by Nina Hatch
Sea Legs
Nina Hatch
Sea Legs
Copyright © 2016 Nina Hatch
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published by Nina Hatch, 2016
Cover Design by Nina Hatch
Stock Photos Courtesy of Depositphotos.com
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For Mr. Hatch
Chapter One
Jake
Any minute now, I tell myself, keeping my eyes closed, breathing steady.
Wshshsish…
Finally. The instant I hear the water from the sink splash into the basin, I slide out of the four-poster bed, the stiff, starched sheets making me itch.
Come to think of it, everything about this place is starting to get to me. The mayor’s palazzo is a Baroque-era villa, complete with gilded mirrors, thick tapestries —
— sccreeeeeaak — and an original fucking parquet floor that narcs on you when you try to make a clean getaway.
“Jake? I didn’t know you were up,” Talia says, padding out of the bathroom.
Fuck.
“Uh, yeah, I have a busy morning,” I lie.
“Don’t you want a shower, tesoro mio? There’s room in here for two,” Talia says with a suggestive raise of her eyebrow.
I’m beginning to find the mayor’s wife just as suffocating as the mayor’s decorative taste.
“Sorry, gotta run.” I already have my jeans belted around my hips.
“You’re coming back tonight though, ci?” she asks, sharper this time.
“Maybe.”
Her dark eyes frost over. Talia is not a woman accustomed to hearing the word no.
As the First Lady of Schiaro, Talia DiCicco exercises her proximity to power with Machiavellian delight. She and her husband Giorgio have laughably low ties to the Sicilian mafia, and with the few strings they do hold, they chose to govern this small Italian resort town through a system of favors owed and favors earned by those willing to play their game.
“Did you get that shipment of whiskey I left for you at the market last week?” Talia asks as she turns back toward the shower, her tone cunning.
My fists clench. I know full well how much it costs to import my beloved Maker’s Mark to the Amalfi Coast.
“I’ll try to swing by tonight,” I say, slamming the door on my way out.
I can’t help but feel like a collar is tightening around my neck.
This was our arrangement. I’m not a pawn in anyone’s game, but this one wasn’t so bad. As long as I found the time to slip into Talia’s bed whenever her husband was away, she paid my tab at almost every bar and trattoria in town. And I see no issue in using my dick to pay for my drinks — we were both getting more than our money’s worth.
It may be frowned upon to make a deal with the DiCicco’s, but I’m not from here, and I have no interest in Schiaro politics.
When my boat broke down in this place, I figured I’d be here for a month, tops. But I fell in love with the Italian sunsets over the water, the easy tourists, and the pasta. Oh my God, the pasta.
Besides, I have nowhere else to be.
Stepping out into the pale morning sun, I squint. This is the earliest I’ve been up in weeks, but I had to get out of there. I shouldn’t have passed on that shower though, my skin smells like expensive perfume and regret.
Good thing Talia’s place is right on the ocean. I rip off my shirt and dive in, ducking under the frothy waves of the Mediterranean to swim out fast. Pushing past the crashing waves that fight their way to shore, I get to where the water is deeper, calmer.
I swim farther than I have in a while, and my shoulders are aching with exertion by the time I finally let the tide push me back to the nearest beach.
Ever since Schiaro was featured in a George Clooney flick two years ago, the beaches have been packed with tourists, and today is no different. While the town doesn’t have the history or the prestige of Positano or Amalfi, Schiaro shares the same stunning coastline, and the five-star hotels sprang up seemingly overnight, cordoning off the shore into private beaches reserved for hotel guests only. But I don’t need to show a room key when I don’t go through any doors to get here. Washing up on the beach is the best way to get around those types of bullshit restrictions and gain access to an array of wealthy tourists looking for a one-night fling.
From the signature yellow and white striped umbrellas, I must have made it all the way to the beach of the Vincent Hotel. Perfect. The Vincent could always be counted on when I wanted to find a top-notch fuck.
Too bad it’s only noon. If I make my move too early, I always end up having to spend the entire day with a chick, so I may as well grab a pizza and wait it out at Ernesto’s. He hates when I show up wet like this, but that’s why I keep doing it.
I’m starting to hike up the hill past the town cathedral and into Schiaro when I feel a soft head butt up against my calf.
“— Raouw?”
It’s the same brown tabby cat I met last week when I was on this side of town, his yellow eyes shining up at me.
“You always seem to find me when there’s food involved, don’t you?” I ask him as he continues twining his way between my legs. The cat looks like he manages to feed himself just fine, but he’s also marked me as a sucker for a stray. “Come on,” I tell him, reaching down to rub his chin.
Ernesto’s Pizzeria is on a steep cobblestone path with an alley entrance, and the door is covered in layers of paint from decades past so thick that I have to slam my shoulder into it to get it unstuck. Breathing in the familiar smell of burning oak, roasted garlic, and fresh basil, I yell back to the kitchen. It’s empty in here, like it always is. Even though it’s only a block away from the glittery strip of beachside hotels, no tourists ever venture up here.
Ernesto is also one of the only business owners in town who refuses to cater to the DiCicco agenda, so most of the locals don’t make it by either. Ernesto was born in Schiaro, but his father came from Napoli, meaning his pizza is legit — as is his concern for anything resembling La Cosa Nostra.
“Buongiorno, Jacopo!” Ernesto calls out, his booming voice even more familiar to me than the chimes that ring over the door. He’s covered in flour, sweat beading on his brow. “Prosciutto e pecorino?” he asks, already reaching for a ball of fresh dough.
“Yeah. And give me a side of prosciutto for my friend, Bacon,” I say, eying the cat that followed me in the door. He’s hopped up onto a table, knocking the silverware to the floor so he can better roll around in the puddle of sun there, purring and making a general spectacle of himself. I learned the hard way that Italian ham was the cat’s favorite after he ate the toppings off my last pizza.
“Allora, not again, this prosciutto is the finest quality cut from Parma.”
“Who else are you serving it too?” I ask, gesturing at the empty chairs. “I bet we’ll be your only guests all day.”
“Tocca ferro, don’t curse me like that,” Ernesto says, rubbing the iron fire poker next to the roaring pizza oven superstitiously. He’s still giving me a dirty look as he brings over a small dish of his premium prosciutto. “Bene. But the cat eats on the floor.”
Ernesto is passionate about food, and quality ingredients are his first priority. He doesn’t skimp, even though he never makes back the money he spends.
The pizza is still steaming from the wood oven when Ernesto sets it down, but it smells so good I’ll risk the burn.
“I’ll swing by and plane that door for you tomorrow,” I say between bites of scalding cheese. Even though Ernesto won’t accept Talia’s tab system, his food is the best in Schiaro, so I do some odd jobs around his restaurant to pay my way.
“That’s not necessary, Jacopo. Don’t waste your talents on something silly like that. The pizza is on me, you come by anytime. Even your little cat friend can eat on the house.”
“He’s not my cat. And anyway, I think you’ll regret that offer, this little guy will eat you out of ingredients,” I say, scratching Bacon behind the ears as he licks his chops.
“I don’t think he knows he’s not yours. I never see him around unless you’re here.”
We eat in silence for a bit. I can feel Ernesto running his appraising eye over me. “Jacopo, you are soaking. Again. Where were you before you came here?”
“What does it matter to you?” I say, a bit too harshly. I know he knows about Talia’s arrangement. I just don’t know why I care what he thinks about it.
He sighs. “Finish up, come upstairs. I have something for you.”
“Is it another book?” I ask, following him. “Because I’m still working my way through Dante.”
“Not this time. You’ll see. Keep trying on the Dante though. Then I’ll look for something else for you to read.”
Ernesto’s apartment is nothing like the pizzeria below. Downstairs is, rustic, to put it nicely. None of the chairs match, the tables are scratched, and paint is peeling off the walls. The upstairs studio he takes me to is swanky, like a bachelor pad straight out of the 60s.
He opens a hidden closet door and pulls out a sleek blue suit. It looks like everything I’m not — rich, tailored, and well-cared-for.
“Take it,” he says, pushing the cedar hanger toward me.
“No, I could never. It’s too much.” But I reach out to touch it, the fine wool snagging between my calloused fingers.
“It belonged to someone I knew when I was a young man, but what am I going to do with it now?” he laughs, patting his protruding belly under the nubby cardigan he always wears. “Please, it’s meant to be worn, and something tells me that it’s meant to be worn by you,” he slides the jacket off the hanger, helping me into it. “Just no swimming in it.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I really mean it. No one has ever given me something like this. And damn, I hate that it looks so good.
Much as I despise the elite douchebag tourists who take over this town every summer, I fucking love looking at the goods, and the wealthy know what they’re doing when it comes to material things. I’m all about the details, and this suit delivers.
I strike a suave pose in Ernesto’s mirror and he chuckles.
“You’re going to have to wrestle me if you ever want this back, you know,” I warn him.
Wearing Ernesto’s suit, I need to make a new plan for the day. I no longer need to lurk on the beach avoiding hotel security. I’m going to walk through the Vincent like I’m a real fucking guest, and no one is going to stop me.
Stepping through the glass doors, the lobby gleams with American money. Dripping in crystal chandeliers and obnoxious with marble, it looks like a billionaire’s wet dream of what Italy should be, without the hassle and inconvenience of actually having to travel there.
In other words, it’s the perfect hunting ground.
The Vincent’s high-class amenities draw a crowd of hot American college grads eager to exercise their trust funds, and hot divorcées eager to exercise their revenge bodies. Neither category asks too many questions, and the only thing I need to know from them is how many orgasms they’ve had in one night, and do they want to go for the record.
Eying the bar, I see no shortage of choices. I try out a new swagger as I head over, but I don’t even make it past the check-in desk.
The sexiest fucking woman I’ve ever seen is leaning over the counter, talking to one of the clerks.
All soft curves on a petite frame, she has hair the color of sunshine on sand, tied up in a tidy knot on top of her head. She has dark lashes that stand out in stark contrast to her creamy skin, a graceful neck and strong shoulders — and an ass that will look great when she’s riding my cock later tonight.
As I move in closer, I can’t help but smile when I see her take a tiny square of complimentary tiramisu from the silver platter on the check-in desk and toss it quickly in her mouth. Her eyes dart around the room, making sure no one is watching her, and she grabs another sample and shoves it in.
“Tell me, do you always bite off more than you can chew?” I say with a smirk.
She jumps at my voice, her eyes going wide. I’m afraid she’s going to choke for a second, but she swallows with an audible gulp, leveling me with a glare instead.
The eyes that are assessing me are a stunning green-gray, framed by thick eyebrows that are currently pointed in a scowl. I find myself leaning in, almost on tiptoes, waiting for her to speak, but she chooses to ignore me instead, turning back to the clerk.
“Are you sure there’s no check-in under McCall?” she asks. “Do you mind running it again? It’s Jordan McCall, M-C-C-A —”
“I know how to spell, signorina,” he snaps. “As I said, no one by that name has checked in.”
“Ugh, this is the worst day of my life,” she groans, lacing her fingers through her golden hair.
Damn, this chick is wound tight.
I’m not sure why, but I feel strangely compelled to see what she looks like when she smiles, and the need stirs up like an itch I’m desperate to scratch. I realize that I’m still staring at her, not sure what my next move is going to be for the first time in my life.
I’ll try the truth.
“Hi. I’m Jake, and I’d like to buy you a drink. We can see where it goes from there, but I’m pretty sure I can turn this into a better day for you.”
She turns to face me before hurling her response like a stiletto. “Right, that’s exactly what I need. A cocky douchebag in a suit with nothing better to do than to spend his parent’s money, sleep around, and bore me with a stupid conversation about how your fraternity started the first secret society. Trust me, I’ve heard it all before.”
“I guarantee I didn’t come over here for a conversation. Two minutes after meeting me and you’re already talking about my cock, though, huh?” I ask with a grin.
“What? No,” she stammers. The look on her face is cold, but the flush on her neck is all fire, and I see her cheeks go red as her eyes flick down to my crotch for half a second.
I’m also very aware of the way my dick twitches in response.
“— Oliviaaaa!” A singsongy voice echoes off the marble walls, and a woman with white hair pinned into a neat twist pulls my sparring partner into an embrace.
“What are you doing down here? Your sister is asking about you. And you know how impatient she’s been lately. We can only hope she’ll calm down after the wedding tonight.”
“Sorry Aunt Patricia, I was trying to find out if Jordan had check— I mean, if the hotel had a steamer for my dress for the ceremony.”
“Oh, the dress looks fine, Olivia. But when do we get to meet this mystery man of yours? You said his father is the CEO of Bluestar Freight? Any chance he’s single? Tell you what, you just bring him by, I’ll ask him myself.”
; Her aunt already has Olivia by the shoulders, and their voices drift away as they head toward the elevators.
I guess I’ll have to wait to finish my conversation, but I can’t say that I mind watching Olivia’s ass shift in her tight pants as she walks away. One night with her is exactly what I need to shake off this dissatisfied, trapped feeling I’ve had lately.
And a jilted bridesmaid at her sister’s wedding? That’s the damn jackpot. I’m no therapist, but I’d be more than happy to let her work out some of those issues on my cock.
Chapter Two
Olivia
Thank God I finally excuse myself from Aunt Patricia. After a lifetime of mixing too many dry martinis with her Xanax, I think she’s officially lost the ability to take a hint for when it’s time to leave. At least she saved me from talking to that dick back at the check-in counter.
What a cocky bastard. I bet he gets away with murder just because he’s hot. I mean, hot if you’re into that whole son-of-Zeus-washed-up-on-the-shore kinda thing.
That blue Valentino suit fit like perfection on his muscular frame, but every guy I’ve ever dated has a closet full of suits just as expensive. That’s what happens when you get your MBA at a top-ranked college — you surround yourself with the hedge fund leaders of tomorrow, and all the ego and bullshit that comes with them. From my experience, the majority of them were boring, entitled, and premature ejaculators, but at least they worked for a living and could find their way to a comb and a razor.
Mr. Broad-Shouldered Adonis, on the other hand, looks like he’s never worked a day in his life. Coupled with that sharp suit, his mocha tan and the stubble on his cut jaw spell trust fund playboy, and I so do not have time for that.
I realize I’m still staring at the check-in counter where I saw him last and I shake my head to clear it.
