Paradise Bay: Resort 1 (Surrender Isle #1)

by Havana Scott

  Simon shrugged warily. “That’s not going to go over very well. Hey, can we talk about this later? I have to go talk to someone. Nice to meet you, Miss Jones.” Simon took her hand and kissed the top of it. “Paris, a lovely name.”

  And just like that, we were alone again, and Paris looked like she’d just gotten her brains scrambled in a blender. “Let me get this straight. You tell me you own this entire resort. You ask me to write copy for your business, and it has to be done fast, even though I’m working on a novel right now.”

  I cringed. “I am so sorry…”

  “And then, you invite me to stay as long as it takes to write a photo book, which could be months, maybe longer, so you figure you’ll throw money at me until I work for you too. Am I right so far?”

  “That would be correct.” I knew where she was going with this. I was out of my goddamned mind. “I mean, you’re your own person, of course. You can decline all of this. However, you wouldn’t work for me, Paris. It’d be freelance. I’d be your client.”

  Despite her uneasiness with it, it was, for all intents and purposes, a pretty good fucking deal for a person with no family, no children back home. The only hurdle I could foresee was that novel she wanted to finish. And possibly that ex that wanted her back. But she wouldn’t give into that fool, would she?

  “Right, I figured.” She pressed her lips together in exasperated thought. “Several months here, huh? In this island paradise, doing what I love to do—write. You drive a hard bargain, Tristan.”

  I stepped closer to her and inhaled the sweet scent of her skin. “It’s not the only thing I know how to drive hard. And yes.” I let my fingertips graze the sharp angles of her chin. “That is how I get the things I want in life, by driving a hard bargain.” Maybe I was hiding beneath the excuse of needing her services to write a book about our resort, but I suspected there was more.

  I’d suddenly asked Paris to stay longer because I wanted to keep her close by—in Sorendi Isle. Where I could help her one-on-one, coach, and push her. Oh, and also because I was a selfish bastard who just wanted her close to me, safely away from those who held her back. Because I cared for her. Because I wanted to see her succeed. Not struggling on her own, but here…with me.

  Chapter 11

  Slap me with a dead fish.

  Was any of this really happening? First, Tristan told me he pulled the strings around here. Then he turned out to be one of three owners of the whole freakin’ island. Then, right there in front of that Simon guy, he pitched a book for me to write, assuring me that not only would he pay me for writing it (never mind if it even sells), but he would let me stay in the villa as long as I needed too.

  On Sorendi Isle.

  The most magical exotic place I’d ever been.

  Pinch me now!

  Not only was Tristan gorgeous, sexy as fuck, and spending his time with me, a girl so under his league, but he was also head honcho of these mystical lands. How did I not know it? He was pretty persistent about getting me to succeed, yes, but otherwise seemed a free spirit, with the whole boat captain persona. I know it’s playing to stereotypes, but I’d always imagined hotel or resort owners as sixty-year-old men with bad hair toting twenty-year old girls in their laps. Men who flashed their wealth around.

  I would’ve loved to spend the night with Tristan after the luau, see him for the new person he was, but I needed time to process everything and think about whether or not I wanted to accept his offer. I returned to the villa to sleep, ignored a slew of drunk texts from Ben without even reading past the first line—Sugarbearrrrr I love youuuuuuu—and got up early to write another chapter of my novel.

  Glancing back at the rest of Ben’s texts, I saw they were more of the same, only they progressed in pathetic intensity as the night wore on: I thought we were still friends but you’re not talking to me anymore… Tell me what’s up, Sugarbearrrrrr, what’ve you been up tooooooo?

  I put my phone on silent and stared at the wall. How long was I going to keep giving Ben attention? At some point, I was going to have to tell him to stop texting and just forget about me. If only I could do that without fearing that he’d fall apart. I shoved the phone in my bag and headed out, feeling guilty about not replying.

  Because I’d gotten good work done in the last few days, I wanted to see more of the island, especially if I might be writing about it. Things were starting to happen for me. A year ago, I never imagined I’d be offered a writing job for someone else’s book, yet here I was—all expenses paid in the middle of paradise.

  The beach was a great place to start.

  I had a lot to think about.

  The surf crept up, bubbled around my feet, then pulled back to reveal tiny air bubbles in the sand. Overhead, a flurry of seagulls fought over something in the sand. Out on the water, Booty Catcher was anchored in its usual spot, but Tristan wasn’t on the deck. He was either in his cabin, diving, or had swam to shore. How had he gotten to be owner of this resort and island? And, I hated to think of him this way, but…exactly how much money did he have?

  I hated to think of him differently now, because to me, he was still the same Tristan. Except he wasn’t. He was more powerful now, I had to admit. More attractive? Maybe. More difficult to keep his attention? That part scared me. I wasn’t exactly supermodel gorgeous like Natasha or every.single.woman on this beach. Like Miss Topless laying over there, and Ms. Topless cavorting down the beach, and Miss Perfect Ass heading back to her villa over there.

  Sigh. What did Tristan see in Plain Old Me? Was I a quick conquest, soon to be replaced by a hotter, richer woman? I had to admit, the thought scared the Pop-Tarts out of me.

  I couldn’t obsess this way. If he liked spending time with me, it was because he found me to be interesting somehow, so it was imperative that I keep being me. Venturing toward the pool area, quiet this morning in the aftermath of a pretty festive luau last night, I spotted his familiar silhouette sitting underneath a tiki hut staring toward the main house, like an artist admiring his sculpture.

  Should I go talk to him? What if he was working, now that I knew he worked? I felt strange about invading his space, but he wasn’t with anyone nor on the phone. Funny how I wouldn’t have thought twice about interrupting him before, but now that I knew about his role here, I felt like I was an inconvenience or nuisance creeping up on him. That sort of thinking had to stop.

  Slowly, I entered the tiki hut and paused at one of the posts. “Good morning, Mr. Giovanetti.”

  He turned in his seat to face me. “You didn’t say that. It’s Tristan, Paris. Just Tristan.”

  “Sorry. Tristan.” I smiled, coming closer, stopping right next to him. I didn’t know how I was supposed to act. “I have to admit, I’m feeling sort of lost.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know if I know you anymore. Then again, maybe I never did.”

  His vivid green eyes dampened slightly. “Paris, the only reason I didn’t tell you before was because I didn’t want it to change the way you saw me. I wanted to get to know you, and for you to know me with nothing else to alter that view.”

  “And yet, you know that I’m a copywriter wanting to be an author. How does that affect the way you see me? Does knowing that about me make you feel sorry for me? Make you want to help me out, make you take pity on me? It’s the same thing, Tristan. You had an unfair advantage.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for you. If anything, I admire your persistence, your spirit, your dedication. You left the luau last night to try and get more work done. Every other woman there stayed to get drunk and party.”

  “And this is admirable? Yay, me, the party animal.”

  “Paris, you have goals, that’s to be commended.” His eyes narrowed in the glare of the sunlight. For a moment, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be for him—his friend, his lover, his girlfriend, or his resort guest. But then, he stretched out his hand, and I had to admit, I was relieved. “Come here.”

  I slipped my hand into
his, and he pulled me onto his lap. For some reason, I dropped my head onto his shoulder and nearly cried. “I’m terrified, Tristan.”

  “Of what?”

  “I feel like I’m on the edge of some change. Like something is about to happen, but I don’t know what it is. I arrived here, not expecting much, only to work, and instead, I discovered you, and that scares me like you have no idea.”

  “I realize I can be ugly and frightening, and I’m sorry.”

  I slapped his shoulder, eliciting a burst of laughter. “I’m serious, Tristan. I found you, and you’re more wonderful than I could ever imagine, and that scares me. I thought I would mind my own business, and instead, you’re offering me a writing job and an indefinite stay. What’s going to happen? How do I go home to my boring life after this? How do I live in black and white after I’ve experienced TechniColor?”

  His expression changed, like an eclipse moving over a very full moon. He sat with his arms linked around my waist, just thinking. It felt nice to be sitting in a lap strong enough to support me—a rich, powerful business man at that. “There’s no guarantee. Listen. We could plan. We could plan your life for the next six months, but none of it might ever come to fruition. If there’s anything I learned getting my MBA, it’s plan for the future but live in the present.”

  “I know I’m living too much in the past. In my mistakes and in those I hurt.”

  “Love, sometimes you just have to let go and let people find their own way. Your ex will start to rebuild his life when he stops depending on you.”

  “Stop making so much sense.”

  He was right. It was why I’d started responding to Ben’s texts less and less. But it still hurt, knowing I’d told him I’d take care of him and then, when he got to be too much for me to handle, I’d cut him loose. I nodded but didn’t open that can of worms anymore. Instead, I said, “Writing a book for you while staying here is tempting. Very tempting.”

  “About that, I spoke to my business partners last night, and we agreed it was a good idea. A nice glossy photographic travel book singing Sorendi Isle’s praises is just what we need. There aren’t any in stores currently, only books about the West Indies or the Caribbean islands in general.”

  “I know. I researched what was out there just this morning.”

  “Will you do it? Reece checked out all your travel articles, and he seemed very impressed. That’s a good sign. Reece isn’t easily impressed.”

  “Thank you. It really sounds great, but I’m worried.”

  “About what?”

  “About staying here longer. As it is, my friend Grace agreed to watch my cat a month.”

  “We’ll bring the cat here.”

  I shook my head, laughing. “I’m scared I’m going to lose my job.”

  “You have a new job here.”

  “Tristan, after I write for you, I still need to work. I’m not rich like you. I’ll lose my job if I stay. My boss is holding it for now, but I don’t know for how long.”

  “Paris, I’ll make it worth your while,” he said, doing that scoop-thing with his hands and my face again. Why was he making this so irresistible, and why was I so afraid of jumping on the chance?

  “How? You’re going to pay my mortgage while I’m gone? You’re going to cover my bills?”

  “I could.” His eyes bore into me.

  “I won’t let you.”

  “I knew you’d say that.” He smiled. “By then, you’ll have your mystery novel to sell, which it will sell. You’re good at what you do.”

  “What if it doesn’t sell? What if I lose my job? What if, what if, what if?”

  He shifted in his seat, knocking me off balance a bit, and it occurred to me that maybe I was annoying straightforward, no-nonsense Tristan with my indecision. “You could say what if all day and night and let it cripple you, let it stop you from enacting the change you need to succeed, Paris. Or you could think it’s going to work out, create a plan, then make it happen.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” I said, on the verge of tears. “You just think of doing stuff then make it happen? I can’t do that. I admire that you can.”

  “You can too, but you’re scared to. You’re scared of success, and that’s the feeling you’re having of being on the edge of change. Deep down in your heart, you know you’re about to start a new life and you’re scared of the new territory it’ll lead to. You’re scared you’re going to do so well, you’ll have choices of where to live, what to do, what to eat, which car to drive, which friends to keep and which to let go of. Trust me, Paris, I’ve been where you are.”

  Friends to keep and which to let go.

  I think this one bothered me more than anything. Ben held me back, which was why I had to let him go. Doing so had hurt me badly because he’d been a good person, still was—but a fucked-up one who needed to get his shit together before he could ever be with a partner. It was easy to let go of a husband who’d been a dick—but mine had tried to change for the better.

  I had no choice but to cut him loose if I was to move forward.

  “So?” He peered into my face. “You’re still thinking about it?”

  Move forward. Tristan was right, I was scared of succeeding, because then what? The all-encompassing change that could come from it was already overwhelming me, and I hadn’t even decided yet. “Can we spend the day together?” I asked, ignoring his question. For some reason, I needed to move, to get out, go do something. Feel wind on my face, sun on my cheeks. Feel real life all around me.

  “Yeah, that sounds awesome.” He smiled. In his smile, I found the courage to keep going. “I have to move a few things around on my schedule, but that’d be great. You haven’t seen the whole island yet, have you?”

  “Just the beach, the main house, and the grounds.”

  “Have you seen the sugar mill?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “The sugar mill?”

  A sly smile turned up on his face, as though I had much to learn, young grasshopper, then pushed me off the edge of his chair and stretched out his hand. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.” I gave him my hand and followed him. If I couldn’t figure out what I wanted from life, I may as well follow someone who did.

  Forty minutes of hiking through a rainforest filled with flora and fauna the likes of which I’d never seen, about one mile inland, Tristan came to a stop. At first, I thought he was going to point out more colorful frangipani, hibiscus, birds of paradise, monkeys, iguanas, and species of tarantula big enough to decorate front doors with on Halloween back home, but instead, he pointed straight ahead. I caught my first glimpse of it.

  As though I hadn’t taken enough photos, I had to stop and take this in. There, nestled in the middle of the towering canopy was an abandoned sugar plantation, a collection of old brick buildings and rusted machines scattered throughout the yard.

  “See that?” Tristan grabbed my hand and pulled me into the ruins. Right away, I felt years of isolation and burden weigh on me like sacks of sugar on the shoulders of the weary. “Those are coppers. They were used for boiling up cane juice. And that over there? Those are cane crushers which crushed the raw cane.”

  “This is amazing. And super sad. How did you discover this?”

  “Just hiking. That’s what happens when you explore.” He cast a glance at me to see if I caught his double entendre.

  “Yes, I get it. When one leaves the nest, there’s no telling what one might see. Thank you for this symbolic life tutorial.” I reached out to fake-punch his perfect face.

  Tristan stood with one foot on a giant rock and hands on his hips, contemplating his surroundings. “Other islands in the West Indies had plantations that have been converted to bed and breakfasts. I want to fix this up one day and either rent it out or live in it.”

  “You would live here?” I asked. It was actually quite peaceful and beautiful, but so isolated from the modern world.

  “Maybe not every day, but a couple of months out of the year.” He t
urned to me, and I’d never seen a more happy Tristan, like a little kid discovering a fort in his backyard. “Wouldn’t you? The beach and resort is close enough if you’re feeling particularly sociable, but then you retreat here and just listen to music, read, or write.”

  “It’s breathtaking,” I said. I couldn’t say if I would ever want to live here, because my instincts told me no. Then again, I never thought I’d find really happiness in Paradise Bay when I’d come just to take advantage of a free vacation. Now I felt bad that I’d mocked the whole experience in my contest essay when so far, my time here had been nothing less than heavenly.

  “Come on, I’ll show you inside.” Tristan took great pleasure in showing me a stone bridge nearby over a stream leading into the plantation, crumbling stone structures that would make any brides looking for exotic locations for their wedding photo shoots jealous, chimneys sticking up straight out of the ground, indicating secret chambers underground, and he even dredged up a piece of broken pottery from underneath a rock.

  Artifacts were still actually here!

  “Why is it abandoned?” I asked.

  “The sugar industry took a dive. The soil was overused from heavy crops, so farmers moved to other islands. Eventually, this place just stopped working sometime in the 1950s. And look at this…” He led me into a crumbled building still lucky enough to have a roof. Inside was a slab of stone on which Tristan laid down and stretched out. “I come here all the time. I just love laying here looking at that ceiling.”

  As he stared up through the broken ceiling at the trees way above us, I lied down beside him and curled into his body. His massive arm enveloped me, and I didn’t care if he was slightly damp from sweat or that he smelled musty and earthy, like soil, moisture, and Tristan’s own scent. I could fall asleep in his arms just like this. Safe, secure.

  And sooo appealing.

  We stayed there a long time. After what felt like an hour, my eyes clicked open upon hearing the caw of some nearby parrots, and I slid up to his face and awakened him with a kiss. A smile stretched above a darkly stubbly jawline, his eyes still closed, eyelashes so dark and long for a guy, they ought to be illegal. What a beautiful man he was, and not just because he was in charge, a man who obviously knew how to convert dreams to reality, a man with vision, but because he loved what he did. He loved this island; he loved his resort. He didn’t just do it for the money.