Paradise Bay: Resort 1 (Surrender Isle #1)

by Havana Scott

  That kind of man could do wonders for me and my life. That kind of man could show me how to make the most of myself. That kind of man was exactly what this girl needed in her life if I was ever to move turn over a new leaf. “Tristan?”

  “Hmm…”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ll stay and write for you. I’ll accept your offer.” The words were out, so I could not, would not reel them in again. I would follow through now, and the excitement of that prospect sent a thrill coursing through my body.

  His lashes fluttered opened, exposing those earthy emerald irises. “I’ll make it worth your time.” And then began the slowest, sexiest kiss he’d ever given me. Screw that—the slowest, sexiest kiss anyone had ever given me in all my life. Tristan inhaled my every sigh, every moan when he grazed my shoulders, touched my breasts, lightly pinched my nipples through my halter top. With his mouth on my neck, and his breath on my collarbone, and his lips and tongue outlining the top curve of my breast, I felt myself floating, losing my worried self behind.

  A slow dance began where he led every move, and I succumbed to his naughtiest wishes. Even as he removed every bit of my clothing right there in “public,” even as he kissed me deep between my legs, even as he hovered over me, feeding his stiff, straining body to my open needy mouth, kneeling before me and plunging deep into my pussy in the most passionate way I knew how, he controlled it all.

  I was only along for the ride.

  There was something liberating about telling him I’d accept his offer and stay. We had more time now to learn about each other, to love and make love, to slow things down and fuck sweetly, manically, soft, hard, it didn’t matter, whether it be back at my villa or on the beach at night, or on his boat, or right here in this abandoned sugar mill late into the afternoon until the stars began coming out.

  With my “yes,” I’d blessed myself with more time. Whether I’d chosen to stay because of the work he’d offered or because I needed to immerse myself in his kiss and hands and hips as often as I could, I wasn’t sure, but for the first time in a long time, I was satisfied. Pleased and satisfied with a decision I called my own.

  Chapter 12

  Something lit a fire under Paris’s butt.

  Financial motivation perhaps.

  The chance to see hidden gems of Sorendi Isle over more time.

  The chance to be with me…

  Whatever it was, it had set her soul on fire, because she got to work on the travel book right away. Our lawyers drafted up a boilerplate contract, and I offered her ten thousand to write the best book she could, while Natasha put out a call to our favorite photographer, Sean Gibbons, to come and shoot the island.

  Somehow, some way, we would make this work.

  I totally felt guilty taking Paris’s time away from her novel, but here was the way I saw it: if she worked on nothing but her own book, in two weeks’ time, she’d be gone. Goodbye, Paris. It’s back to Dayton for you. But under my plan, she got to write about Sorendi Isle while vacationing on Sorendi Isle, making three times as much money as what she’d be making back at that travel agency in Dayton, and she’d have bought herself more time to write her novel.

  Boom, baby!

  And that was how I made time and money work for you.

  Not to mention the best perk of all, she got to stay here with me.

  It was a win-win, any way you looked at it, and I was proud of her for having the good sense to realize it.

  The only bug up my ass was that ex of hers texting day and night. As much as I wanted to chuck that fucking phone out of her villa, who was I to tell her how to let go and live? Me, if something was dragging you down, you removed the problem. End of story. But Paris felt like she had to slowly wean this guy off her. To me, that was too long to rip the Band-Aid. I would say this—I’d never been married, so I didn’t know shit about it.

  I would say that dude needed serious help.

  I didn’t think that Paris could stay friends with him, as much as she was trying.

  But hey.

  We spent the next week working and hiking, working and diving, working and having hot sex in her villa, finally on a bed, in the shower. Because we’d be spending more time together, the days felt less impulsive, so we spent a lot of time learning about each other. I told her about college and how I invested in restaurants, how I made money by setting small goals then setting new goals once those were reached, how I bought businesses for cheap then flipped them for profit.

  In turn, she told me about her marriage to Ben, how she believed that he would change. For me, that would’ve been a red flag right from the start, because tigers rarely changed their stripes. However, Paris was a woman of faith, and she believed in him. She trusted him then felt stupid when the dude let her down. I felt bad for her, but also for Ben too. Yes, she had me feeling sorry for the guy, the fact that he couldn’t get his act together long enough to keep from losing his wife.

  Damn. Better luck next time, kid.

  I knew that Paris was trying to do good by staying friends with him, but to me, Ben was getting worse. Something wasn’t right. Co-dependency kept Paris in this vicious cycle of feeling like she needed to help him. I didn’t want to be the one to break it to her, because I wanted her focused and happy more than anything, but that guy needed to see a therapist—STAT.

  Even talking about hard times, she and I spent some of the most wonderful days I’d ever spent on Sorendi Isle with anyone. Even now, watching her work out on the dock, swinging in her hammock while I cooked up pan-fried shrimp and artichoke pasta, it was like watching a garden blossoming before my very eyes. Like those slow-motion time-lapse cameras that depict every stage of the petals opening until the tender pink irises in the middle are beautifully exposed. Like that moment when the camera zooms in to capture that view, because it won’t last long and you need to enjoy it while you can.

  That was Paris while “living” here.

  Raw, exposed, and free to grow.

  With each chapter she finished, she shared it with me, and I couldn’t believe how vivid her descriptions were. Reading her words made me want to visit Sorendi Isle, and I was already there. It became clearer than ever that writing was what Paris was meant to do, like me and hotel management. We couldn’t have hired a more perfect writer for our vision. She exuded the awe and feeling of being mesmerized that we wanted buyers to feel.

  For hours, I’d work while she’d tap-tap-tap away at her laptop, ask me a question, or immerse herself again in her manuscript. It reminded me of my father, which brought me back home to childhood. A woman who could do that was a beautiful thing. Every so often, I’d wolf-whistle from a distance, because I liked how she looked so fucking cute sitting cross-legged in her white bikini, facing the sun. She’d hear me and turn her toasted face over her shoulder, a simple, happy grin letting me know she was alright.

  The only impending issue I could foresee was Tatianne.

  According to her last email to Natasha, she’d be arriving in a couple of weeks, which gave me time to think about how to deal with her visit. Not that Tatianne was my girlfriend—she definitely wasn’t—but sometimes, Tatianne forgot this. Our arrangement was purely pecuniary, though she was convinced it was more. Tatianne had forked over the last four million I’d needed to pay my part of the island, and I hated—hated owing her money, even though I was more than grateful. She knew it and kept me wrapped around her finger, but I couldn’t wait for the day when I could drop those four million right into her lap and bid her adieu forever.

  I was feeling guilty for thinking this way about Tatianne when I realized it must be similar to how Paris felt about Ben. The realization slapped me over the head, but I wasn’t ready to talk to her about it. I didn’t want her telling me “I told you so.”

  “Hey, love, I’m going to meet Simon to get some work done. I’ll see you later.” I grabbed my lucky UM hat from the floor and slipped it on. I never attended a business meeting witho
ut it. It’d been on my head during the sale of every restaurant, club, and hotel I’d ever purchased.

  She didn’t move.

  I’d already learned that when Paris didn’t get up to hug me or even look at me, I shouldn’t think anything of it. She was a writer doing what writers do, losing themselves in her own worlds. There was something intensely beautiful about that, and I took out my phone and snapped a pic of her facing the ocean on the dock, so I could show her later.

  At our usual meeting tiki hut, I found Simon poring over a spreadsheet, green highlighter in hand. I sat down and put my feet up, ordering a glass of fresh orange juice from Bella.

  “Hey, buddy. Just going over a few numbers.” Simon didn’t look up.

  “How do they look?”

  “Not terrible, but could be better. Paris’s travel book is a risk, but I’m hoping to get it translated, so we can get it into the European and Asian markets too. How quickly can we get it published?” He finally looked up. For the first time in a while, I saw Simon’s worry lines.

  “She’s still writing, been working her ass off all week, in addition to working on her own stuff. Give her a break.”

  He glanced up from his highlighter-to-paper pose. “I’m just asking, Tristan. Do you think we can have it self-published by mid-August, market it, and see if that helps us book a hundred percent from October to December?”

  “Seems hopeful, but I think so. We have three incredible resorts here, Simon. We just don’t know how to separate ourselves from similar destinations, like the Maldives, so for some reason, everyone keeps looking up the Maldives. We need to put Sorendi on the map too, and I think Paris has solved that issue, but she won’t tell me what it is. The girl is working her ass off.”

  “The girl is working her ass off?”

  “Yeah. Problem with that?”

  “No. It’s just not you. You didn’t care how hard Dalia was working when you literally shipped her back to Barbados with Reece a few months back. Why is this girl different?”

  “Because this girl isn’t fucking up, like Dalia was.” I heard the resentment in my own voice, but I knew it was because Simon was catching on.

  Simon capped his highlighter and tapped it against his folder. “You like her, don’t you? You have this thing in your voice where you’re trying hard not to show you care about her, but it’s obvious.”

  “Of course I like her. What’s not to like?” Totally phlegmatic and cool, I scoffed.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit. You’re banging her, aren’t you?” Simon’s eyebrows perked up at his own insinuation. As true as it may be. “Holy shit, you’re banging her!”

  “Simon, banging is a word for troglodytes. We’re nearing thirty, my friend.”

  “Twenty-eight, and banging is a good, solid word. Since when did you become a grammar Nazi? Oh, wait, since you started banging the copywriter.” He snorted out a belly laugh. “So tell me, bro, how did this happen?”

  I sighed, twirling my sunglasses around in my hands. Simon, Simon, Simon. “I don’t know. It just happened. The more I look at her, the more I just admire her all the time. I admire her tenacity, her talent, and I find her incredibly beautiful.”

  “Wow, you’ve got it bad.” Simon shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t get it, though.”

  “What? What don’t you get?” It wasn’t so much a real question as a prompt for him to answer. I already knew what was coming.

  “Dude…she’s cute. I mean, don’t get me wrong. But you’ve been with Briana, Anna Nicole, Imogen, with Vivianne, with Tatianne Moreau…I mean, come on.” Simon whistled and shook his head, as if to indicate how incredibly hot all those women were. Tatianne especially. “And Tatianne is not only magazine cover beautiful but rich and older. Rrowr.”

  “Then you go fuck her, Simon. You just don’t know. None of them compare to this girl.”

  “Tristan, I hate to paint it this way, but the writer, as cute as she may be, has nothing to offer you. A world of problems, baggage, a history of financial disaster for you to inherit, no doubt, if I know anything about writers. Tatianne, though…” He indicated large breasts. “Has much to offer you, is obviously in love with you, always has been. Why don’t you give her the time of day?”

  “Who says I don’t, Simon? I play host to her every time she’s here, in more ways than one. Friends with benefits and all that. But our arrangement is based on friendship and money, that’s it. She’s too high maintenance for me and besides, she’s needy.”

  “Needy?” His lips farted a long string of raspberries. “That woman needs absolutely nothing from you. You should be lucky she even wants to be near you, much less share her money with you. There’s nothing needier than a woman who needs money, Tristan.” He tapped his forehead. “Think about that.”

  “Alright, bro, I don’t have to explain this to you, but I’ll try, because I hold out hope for you that your bachelor mentality may one day end. There’s something refreshing about Paris Jones and the fact that she needs help but is determined to help herself first. The fact that she could conceivably take all my money, because I like her that much, and use it to live comfortably, but she doesn’t is pretty fucking alluring, I have to say. A woman who won’t let me take care of her. I had to pay her for services for her to even let me help her. If that makes any sense.”

  “What kind of service?” Simon raised an eyebrow.

  “Not the kind you pay for regularly, buddy.”

  “Fine. I’ll play your game. So why do you want to help her so much? Because your dad tried being a writer? That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Tried being a writer. How about my dad was a writer? Even though he couldn’t find the financial stability to follow his dreams. “Maybe.” Did I have an ulterior motive for wanting Paris to stay with us longer? Was I unconsciously trying to save my dad or something? And if I was, was that so terrible?

  “Tatianne is dying for you to show her some love. Last time she was here, she told me this next trip would be her last ditch effort to seduce you to the tit side. I mean, to the Tat Side.”

  “What makes you think Tatianne is in love with me?”

  “Dude, she’s been waiting for your bachelor streak to end for years. Since we sold La Traviata. Well-off guys always have a woman or two waiting for them to succumb to married life, and Tatianne has been investing in you more than she has in Paradise Bay. She was in love with you even when René was still alive. She was in love with you when he passed away, and she’s in love with you now. She’s just hoping you’ll ‘wake up and realize it.’” He used finger air quotes. “Anyway.” In his finality, Simon returned to highlighting the ledger.

  If all that were true, she’d be waiting a long time.

  Because I was pretty certain…though it’d been seven years since I last felt this way, but…I was almost positive I was falling for Paris. And if falling for Paris meant that Tatianne would get upset and demand her money back, so be it. I never thought of her as being in love with me, but now that Simon mentioned it, I could see it. I felt bad for her—I really, truly did, if all Simon said were true—but Tatianne would always fall under Business Contacts in my book.

  Chapter 13

  “Surely, you must have a nice house somewhere.”

  The comment came out of nowhere, as I was working on an article about Sorendi Isle that Tristan and Simon were dying to submit to BuzzFeed. They’d agreed with my idea that an article defining the island as a place to let go of your past was necessary before publishing the photo book.

  “Come again?” Tristan looked up from his iPad from the bed in my villa. I was so used to seeing him there that I was starting to miss him when he wasn’t.

  “Sorry.” I smiled sheepishly. I’d been wondering if Tristan had ever owned a house. Because I always saw him on his boat. Though it was a nice yacht by my standards, it wasn’t exactly the type of place a millionaire-billionaire-gagillionaire would live as a permanent residence. “It just occurred to me that I’ve never seen you
in a house or a villa or anything other than your boat. Do you own a house on the island?”

  “I own four.”

  Whoa. “All on the island?”

  “No, different places.”

  “But you don’t like spending time in them?”

  “What is this, an interrogation?”

  Double whoa. Why was he upset when I was just asking a question? In fact, whenever I’d broached the subject of money, he seemed to get antsy. Fair enough. He was probably used to women who wanted to know exactly how much was in his 401K. But I just wanted to know if he had a house.

  “Sorry, that was rude. I’m just going over numbers and stress hit me.”

  “It’s okay. No problem.” Carson had talked to me in much worse ways, so really, it was fine.

  “No, it’s not okay,” he said. “It’s never okay to be rude. Let’s see, I’ve always been an outdoor person. I do have a house, but I only go there when I need to grab a change of clothes, look for something…shower.” He laughed. “The last few years have taken me outside more. The ocean is comforting and dependable, and a lot prettier than the box I’m supposed to live in.”

  “I agree. It is. I never really knew how immensely breathtaking the ocean could be until I lived on one for almost three weeks. Thank you, Tristan. I have that because of you.”

  “You have it because of you. You’re the one who thought of the words funny enough to capture my attention. You’re the ones who described a place so beautifully, even in your attempt to mock it. You’re just that good. Give yourself more credit, Paris.”

  “I do.” That was another thing I’d improved since living here, a renewed sense of inner strength. I had to say that Tristan’s confidence and belief in achieving things was starting to rub off on me. Why couldn’t I have felt this way a lot sooner? “Can you show it to me?”