Paradise Bay: Resort 1 (Surrender Isle #1)

by Havana Scott

  And those tearstains on her face. Most guests were happy to be there, in awe when they arrived, but something had upset that woman, so in the three days since she’d arrived, I only watched her from afar, sitting out on her deck pensively, the way new guests always did.

  “Was she hot?” Simon gave me a crooked glance. Of course he would ask that.

  “Yes, Simon, she was hot—in her own way. Not your type, though. Not that it matters. She was funny, I’ll tell you that much.” I felt bad saying she wasn’t his type, but she wasn’t. Paris Jones would probably balk at a guy like Simon. Smart women didn’t fall for “dudes” with cheeseball lines, no matter how much money they had.

  “You know what we should do? Ask her to write some blog posts for us while she’s here.”

  I held back an eye roll. “She just got here, man. Give her time to get settled.”

  Simon sank back the rest of his Pink Flamingo. Drinks never lasted long around him. “We don’t have time, Tristan. The quarter is almost over, and we need higher numbers. Not only that, but—”

  “I got it,” I interrupted coldly. “I’ll ask her next time I see her.”

  We sat mesmerized by Bella doing her thing, talking up the four guests sitting on the other side of the tiki hut bar top. Her bouncy brown hair with one blonde highlight that zigzagged through her curly lengths framed her face. “Dude, I need someone like Bella for my place.” Simon’s place was Hideaway Cove, the other resort on the island catering to privacy, honeymoons, and what used to be clandestine trysts between guests. Not now that we were changing our image.

  “You have to know where to find them. Go to the other islands, go back to Miami for a weekend. Or, let’s have Bella train some newbies.”

  As we were talking shop, the High Priestess of Sorendi came into view, strutting her regal self across the sands in a pretty navy blue tank and wrap skirt with flat Bohemian sandals. “Bonsoir, gentlemen. Mr. Giovanetti, may I have a word?” Natasha cocked her head and gave me a pointed look with those on-fleek eyebrows of hers.

  “See you later, buddy. Enjoy tonight’s party at Hideaway.” I clapped Simon on the shoulder and trudged through the sand to Natasha. “What’s up, Tasha?”

  “Sir, just a little concerned. Your guest in Villa One hasn’t come up for air. Her shades are drawn, her screen to the outside world is closed, and she hasn’t ordered any room service or called anyone for any assistance.”

  “Tasha, she’s a writer. And a normal, everyday middle-class citizen. They don’t call people for room service or bother staff at all hours of the night.” Tasha shook her head in despair. “Don’t worry, I’ll go check on her. Ask these people at the bar if they’d like a tour of the island. They got here yesterday and haven’t moved from that spot.”

  “Oui, monsieur. Thank you. Please let me know if the writer is alive,” Tasha said, finally cracking a smile.

  “I will.” Actually, it wasn’t a bad idea. It hadn’t happened yet, but I fully expected that one day, someone would turn up dead at my resort, so it’d be good to practice protocol. I headed off toward the beach villas, polishing off the rest of my drink and landing it on top of a waiter’s tray as he strolled by. “Thanks, Roger.”

  “Anytime, boss.”

  “Oh, wait, Roger?” I jogged up to him, as he swiveled in his spot. “What do you have there? Is that someone’s dinner?”

  “Yes, sir. Mango barbecue ribs, coconut slaw, and sweet potato fries.”

  I snatched the wooden tray right from his hands. “Thanks, I’ll take this. Have them whip you up another one, man.”

  “Will do, sir.” Roger jogged away, no doubt miffed that I’d taken his delivery, but I needed an excuse to knock on Miss Jones’s door. I walked all the way down the beach, down the dock, and up to Villa One, a trail I was familiar with for reasons I wasn’t exactly proud of.

  I knocked.

  Nobody came. No movement inside the villa. Not even a shift of shades. I knocked again.

  Finally, a pair of red-rimmed eyes appeared through the open window. “I didn’t order any room service.”

  “This is not room service.”

  “No? Then, what’s that you’re holding?”

  “This is a food offering for the goddess who lives here. Might she be in?” I knew it was stupid, but I wasn’t as funny as she was, and I wanted to hear her crack jokes again. I didn’t like when Miss Jones was sad and tired with pink-rimmed eyes.

  Tiny lines appeared around her mouth—the inkling of a smile. She disappeared from the window and unlatched the door. “I’m not a goddess. I’m a tired writer who can’t stop checking in at home.”

  “Checking in? What do you mean? Oh, and here.” She was blocking my way by wedging her slim body through the narrow space in the doorway, so I couldn’t enter and set the tray down. I handed it to her instead.

  “Seriously, I don’t want any…ugh, fine.” She accepted the tray and retreated to set it on the table. Inside, it was dark. Unnaturally dark. One of our complimentary candles was lit, and the only other light came from the computer screen.

  “That can’t be good for your eyes.”

  “Sorry, I was writing, and it got dark. I was too lazy to stand and turn on a light. Sometimes, I forget what time it is or that I need food.”

  “Not a problem,” I said, holding onto the door frame. “So…we got reports of an incredibly loud silence coming from this villa. Just wanted to make sure you were alright. Speaking of which…” It was a risk, pushing too far into a guest’s business, but I made it my business to ensure my guests were happy. “Are you okay?”

  Her pale, freckled face darkened into thought. For someone living right on the ocean, she was about as faraway as any guest we’d ever had. “I don’t know. I guess I’m okay. I…” The door drew back a bit. “You want to come in? I feel bad that you’re standing there.”

  “I feel bad that you’re hiding in the dark. I’m a good listener, by the way.”

  The funny girl from the other day wasn’t around. As I stepped into the familiar room, it was odd to be entering a space that usually belonged to Tatianne, but Paris gave it a whole different feel. I imagined a writer’s lair might be strewn with clothes and balled-up pieces of paper, but the room was tidy, albeit filled with sadness and indecision.

  Set next to her laptop, her phone was dinging. A lot. Not a sound that blended in with the natural setting very well. She noticed me noticing it. “Oh, uh…” She flew over to it and set it on silent mode. “Just a friend from home, wanting to see how I was doing.”

  A friend from home. Yeah, sure thing, love.

  I did her a favor and opened up the shuttered doors. The cabins had no air conditioner, not that any was needed, but it didn’t make sense to have this amazing place to yourself and not at least enjoy the view while writing. “The sun is good for you.” I smiled, now that I could see her face better. Leaning against the open frame, I crossed my arms and waited for her to unload whatever was on her mind. There was no way I could ask her about the blog posts right now when she was obviously going through something.

  “I should probably open that more often. You must think I’m a hermit. What exactly is it that you do around here, Tristan?”

  Totally expected that question, and my answer was ready. “Well…I give boat rides, make sure the guests are having fun, show them around the island. Basically, I’m a friend if you need one.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. I did enjoy those activities.

  “I see. Because I looked up the staff here online and didn’t see you under any kind of services, management, or anything.”

  Ah. Yes. A woman well-versed in Internet. None of our names appeared on any of our sites, since we didn’t exactly hold management positions, and the last thing we needed was anyone directly contacting the owner of the establishments. “I was just added. They haven’t updated the site yet.”

  “I see.” She knew I was lying.

  “Yeah, so…” Moving right along! I watched Paris shift around
the villa like an unsettled ghost who didn’t know where to haunt. “You were funny the day you arrived. Smart, sassy…like your essay. I liked it.” And beautiful. She reminded me of a photo shoot model for gingers of Ireland, except with slightly darker hair. “Did something happen recently?”

  She shifted to the opposite frame, staring out. She was dressed in a terrycloth one-piece short suit that banded over her breasts, making her look like some pale flower child. “My life…it’s just complicated. There’s nothing terrible about it, but I guess I’m having a hard time letting go. Even three thousand miles away, I have a hard time.”

  “That happens to a lot of people when they first get here. Family wants to know how they’re doing, friends keep in touch… You have to tell them you’re on vacation. Tell them you won’t be using your phone much. Trust me, it’s good to disconnect.”

  “Oh, I agree. It’s just…telling that to this person is difficult.” She paused, then laughed silently, her bare shoulders shaking. “Crapshoot, I don’t even know you, and I’m already boring you with a sob story. I am so sorry!”

  “Listen, that’s one of my favorite parts of this job is getting to know different people and why they’re here. Didn’t you ever watch Fantasy Island?”

  Her face twisted into a knot. “Uh…what kind of show is that, Tristan?”

  “It’s this eighties drama where people arrive on an island to fulfill their deepest fantasies. The island’s host, Mr. Roarke, starts every show by telling his assistant, Tattoo, a little bit about each guest that arrives. It was heartwarming and sometimes funny.”

  “You said heartwarming.”

  “Yes, I’ve been known to use vocabulary.”

  “Sounds like quality television at its best.”

  “Actually, it was. The point is that everyone has a unique story. I’d be up for hearing yours anytime, if it would help.”

  Her phone vibrated off the hook. Seriously? Who the fuck kept calling her? I wanted to grab the stupid thing and chuck it into the water. I knew it wouldn’t earn us good reviews, but I didn’t care anymore. Let the woman fucking rest!

  Paris glanced at the phone, visibly stressed. Maybe me standing here judging her for letting whoever was calling to continue harassing was stressing her out even more. “What do you for a living, besides write?” I tried changing the subject. “Or is that your main job?”

  I knew she wasn’t published, because she’d written “undiscovered author” in her essay, but I did see a Paris Jones living in Ohio and working at a travel agency.

  “I write travel copy for an old agency. Hardly anyone ever comes in. In fact, if it weren’t for an account at the senior citizen community down the road from our office, we’d have gone tits-up ages ago. Writing for a living probably disqualifies me for being here. Please don’t tell the owners.” She smiled.

  First, I imagined her “tits-up” in the water and had to shake off the image. Second… “I won’t. You won fair and square. But it does put things into perspective, because you write really well. I know, I read your essay. They shared it with everyone. Yours was sarcastic and funny, the best one of them all. Quite talented.”

  “Thanks, that’s really sweet.” A renewed smile appeared, stretching across her face. She took a deep breath, stepped onto the dock facing the setting sun, and began chewing on the edge of her finger nail. Sexy. She knew what needed to be done, she just needed help pulling the trigger.

  I was all about getting her wherever she needed to go. And that included any form of “letting go.” I watched her suck on her skin, imagining what else she could do with that mouth.

  “Listen, it may be none of my business, but this is what I’ve gathered so far—a really sweet, gorgeous girl is overworked, racing against the clock, because she wants to finish her novel before time is up and she has to return home to work, but…the pressure of finishing is stressing her out even more, and some guy keeps compounding the situation. Am I right?”

  I registered the look of shock in her honey eyes.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. So…want to go out tonight?”

  Her mouth moved as if to say something, but no words came out.

  “I don’t mean as a date. I just mean, let’s get you out there.” Why did I have to point out it wouldn’t be a date? That was insulting. “Or a date would be good too. As long as it gets you out of here.” Actually, a date would be perfect. She wasn’t like anyone I’d gone out with before. Maybe that was a good thing.

  I followed her stare past me to the most beautiful beach I’d ever known. I fell in love with this place from the moment we found out it was for sale all because of that shoreline right here. That’s why I’d gotten dibs on it and called my side of the island Paradise Bay. How nobody had snatched it up and developed it a long time ago was freakin’ nuts.

  “I don’t know, Tristan. I forgot what it’s like to be out there, and I have work to do.”

  “Augh, you’re killing me. Don’t use that word—work. Tell me you have writing to do, words and new lands to fall in love with, but don’t say you’re going to work, Paris. Be positive. Let’s get you in that water, under that sun at some point, huh? Have you seen the stars here at night? It’s freakin’ crazy.” Risking the friendship we’d developed so far, I reached for her hand. “Come on, you need a break. Seriously. That way, you’ll be refreshed for writing later.”

  Paris’s sad eyes brightened. I was glad to see that. Normally, this villa was filled with the sounds of Tatianne bitching about something, so I was loving the softer, sweeter presence within it. She slid her warm, small hand into mine, but it was only to shake it. I tried not to let the disappointment get to me. “You’re being super nice, and I appreciate you trying. I really do. But my problems run deep. There’s…stuff I need to get out of my brain before I can walk under starlight with a totally hot guy. Not that you’re hot or anything. Errm…”

  “No offense taken.”

  “Good.” She laughed, and there it was—that smile. It could light up this room all by itself. “Maybe next time?”

  And just like that, I’d been rejected. My first “no thanks” ever from a gorgeous woman at my own island paradise. I kissed her hand, watched her lips part in surprise, and bid her a pleasant evening. But if there was a surefire way to keep me thinking about her the rest of the night, it was to tell me there would be a next time.

  Chapter 5

  “‘Maybe next time?’” Grace’s perturbed tone blasted through the ether right up against my eardrum. “You said ‘maybe next time’ to an incredibly gorgeous man who likes to bring you food and check in on you? Maybe next time?”

  “Grace, he’s paid to do that. It’s probably in his job description: Hot guy with big guns needed to seduce women at island resort, boost self-esteem, and provide food. Huge cock a must.”

  “I’m failing to see the problem here,” Grace stammered. “Just order the freakin’ steak, babe!”

  “Grace, he’s not a piece of meat on sale at Kroger’s.” Call me crazy, but despite my essay description, I really did not come all this way to sleep with any beefy men, even if my body was arguing the complete opposite. I hadn’t been intimate with anyone since Ben in almost two years, though my pillow would beg to differ.

  “You are not cooperating, Paris. You’re supposed to be on a once-in-a-lifetime vacation, and instead, you’re worried about freakin’ Ben. Fuck Ben! Ben is fine.”

  “Ben is not fine. He was bad the last time I saw him.”

  “So? You can’t change him, hon, but you can change you. So, I swear, if you don’t go out there right now and find that man—”

  “Grace, Grace, I’m sorry,” I pulled the phone away from my face to make my voice sound distant, “but it sounds like we’re having a bad connection. It’s too many miles. Bad…reception…here…hurricane…on…way…crrk…”

  I hung up.

  Why had I called her when I knew how she’d react? I needed to tell someone what had happened, how sweltering hot Tr
istan had appeared in my villa and invited me out. And I’d acted like a total douche, all the while Ben’s texts kept coming in a few feet away about how much he missed me, begging me not to find any new guys on the island, and how he would change, how he had started to change, but I had given up on him too easily.

  Same. Damn. Story. Every time.

  I was long tired of hearing the same promises, but I didn’t know how to put a nail in this coffin. I felt sorry for him. I cared about him, but I wasn’t in love anymore. I just desperately wanted him to be okay.

  Staring at the same five words in my story over and over, there was no way I could get back into it. I was blanking on the next chapter, Ben’s last text, “I miss you,” made me feel like shit, and Grace meant well but didn’t understand. I wouldn’t be writing any more tonight. Mood officially gone. Changing into my new green and blue bikini and matching sarong, I pulled my hair into a ponytail, grabbed my key, and stared at my phone.

  Do not, Paris. Leave it behind.

  But what if Grace called about Cujo? What if my mother miraculously called tonight, even though she never did? What if I suddenly got a story idea and had no place to jot it down? I grabbed the phone and headed out.

  You suck, Paris. You are Queen of Suck.

  Paradise Bay at night was a completely different kind of wow. Still beautiful, alluring, seductive, and enchanting, only now…magically dark. As soon as my feet hit the sand, I took off my sandals and proceeded barefoot. The sand, which had absorbed heat all day, felt warm and silky between my toes. Above, the sky was black velvet on which an entire jar of silver glitter had been spilled. Individual stars pulsated, and I found a choice spot in the middle of the beach to sit and watch the stellar show.

  A few couples sat huddled, or walked, or laid together on nearly desolate parts of the beach. Paradise Bay wasn’t a huge hotel-like resort but more a collection of villas and cabanas scattered throughout partially hidden by trees. A few lanterns were on here or there, mostly from boats anchored offshore, and the warm night was filled with smells of salt, flowers, and sweetness.