Oh!” she exclaims, pressing a hand to her chest.

  I grab a knife out of a nearby block. She must be paparazzi. How many more are behind her? I let out a low growl and rise up to my full five feet, two inches.

  “Get out,” I shout, holding the knife in my extended hand and advancing toward her. “You’ve done enough damage. I didn’t hesitate to wrestle the alligator, and I won’t hesitate in using this on you! I’ll...I’ll cut you!”

  Am I ridiculous, or what?

  The woman clears her throat, possibly trying not to laugh. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know Tate had company!” Her right hand flutters in the air. “I just came by to drop off the ribs for tomorrow’s party. I have a key to Tate’s place. I’ll come back later.”

  I blink. The woman is gripping a cooler on wheels in her left hand.

  “Um. You’re not a reporter?” I slowly lower the knife. Oh, hell, maybe Tate has a girlfriend after all. “Please don’t call the police. I wasn’t going to attack you, not really.”

  “Okay. Calm down. I’m Tate’s sister, Natalia.”

  Goodness. She does look familiar, from the photo. “Oh God. I’m so sorry.” I take several steps toward her and she backs up, propelling the cooler out the door. “No, no, please come in! Let me explain.”

  “Could you put the knife away please?” she says in a firm, growly voice, her eyes glittery and serious. I get the impression that this person is not someone to mess with.

  “Of course. Yes. Sorry.” I run into the kitchen and sheath the knife in the wooden block next to the others then hold both hands in the air. “I’m Tate’s…”

  She hesitantly moves into the kitchen. “Paranoid girlfriend?”

  “No. No! I’m a client.”

  She stops at the island and nods. “Client. Right. And you’re here making a cake at noon on a Saturday?”

  “It’s a long story,” I sigh, my eyes roaming over the ingredients laid out on the counter. I lower my hands and unwrap a stick of butter.

  She picks up the jar of honey. “Tasty. Mom gave all of us honey at Christmas. I’d tried to get Tate to give me his jar because I knew he wouldn’t use it.”

  “Your mom?” I chew on my cheek.

  “Yeah, she likes to give us local products. This is from some bee guy near Orlando. Mom took a weekend-long beekeeping class from him once because she thought she would start an apiary here on Paradise Beach.”

  I nod. “I see. Uh, I’m making a honey cake.”

  Natalia fixes her curious, unblinking gaze on me, a faint smile crossing her lips. “You’re a beautiful woman. A client of Tate’s. And you’re in his house, alone, making a honey cake on a weekend. I sense there’s a story here. I’m going to put these ribs in the fridge. Mind if I pour myself some coffee so you can tell me what’s going on?”

  My jaw drops. Is everyone in his family so open and honest? She’s similar to Tate in her disarming matter-of-factness, but without his nurturing quality. Still, there’s something charming about her and it’s nice to have company.

  “Sure. Pull up a chair,” I say. What the hell? Normally I’d be reserved and clam up. But since the world thinks I’m alligator wrestling in Florida, why not spend a few minutes telling Tate’s sister the truth? “It’s a doozy of a story.”

  Two hours later, the cake is happily baking in the oven, Natalia and I are drinking coffee spiked with Kahlua, and she’s giving me advice about my life. We’re also cracking up over the absurdity of my fiancé-to-be.

  “You definitely can’t marry Jacques,” she says, her eyes rolling practically out of her head. “He sounds like a total tool. Don’t give in to your family. You’ll end up dying early from stress. And what if your mom really wants an heir? You’ll have to screw him. A man like that doesn’t deserve someone as badass as you.”

  I want to hug her because she’d called me badass, but my face crumples into a grimace at the mention of sleeping with Jacques. “I know, right? Ugh.”

  “You might have to give up your title. Or your crown. Or whatever you call it.” She shakes her head and her long, platinum blonde hair sways over one shoulder. “It’s a small price to pay for your freedom, girl.”

  I nod gravely. When I tell my story out loud to an impartial observer, the pieces fall into place. “No one’s ever done that in the history of my country.”

  She shrugs, and that’s when I notice she has flour on the tip of her nose. “Well-behaved women seldom make history.”

  I take a sip of my boozy coffee. “I like that quote.”

  Could I cut ties with my family, my country, my heritage? The questions churn uncomfortably in my mind.

  “Any idea of where you’ll live, what you’ll do, if you give it all up?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I have money saved up, and I’m sure I can write a book about something to bring in more. I could live anywhere, I suppose. Really, I’d like to find a place where I could work with animals or help the environment. I want a regular life, like a normal person where I don’t have to worry about tabloid reporters stalking me.”

  “You looked pretty angry when I walked in, but now that you showed me the newspaper arti
cles, I understand. And I promise not to sell your story. I barely read the news and wouldn’t even know how to sell a story. Plus, you’re too cool. And I know you mean business with that knife and all.”

  Laughter wells up in my chest. “Sorry about nearly attacking you. I guess I’m a hardened criminal now.”

  She giggles. “Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”

  I shake my head.

  A little smile curls Natalia’s pink lips. “God, if you weren’t my brother’s client, my instincts tell me you two would be perfect for each other, given your mutual love of environmental stuff. We can’t get Tate to stop talking about climate change or the turtle nests on the beach here.”

  “I’m surprised he’s still single,” I murmur noncommittally, moving a bowl from the counter to the sink.

  “We all are. He dated someone a while back but broke up with her. She was more interested in being a lawyer’s wife. They didn’t have a lot in common, and I think the relationship was more of a physical thing, if you know what I mean.”

  My stomach drops at the mention of Tate’s ex.

  For him to commit long term, the woman will have to share his values. He’s that kind of guy.” She hesitates for a beat and studies my face. “He also loves girls with dark hair and freckles. Uh, you have powdered sugar on your forehead. Or maybe it’s flour.”

  I’m about to stammer a response when the front door bursts open. Chunky does a sideways run-waddle to us.

  Tate saunters in, a giant bouquet of scarlet roses in one hand. My insides become the consistency of that honey at the sight of him carrying the flowers.

  “Bella? Wow, it smells incredible in here. Like cake.” He pauses. “Aww, look who’s here. Hey, Nat. I guess you two have become acquainted. Why are you both covered in flour?”

  “Well, well,” Natalia murmurs, grinning wide and ping-ponging her head from him, to me, then back to him. “My instincts were correct about my big brother and the knife-wielding, alligator-wrestling princess.”

  Twelve

  Tate

  “Man, I think there’s definitely something between the two of you,” Remy says, then takes a long pull of his beer. “You can’t fool me.”

  We’re sitting at a table near the pool. Bella, Nat, Kate, and Sadie—Kate’s friend who runs the island’s pirate cruise—are batting a volleyball around in the water.

  “Nope,” I mutter to my brother. “And keep your voice down.”

  “What? They can’t hear us. Jesus, the pool’s Olympic sized, and we’re all the way over here. Look at her, bro. I can see the way she stares at you. She’s totally into you. Don’t tell me you didn’t hook up last night.”

  I take a sip of my gin and tonic. “We most certainly didn’t hook up last night. I’m her attorney, remember? Hooking up is off-limits.”

  At least until the judge releases me from her case. Which hopefully will happen this week. After that, all bets are off. Bella’s in the pool, the water line at her delicious breasts. She catches my eye and grins, and I return the smile.

  Remy smirks, and I notice his gaze sliding to Sadie, the pirate cruise owner, who has teamed up with Kate in stretching a net across the pool. He turns to me, fiddling with a bottle cap between his tanned, callused fingers.

  “So what did you do all day yesterday? Nat said that she baked a cake with Isabella, then you busted in with roses. That clearly weren’t for Nat. Or Mom.”

  I let out a sigh. “Yeah, that was probably inappropriate.”

  “What did you do yesterday if you didn’t hook up with the princess?”

  “I dunno. We grilled and talked.” I shrug, leaving out the part where I took two cold showers and went to bed early, feigning exhaustion. Being around Bella for that long left me in a throbbing, searing state of edgy lust—a feeling that’s occupying my body right now as I watch her bounce around the pool wearing nothing but a black bikini. She jumps out of the water and thwacks the ball, and I have to force myself not to stare. Or drool.

  “Grilled and talked. Exciting.” Remy shakes his head.

  “We also walked Chunky. And checked out the sea turtle hatchlings on the beach.” The corners of my mouth lift at the memory of Bella’s squeals of delight when she saw the tiny turtles on the sand.

  “Oooh, watch out. We have a badass here who knows how to woo the ladies. Showing off the sea turtle hatchlings,” he chortles, holding up his hands and wagging his fingers.

  “Shut the fuck up. She loves animals. That’s a big part of her life, charity work for the environment.”

  “Did she really attack that alligator? Was it Pete? Because I read an article that claimed she wrestled it in the canal and drowned it.”

  “No. She did nothing of the sort. Jesus. I don’t know if it was Pete.” I roll my eyes. “Look at her. She’s a hundred pounds soaking wet. Does she look like she could even wrestle Chunky?”

  He guffaws. “True, true. Listen, dude, if you’re trying to maintain a professional distance, you’re doing a terrible job.”

  “Pfft. Am not.”

  “What about when you no longer represent her? What then? All bets off?”

  I stare at him, hard. “You’ve been a pain in my ass since you were born, you know that?”

  He grins.

  “Where’s Ma and Dad, anyway?”

  Remy lifts a shoulder. “Should be here soon. They were talking to Max and Lauren about wedding stuff and said they’d come over afterward. They’re deciding on the location today.”

  A scowl crosses my face. “I thought they were going to wait until Damien got back. And I thought they were getting married on the beach.”

  “They are. They claim it’s going to take at least a year to plan the event, though. And Lauren doesn’t know if she wants the guests to be facing the Gulf or at an angle.”

  “That’s going to be a mission, their wedding. I don’t get the impression Lauren’s going to be as chill as Kate was a few months ago.”

  “Hell no. Leave it to Max to marry someone high maintenance.”

  I snort. “I think Max is higher maintenance than Lauren.”

  We both chuckle. Our older brother is the most organized, exacting person in our family. The rest of us are pretty laid back. Max? Type A all the way. And Lauren’s not far behind.

  “Yeah, I saw him poring over sunset times. He wants to say his vows at exactly five minutes before the sun dips below the horizon. Let’s just call him Groomzilla from now on,” Remy says, shaking his head.

  “Guys!” Natalia’s girlish voice echoes through the enclosed pool area. “C’mon. We need two more people so we can play a game.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice. I kick ass in pool volleyball,” Remy says, tapping on his phone. “Let me change the playlist.” He turns the volume up on the wireless speaker—of course my brother likes eighties metal—and Mötley Crüe replaces my indie rock.

  He shoots out of his chair and into the water. I suspect he wants to get his hands on Sadie, the tattooed, curvy, pirate ship captain. He immediately joins her and Kate.

  “Fine,” I grumble, going over to the other side of the pool to join my sister and Bella. I’m wary of being in close proximity to her in that bikini, and I slide into the water and stand near Nat.

  Bella bounces over, grinning. Focus on her eyes. Her eyes. Not lower.

  “You ready?” she murmurs.

  “Uh, yeah. Definitely.”

  On the other side of the net, Sadie spins and tosses the ball. “I’ll serve,” she calls out.

  She thwacks the ball, and my sister easily bats it back. After a slow volley where we all hit the ball a few times, competition heats up.

  Unfortunately—or fortunately, for my dick—this means that Bella and I crash into each other often. Somehow we’re both diving for the ball at the same time, or she’s in my space, or I’m behind her. We clasp hands underwater, she tickles my arm.

  I stand close behind her, enough to feel her body heat.

  She bend
s forward, sending her butt into my crotch. “Sorry,” she giggles.

  “No apology needed.” I brush against her then move to the side.

  Nat’s several feet away, her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes.

  We’re also getting beat by Remy’s team, probably because Bella and I keep diving for the ball and missing it.

  “Focus, you two,” Nat hollers, while Bella and I splash each other, laughing hysterically and generally goofing off.

  “We’re focusing,” I retort, eyeballing Bella’s jiggling breasts.

  “Yeah, focusing on each other,” Nat mutters. “Losers.”

  At one point, Sadie climbs on Remy’s shoulders, which inspires Bella to do the same with me. I’m gripping her shins, trying to will away my erection—thank God, my crotch is underwater so no one can see—and she’s thwacking the ball across the net.

  As we’re all whooping and shouting, the sliding glass door opens. It’s Ma.

  “Just wanted to stick my head in and say hi, kids. I also brought the key lime pies.”

  Now, there are three things that Remy loves most in the world. Women, fishing, and key lime pie. Not necessarily in that order. He lets out a grunt and tosses Sadie into the water.

  “Hey,” she yelps, pinching his butt as he swims to the pool steps.

  “Pie break,” he hollers. Nat hoists herself out of the pool.

  Dammit. This means I’ll have to let go of Bella. She slides down my back and one of her bikini ties—a long, black strand, flops over my shoulder and sticks to my skin.

  She gasps in my ear and tightens her grip around my neck.

  “You’re strangling me a little,” I choke.

  “Uh-oh,” she says in my ear, letting up on my throat. “Sorry. I can‘t move much.”

  “What? Why?”

  “My top just came untied at the neck and at the back.” Laughing, she presses herself tighter against me. “If I move, it’ll fall off entirely. The only reason it’s still in place is because it’s squashed between me and your back.”

  Which means the only thing separating her tits from my bare back is an untethered scrap of fabric. My heart races.