All I Desire (Paradise Beach Book 4)

by Tamara Lush

  “It’s good to have friends who care. And who have a sense of the absurd.”

  I shrug. “They’re kind of more than friends at this point. They’re all dating, or engaged, or married, to my brothers.”

  “You have four brothers? Any sisters?”

  “Nope. I’m the only girl.”

  “Guess I can’t screw up with you, then. Your brothers will come after me.”

  I turn from the group and raise an eyebrow. “I think you’d have to answer to me first if you screwed up. I’m way scarier than my brothers.”

  He wraps an arm around me. “I don’t know about that. But I do know that I’m going to try not to screw up with you.”

  Why do his words make me feel warmer than his kisses?

  “I can almost hear them talking to Nina.”

  We pause to listen. Isabella utters the phrase “serial killer.”

  “I’m not a serial killer,” Matthew calls out.

  The group turns to look at him. Isabella lets Chunky down. While attached to his leash and still wearing the glasses, he wanders a few feet and hikes his leg on a discarded beach pail.

  For the third time, I wave them off. “He’s not a serial killer. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  Giving us one long look, they turn and shuffle down the beach in formation.

  For the next hour, as the sun slides out of sight and dusk falls, we eat the sandwiches — Cuban, my favorite, finish the water, devour the cookies, and kiss for a solid fifteen minutes. I openly ogle his chest. I find out that he used to be a long-haul commercial pilot, that he likes cats, and that his daughter will be here in another week or so.

  That last detail is the only thing I’m not thrilled about. Still, when Nina finishes taking photos and we’re standing near my wagon, I don’t hesitate to say yes to a date on Friday — five days away. I’m crazy attracted to Matthew, and possibly getting in a few nights of crazy sex before his offspring comes to live with him seems like an excellent idea.

  “I can make dinner,” I pipe up.

  Where did that come from? I don’t cook. Thirty percent of my meals are eaten at the resort, another thirty at Ma and Dad’s, and the final thirty are takeout or frozen.

  “Great.” He’s beaming.

  “Do you like lasagna?” What am I saying?

  “Pfft. I’m Italian, remember? I can eat a boatload of lasagna.”

  “Then a boatload of lasagna it is.”

  “Awesome. You know, I’d ask you over tonight, but I’ve got to get across the state for my kid.”

  I nod. Kid obligations. My stomach fizzes. “That’s a lot of night driving. How far is it?”

  He shrugs. “Three hours if there’s no traffic. I’d rather take the plane, but it’s in the shop.”

  My rapid blinking causes him to explain.

  “I own a small plane.”

  “Oh. Oh, of course! Well, drive safe tonight. Text me when you get there.”

  His eyes flash. “I’ll be back in a couple of days. Her mom’s leaving early tomorrow on a flight. She’s a pilot.”

  “So you said.”

  “I want to be there when Chloe wakes up, and we have some school shopping to do.”

  My nod speeds up, like I’m one of those dog dolls people put on their dashboards. Is he staying with his ex? What kind of relationship do they have?

  These are not the questions one asks of a man one just met and made out with randomly on a beach during a photo shoot.

  “Great!” I cry, allowing my hands to flutter in the air. “Let me give you my number and you can text me when you’re back on the island.”

  We exchange numbers and kiss fiercely enough to steal the breath from my lungs, then he hops in his truck. I slide into the driver’s side of Dad’s wagon and wave as he drives away. My heart’s still pounding from that last kiss.

  I grab my phone and dial Ma. She answers on the first ring.

  “How was it? Leilani said he’s handsome.”

  Jesus. They’ve told Ma everything already. And probably all my brothers, too. Maybe the entire island. There will probably be a flashing roadside billboard when I’m driving home.

  Alert: Natalia Hastings Made Out with Handsome Stranger on Beach

  “It was cool. Yeah, he was pretty hot. Older. Muscular, but kind of a dad bod.”

  “Dad bods are handsome, dear. Your dad has a dad bod.”

  “Eww. Of course he does. Because he’s a dad.” I pause. “And so is Matthew.”

  “He’s a father?” Ma’s voice is laced with surprise, probably because I’ve been vocal over the years about not wanting to date men with kids. Or maybe even have kids.

  “Yeah,” I say, my earlier confidence in this relationship ebbing.

  “That’s okay, sweetie.”

  “Sure. Sure, it is. Hey, I need to ask you something. Would you make a lasagna for me? For my date? Extra-large tray?”

  “Your date?” Her voice is panicked. “Which date?”

  “Yeah, I said I’d cook dinner for…” my voice trails off when I realize she’s confused. “No, Ma, not that date. That date’s Wednesday, with Jordan, the guy online. And he’s not coming to my house, we’re meeting at the Square Grouper. I need a lasagna for my date on Friday. With a different guy. Matthew. The guy from tonight’s photo shoot.”

  Hell. While I was necking with Matthew, I’d totally forgotten about a date I made with Jordan, a guy I’d recently “met” on Tinder. That’s how captivating Matthew was, and an indication of how uninteresting the other guy probably is, too. Maybe I’ll cancel on Wednesday…

  “No problem, my dear,” Ma trills. “When it rains, it pours!”

  Chapter Five

  MATTHEW

  The three-hour drive across the state to Fort Lauderdale is too long and too boring, and gives me way too much time to think about what just happened.

  About the woman I just kissed. Every time I turn my head an inch in either direction, I catch a faint whiff of her perfume. It’s a mixture of orange blossoms and the ocean.

  Sweet and salty.

  Just like Natalia.

  What the hell’s up with Paradise Beach? It was like being in some tropical twilight zone, what went on back there. I’m still baffled as I mentally replay the past several hours. Let’s see. I sat on a towel half-clothed, had my photo taken about five hundred times, and made out with a gorgeous blonde.

  But it was more than that.

  I laughed more than I have in years. Connected with a woman like I haven’t in, hell, decades. Felt that maybe this move across the state with Chloe might not be such a shitty idea.

  It’s close to midnight by the time I pull into the parking lot at Yvette’s condo. I let myself in with the key she gave me, hoping to grab a water and hit the sack.

  But my ex-wife is on the sofa. The TV’s on, no sound, and she looks up from her phone.

  “Hey,” she says softly.

  “Hey,” I whisper, setting my duffel bag on the floor. The room I’ll be sleeping in is only a few paces away, so I might as well leave it there.

  I head to the kitchen and open the fridge. There was a time when I’d have been nervous, or annoyed, or even angry to see Yvette. These last six months? Nothing. She’s like a pleasant stranger.

  One with whom I share the most important thing in my life.

  I grab a water and twist the cap, taking a long guzzle. Two years ago, I couldn’t have imagined doing this — staying in the guest room at Yvette’s so I could wake up and get Chloe off to school. Now that I no longer have a house on this coast? This arrangement seems reasonable to me. My family thinks it’s weird, but I don’t give a crap. Especially since it means that I’m able to wake up to the laughter of my little girl.

  “How was the drive?” Yvette asks.

  I wander into the living room and sit at the far end of the sofa. “Long. I’m beat.”

  In reality, I’m not. My body’s still buzzing from what happened on the beach. Sitting in my ex’s livin
g room as CNN plays and my daughter snoozes in the other room makes the events on Paradise Beach seem surreal and hazy. As if I’ve dreamt them.

  Glancing over at Yvette, I study her face. Sometimes she still looks like the twenty-year-old I met at Embry Riddle, back when we were both aeronautics majors. Before we both became commercial air pilots, before we were married, before we had a daughter.

  Before we fell out of love.

  “How’s the kiddo?”

  Yvette shifts and tucks her feet under her butt. “Good. We had pizza. She’s excited about tomorrow. Says you’re going to take her shopping. She knows how much you love stationary stores. Apparently, there’s a new one at the mall that has some Japanese characters.”

  I chuckle. “The polar bear and dinosaur…” my voice trails off. My daughter has an obsession with a game called Sumikko Gurashi. The characters all look like smiling, pastel-colored blobs to me.

  I screw the cap back on the soda and set it on the coffee table. I relax back into the sofa, allowing my eyes to shut. My mind drifts back to Natalia’s dazzling smile. I’m nodding off, thinking of the sunset light in her blonde hair.

  “You’re normally so talkative after a long drive. What happened to you today?”

  My lids peel open. “Huh? Oh. I had that crazy photo shoot on the beach today.”

  “The one where you were paired with a stranger?”

  “Yeah. That one.” A smile plays on my lips.

  “And? Do you think it will help you sell helicopter tours? Did Chad actually have a good idea for once?”

  A full grin has spread on my face, because I’m recalling how Natalia peppered me with questions about what it’s like to fly choppers. “Maybe it will. And yeah, maybe Chad did, for once in his life. Who knew that his obsession with trolling for waterfront investment property would lead to something good?”

  “Who were you paired with?” Now Yvette is grinning. She knows me too well. When two people have been in each other’s orbit for as long as we have, it’s hard not to fall into old conversational patterns — both good ones and toxic ones.

  “A local. She’s a jewelry designer.”

  She raises an eyebrow. We can joke like this now, thank Christ. I know all about her boyfriend, even like the guy — after I did a full background check on him. Can’t have my daughter around a pervert.

  “The ad said something about chemistry. Did you feel any?”

  I shrug and smirk, then climb to my feet, yawning. “Quite possibly. We’ll see. What time you outta here?”

  Even though my ex and I are on friendly terms, I don’t particularly want to share tales of lust with her, either.

  “I’m going to try to catch a few hours of sleep, then Carson’s coming to pick me up. Our flight’s at six out of Miami.”

  Carson’s her boyfriend; he’s a flight attendant.

  “What’s the route?”

  “Sao Paulo.”

  “Sweet. Layover?”

  “We’re staying two days.”

  I scratch my chest. “Enough time for a caipirinha on the beach. Text me when you land. Safe flight. Say hey to Carson for me.”

  She raises her hand in a high five motion and I pat her palm with mine. “Night.”

  “Night.”

  I turn toward Chloe’s door.

  “She’s in my room,” Yvette says.

  “Ah. Okay.”

  Tiptoeing across the living room, I push open the door to the master bedroom. Because it’s dark, I can barely make out the shape of my little daughter nestled in the big bed. I find her sprawled and snoring, having kicked off the comforter. Gently, I pull a sheet over her and press my lips to her temple.

  She doesn’t wake. I smooth back her silky, brown hair. What’s life going to be like for her on Paradise Beach? Will she have an easier time in school there? Last year was so fucking difficult. For all of us — but for her especially.

  Even now, thinking about the possibilities, and all that could go wrong, sends a pit of anxiety into my stomach. I kiss her again and pad out. Yvette’s nose is back in her phone, and we grunt another good night at each other.

  I go to the guest room, shutting the door behind me. After taking a piss, brushing my teeth, and washing my face, I fall into bed. Instead of dropping off to sleep, I toss and turn, then finally reach for my phone.

  The bright screen makes me squint as I navigate to Natalia’s number.

  Hey you. Made it to Fort Lauderdale. Hope you had a good rest of your night.

  Her response comes almost immediately. Hi! That’s a relief. It’s kinda spooky driving across Alligator Alley alone.

  I shift onto my back, grinning. You should see what it looks like from a cockpit. Pitch dark.

  For the next hour and a half, we text like teenagers, and when she texts goodnight for the final time, I finally fall asleep with a huge grin on my face…

  NATALIA

  “Met any nice guys lately?”

  I look up from the necklace I’m stringing, into the face of Mrs. Meyer. It’s Wednesday, which means I’m leading Bead and B*tch, my weekly class at the Paradise Beach Community Center.

  I shrug and thread an eight-millimeter, round gemstone onto the wire. “Y’all following along here? Take the wire between your thumb and forefinger like this.”

  The six women at the table are all absorbed in their work. Well, all except Mrs. Meyer.

  And Ma. She’s here, too. Occasionally, she does the crafts along with the class. Sometimes she helps out. Mostly, she’s here to socialize.

  Ma beams at Mrs. Meyer. Oh God. I brace myself for an in-depth discussion of my love life. This happens all-too-frequently during this class. Especially since Remy paired up with Leilani. Apparently, there was some sort of island-wide consensus that Remy would be the last Hastings kid to find a mate, and now I’m the spinster of the family.

  “Ooh, do tell,” Mrs. Meyer says, looking over the reading glasses perched on her nose.

  I inhale, trying to ignore her probe.

  “You take the amethyst, round bead, this one.” I hold up the purple bead, almost as round as a marble. I like to work with larger beads for this class because some of the women are older and have a touch of arthritis. The bigger beads are easier for them to handle. “It looks nice paired with this silver, geometric bead here, but you’re free to create any pattern you want. Just slide it down the wire like this.”

  The satisfying, soft clack of bead against bead echoes in the air as the women string their necklaces. My phone pings and I glance over. It’s Matthew.

  Hey you. How’s your class?

  We’ve texted every day since we met. He’s surprisingly witty in his messages, and uses proper grammar and punctuation. After wading through the online dating pool for years, that in itself is a turn-on. For the last two days, we’ve been sending silly billboards and signs to each other. I’d seen one on the checkout stand keypad that was meant to say PEN IS BROKEN, USE FINGER, only there wasn’t a space between PEN and IS, so it looked like PENIS. He loved that.

  Awesome. We’re making necklaces. I snap a photo of my half-finished creation and send it to him.

  Can’t wait to see it on you.

  I grin and feel heat rising in my cheeks. When I lift my eyes from the phone, my gaze lands on Ma. She quirks an eyebrow.

  “To answer your question, Mrs. Meyer, I have a few prospects on the horizon,” I say firmly. Hopefully that will quell the curiosity.

  She sets her necklace down and pushes her zebra-print readers up the bridge of her nose. “Playing the field. Wish I’d done that more before I got married. Don’t you, Ginger?”

  Ma smiles that little secret grin of hers. “Who says I didn’t? Natalia, before I met your father, I traveled the world and met lots of men. I sowed my wild oats, but when I met your father on that plane, I knew he was the one.”

  I snicker. “I thought you were annoyed by him when you first met because he was a jerk.”

  Ma waves her hand, a bead between he
r fingers. “Well, yes. But still. It was a sexual tension kind of annoyance.”

  I grimace. Discussing my parents’ sexual tension during a craft class isn’t my idea of a fun time.

  “What about your date tonight, dear?” Ma asks.

  Everyone around the table looks up from their beads and stares at me.

  “Ma,” I protest.

  “Just curious,” she says sweetly.

  “We already know about the guy at the photo shoot. It’s all over the island. Buster and Maria Coleman saw the two of you kissing on the beach. Is that who she’s seeing tonight?” Mrs. Meyer turns to Ma, as if I’m not even in the room.

  “No, different guy,” she answers.

  “Ma!” I pause. “Nothing is ever private here on Paradise Beach, I swear to Christ.”

  A couple of the women talk about how they dated several men at once, back in the seventies. One of them tells a tale of Studio 54 and Mick Jagger. I slide the beads on my necklace, half-listening, wondering what it would be like to kiss Mick. Probably sloppy. Nothing like kissing Matthew.

  My shoulders slump as I hover over my necklace. An edgy, gnawing feeling settles in my stomach, all because of my date tonight. I’m no longer interested in meeting the guy I’ve talked with online.

  Truthfully, I’m not sure if I really want to go at all. Now that I’ve met Matthew.

  I’d made the date with Jordan, tonight’s guy, days before the beach photo shoot. How was I to know I’d have an electric connection with a total stranger? Isn’t that the universe’s way of telling me I should cancel tonight’s date? Somehow, it doesn’t seem right to make out with Matthew on Sunday and have dinner with Jordan on Wednesday — all while thinking about dinner with Matthew on Friday.

  The group discussion soon turns to bad dates, and now everyone’s cracking up, telling stories from their days of singledom.

  “I once rushed out of the house to meet my date and was hit by a car,” says sixty-something Ms. Richards. Everyone gasps. “I was just bruised on the leg, so we went on to the movies. But here’s the kicker. My date made me pay for both tickets!”