Paradise Bay: Resort 1 (Surrender Isle #1)

by Havana Scott

  I shook my head fervently. “I can’t let you take care of Ben. It’s a huge undertaking. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. This is my problem.”

  “Paris, I’ll only call his parents, see him every couple of days, be his friend, same as you would do. I can even get my brother to go over there and have a few beers with him, whatever. You know what I mean? We’ll get him to move back to Pittsburgh. I’m sorry, but I have to put my foot down on this.”

  Damn, she was making this tough. Or too easy for me, rather. “I can move on, Grace. I can. It’s just…I have to know that Ben is going to be okay before I do. There’s something inside of me that’s not letting me.”

  “It’s called guilt. But listen, babe, if—when—you go back to Sorendi, I can lie to you and tell you he’s okay, but the truth is—he might not be. You have to be ready to hear that. In which case, you still need to move on.”

  Crap, the truth hurt like fucksticks. Yes, there was always the possibility that Ben may never pull out of this, that he would struggle with depression his whole life, that nobody would be able to help him. But I had a life to live, whether he improved or not. I had a right to happiness. I’d never signed on to be someone’s crutch.

  Grace’s thumb slid across my eyelids. I had no idea I was crying again. “I’ll hold the fort down for a while. I’ll see if Mrs. Porter owes you anything, so you’ll have some money for a return flight. There’s nothing for you here in Dayton, Paris.”

  “There’s you.” I bumped heads with her. God may not have blessed me with a sister in this life, but at least there was Grace. I was terrified of going back for other reasons Grace may never understand. “You know,” I said. “I’m not from Tristan’s world of rich buddies and investors and golden suntans all year round. I’m not from his world of high business and luxury. Now that I’m back, I feel like I never was a real part of it at all.”

  “Shut…up…before I hurt you,” Grace said. “From what I see in those selfies and the fact that he hired you, he really cares for you. But I’m going to forgive this crap I’m hearing because I know you’re tired and overwhelmed. Go home, take a nap, and I’ll come over later with Cujo. He misses you.”

  “Silly cat.”

  “Yeah, but he’s pretty cute. Except for the drool.”

  “Grace…if I go back to Sorendi Isle, what about you? You’re my sister from another mother. I love you. I love how you talk mean to me.”

  She took my hand. “Paris? Do you think you’re getting rid of me? After you’ve married the resort mogul and become richer than the Queen, you’re inviting me for an extended vacation and buying me my own cabin there. Did you think I was offering help all for nothing?”

  I laughed hard, my chest expanding and abs pushing out breaths I’d been holding. “Deal.”

  When Grace left, I went back to check on Ben one more time. I held his hand and waited for his eyes to reopen. Not that I would ever, ever want Ben in the hospital again, but his being here gave me the excuse to hold his hand again. We’d been through so much shit together. Our bond, though changing, was undeniable. His eyes flitted open. “You left.”

  “I was just outside with Grace. Listen…” I hated what I had to say. “I have to go now. Do everything they tell you, okay?” He nodded, closing his eyes again. His hand squeezed mine. “I don’t want to hear you’re giving anyone a hard time or not attending therapy sessions, or any bouts of general non-cooperation. You hear me?”

  “Got it, Mom.” He smiled through his mouth instead of his eyes.

  And then I did the hardest thing I’d ever done before in my life—I leaned down and kissed my ex-husband on the forehead and forced words from my mouth, words that were harder for me to say than they were for him to hear. “See you later, Ben.”

  Because he probably knew it, and I knew it, and if God were listening, he’d know it too—that see you later really meant goodbye.

  I headed to the nearest bus stop and took the bus home. Once I was up to my floor and through my apartment door, I locked it and took a long look around. The air hung stale with humidity and stuffiness, the whole place looked tired, a forsaken time capsule. Even the couch sprung up in a dust cloud when I sank into it. I reached over to the lamp to turn it on, but the electricity had been cut.

  “Great.” Then I fell on my side and curled up into a ball. And sobbed the rest of the night.

  Chapter 18

  How do you return to normal when normal no longer exists?

  The month I spent with Paris, I’d gotten used to waking up to her gorgeous smile every morning, balancing work and play, and having someone to share the sun, sea, island, food, and good times with. I’d reached a point of near-perfect contentment and couldn’t believe my luck. In some ways, maybe I’d been just as cynical as she’d been when she wrote her essay. I knew that our paradise, as a place, existed, but as love?

  I’d never really seen it with my own eyes. Until her.

  But everything has its shelf limit, nothing lasts forever, and that includes love, whatever that even is. Nothing is perfect, though my time with Paris nearly was.

  At this point, I could honestly say that everyone I’d ever met was damaged goods in some way, and there was nothing wrong with that. Tatianne was too possessive and headstrong, Reece was a dick to women, Simon was too party boy, Paris couldn’t let go of her past long enough to move on, and I couldn’t see gray areas in any situation. We either choose to be with someone or we choose not to be with someone. Black or white. Pick one. But Paris had tried showing me. She tried telling me that middle grounds did and could exist. She could still care for Ben as a friend.

  Yeah, but...it was the proximity that scared me. Just being near someone you used to love could make you love them again. If it happened once, it could happen again. Made sense, right? That was why I’d stayed away from Kait after our breakup. Because even though I loved her, she wasn’t what I needed. Staying away guaranteed I wouldn’t get snared in her web again.

  Paris needed her ex like the Titanic needed an iceberg tearing into her hull.

  “Everything okay, Mr. Giovanetti?” Bella’s wide, circular motions as she wiped down the bar counter pulled me out of my thoughts. “You seem tired.” I loved Bella’s tight curls, the bounciness with which she spoke and moved. I would never regret pulling her away from her crap situation in Miami and bringing her here to work for me. Anytime I could make someone’s life better by eliminating their pain, I was all for it.

  I forced out the charming smile I was good at showing others. “Perfect. It’s a beautiful day. Thinking I might make better use of it if I was out boating.”

  “I can’t blame you there,” she said in her Caribbean accent. “If I had a boat, I’d be out on it too.” She pushed the ice cold water I’d ordered into my view and checked out the steady stream of new guests arriving to the pool area. “Is it me, or are we busier than ever?”

  “We’re busier than ever. We’re fully booked.” I watched the new guests select their lounge chairs and felt pride in seeing my staff come to their aid, offering all our amenities.

  Two weeks after Paris gave us her article then suddenly left for Dayton, a ton of newbies had swarmed the island, filling our June and July quota. They all marveled at “Surrender Isle,” the resort you stayed in to reboot life, forget, start over—Press the Reset Button. The photos of our villas on the water weren’t the only thing that had sealed the deal—Paris’s words about the villas’ design, about the island’s magic and essence, rang true because she wasn’t just a travel writer. For a month, she’d been a resident.

  Tatianne would soon be leaving (in a week, she said), and I couldn’t get rid of her faster if I used a harpoon. I’d tried not to rock the boat in her world too much. It was critical that I appease her just enough to maintain her contentment but bored enough that she’d want to leave soon. Tatianne could go full-on bitchy if she wanted to. Today was her first day back on Paradise Bay after spending three weeks in my home an
d hanging out with Simon at Hideaway Bay, at his insistence, decompressing and tanning ‘til she was smooth satin. As it was, she was sick of the fact that I had not—not once—given into a single one of her propositions and seemed ready to try elsewhere.

  I couldn’t. Not even just for sex. All I wanted was to have Paris back.

  As if she’d sensed me plotting to get rid of her, who should come scooting around the pool dressed in a floor-length wrap thing with a big floppy hat? “Salut, Tristan. Ça va?”

  “Ça va bien,” I replied, even though I wasn’t fine and hadn’t been in three weeks.

  “Are you sure? Parce que you look like somebody shat in your shoes.”

  “You have a way with words, Tatianne.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry I’m not a talented wordsmith like your Paris Jones.”

  “What?” My heart began to quicken. I hadn’t mentioned Paris to her not one time in the romantic sense since she’d arrived. Unless Simon had spoken to her about it, in which case he and I would soon have a word.

  “Ever since she left, you’ve looked like a sad puppy, and today you look like a sad sloth. You’re in love, Tristan, n’est-ce pas? Heartbroken. Any woman can see that. Especially one who loves you.” She left that hanging there as a reminder. Tatianne sounded sour today, not quite scorned, but disappointed and tired over the fact that I wasn’t in love with her.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Really? You’re going to deny it? Tristan, s’il vous plait. I just came from having a discussion with Fiona. You know the woman from Sydney? She says you’d been coming out of my villa quite often a few weeks ago, and when she finally knocked on the door to say hello to me, she found another woman there. I am guessing the plumbing got fixed?” Her arms crossed over her chest. For some reason, all I could focus on were her light pink nails.

  Sighing, I said, “Look, let me explain…”

  “No need to explain,” she blurted, dropping her purse into a chair and herself into the chair next to it. “You kept a woman in the best villa in the house, the one I specifically asked you to keep open for me—it was the only thing I ever asked for, Tristan, even more important to me than our interest rate. And then you felt bad telling me what you’d done when I arrived earlier than expected, so you lied about it. What is to explain? You were only doing damage control, that’s all. Oui?”

  I shifted on my barstool. “No, it’s more than that. She was writing our promotional content, she was our contest winner, so the boys and I decided she should have the best seat in the house.”

  “The boys told me it was your idea. Honestly, Tristan, I don’t know why you can’t just be honest with me, tell me you fell in love with her, and that’s it. Have enough respect for me to tell me the truth!”

  My blood was boiling, and maybe some of it spilled over. “I don’t have to tell you anything. That’s the whole point!” I shouted, then reeled it back when a guest turned their attention our way. “I don’t owe you anything other than money, Tatianne.” If there was a truth to be said, it was that one, and it felt damn good to say it. However…she was still a woman, and now I felt like a dick.

  She inhaled deeply, lifting her chest in pride. “I see.”

  “That’s not…fuck…that’s not what I meant. Look, you’re right. I should’ve told you what was really going on, but on the other hand, I felt like it was none of your business. That was wrong of me. We’re friends.” I reached for her hand. “All I meant was that since we’re no longer a couple, I didn’t think I had to mention it. Of course I owe you so much, my gratitude especially, but—”

  “Why did you let her leave, Tristan?” Her smug look challenged me. “If you loved her? Why did you let her go home?”

  “Not everything is within my control. Nor yours, nor anybody’s. Throwing money at a problem doesn’t solve it.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Yeah, well, Paris wasn’t like that. She didn’t respond to being told what to do. I didn’t have a choice.” Irked, I picked up my organizer, phone, and swiveled off the barstool, turning in the direction of the marina. Why did she bother coming to Sorendi anymore, if she knew I wasn’t in love with her? I didn’t even want to have sex with her for pure carnal purposes, though it was tempting.

  “Tristan!” she barked. And then, Tatianne did the unthinkable. She ran. Toward me. She chased me.

  I stopped, curious to know what would make her do such a thing. In the six years I’d known Tatianne, I don’t think I’d ever seen her run toward anyone, leave her pride behind and pursue, actively nor literally. On the walkway, I waited.

  She shuffled her pedicured feet in sandals and paused to catch her breath. “I’m sorry, Tristan. Please, Tristan, écoutez.” Falling into step beside me, she slowed down until we were walking side by side toward the marina. “You know as well as anybody that I’m not used to not getting what I want, and that is difficult for me. Tristan, after René died, for the first time in years, I saw my options open. You know I loved him, but I got married at eighteen. At that age, I loved anybody who could sweep me away from my mother and guarantee that I’d never see her again. But he was too old for me—you know he was.”

  “And I’m too young for you.”

  “Nonsense. We’re the same, you and I. You were destined to succeed all your own, but needed someone to boost you that last stretch, and I was destined to succeed but needed a man to support me until I could manage my own properties. I tried paying it forward by helping you, and now you’re trying to pay it forward by helping that girl.”

  “It’s more than paying it forward. She and I have more in common than you think. It’s not all about money, Tati.”

  “Tristan…” She said my name as though I were a naïve child. “You only met her less than two months ago. I’ve known you for six years.”

  “So? Many people know who’s right for them soon after they meet.” Was I admitting that Paris was the right one for me, as in the one for me? “Why me, Tati? I do well, but I’m not the wealthiest multi-billionaire ever known to mankind. Don’t you want more? Don’t you want somebody who will treat you the way you deserve?”

  “Tristan…” She laughed to herself, her head bobbing side to side. “My options are limited. I’m forty-one, and I’m not getting any younger.”

  “Are you kidding? You look amazing for a forty-one year old.”

  She waved me away. “That’s not good enough.” I didn’t need her explanation to know her dilemma. Men were dogs. “Men want the newest model of everything. I’m smart and savvy, but I’m old news. Why buy a used car when you can get a shiny, new one to last you longer?”

  “Not all men are like that, Tati. Come on.”

  “No? Tristan, even though you are trying to hurt me today, I am still willing to listen to you, because I love you, cheri. And if I don’t speak my case now, I will regret it forever. Can we try being together? It has always been so casual between us. You may not believe me, but I adore you. I always have.”

  “That’s sweet and complete news to me,” I said. She’d been there for me from Day One but couldn’t act on her feelings because she was still married to René. That was, until he got terminally sick and we began sleeping together. Listening to her plead her case was refreshing. Maybe this was what I needed to see from her—emotion, instead of always pretending like nothing bothered her, like it was her way or the highway. Who knew Tatianne Moreau had real feelings before today?

  What if Paris never came back, would I try spending time with Tatianne? For three weeks, I’d waited for word from Paris, but she hadn’t texted, written, nor called. The texts I sent during her first couple of days away went unanswered. I’d asked her to please call me, but she’d ignored me. I assumed she was getting me off her chest.

  It felt strange being propositioned by Tatianne like a human being instead of a servant. It was true that we were similar in some ways and that she was beautiful, not just for her age, but for any age. Her smooth shiny body made most twenty-so
methings look like monoliths from Stonehenge.

  Maybe a relationship with Tatianne was better than one with Paris. Love was messy anyway, so maybe it was better that I didn’t love Tatianne like I loved Paris. It’d be a business arrangement softened by friendship, and that might actually work for us. I wasn’t convinced, but I had time to think about it since Paris hadn’t bothered calling back.

  I offered my arm to Tatianne. “I was going to take a spin around the island. Come with me.” It wasn’t an acceptance of her proposal, but I wouldn’t mind spending an afternoon with her. At the very least, we could smooth out our strained friendship. Remembering that struck a chord in my mind. If I could be friends with a woman I’d had sex with countless of times in the past, why couldn’t Paris be friends with Ben?

  Holy shit, I’d been an asshole imposing double standards. I’d been unfair to two women. First to Tatianne for allowing her to hold hope that we’d be together, even though I was in love with Paris, and then with Paris for telling her that exes couldn’t be friends. Fuck me.

  For the first time in ages, Tatianne’s face lit up with a girlish grin instead of her usual vexed expression of annoyance and blame. For once, I saw how she could act if treated like a lady rather than a boss. “I would love to, Tristan. Can we go around the entire island? See the sun set?”

  “Yes, but let’s have a drink first. My treat.” I laughed at the absurdity of buying something for a woman I owed four million dollars. Two million now that my resort was booked for the next two months. All thanks to Paris. Wherever she was. Telling Ben how scared she’d been to almost lose him. The way I’d lost her.

  Chapter 19

  Three weeks.

  Three weeks and one day I’d been back in Dayton, and it felt like three years.

  Mrs. Porter had stayed true to her word and kept my job on hold, but it was only because Grace had picked up my slack so the woman didn’t have to hire anyone else. All week, she’d been asking for the financial reports on last year’s Norwegian cruises, plus the travel brochure draft she wanted me to write. Apparently, she’d learned about my travel writing stint for Sorendi Isle through Grace, so now, she wanted me to write “compelling, descriptive” copy for a brochure and even asked if Grace and I could pass them out to people on the street.