All I Want

  All I Want

  Tamara Lush

  Content Editor

  Jami Nord, Chimera Editing

  Copy Editor

  Rebecca Cartee

  Cover Design

  Najla Qamber

  Contents

  All I Want

  ALL I WANT — PLAYLIST

  1. Lauren

  2. Max

  3. Lauren

  4. Max

  5. Lauren

  6. Lauren

  7. Lauren

  8. Max

  9. Lauren

  10. Lauren

  11. Max

  12. Lauren

  13. Lauren

  14. Max

  15. Lauren

  16. Max

  17. Lauren

  18. Max

  19. Lauren

  20. Max

  21. Lauren

  22. Lauren

  23. Max

  24. Max

  25. Lauren

  26. Max

  27. Lauren

  28. Lauren

  All I Ask — Sneak Preview

  Want More of Max and Lauren?

  Booklist

  About the Author

  All I Want

  Social media influencer Lauren Spencer is determined to find out why her best friend is getting married on a whim. When she travels to Paradise Beach to stop the wedding, she's the one who comes to a screeching halt when greeted with the sight of a gorgeous naked guy in her hotel room.

  He just happens to be the groom's adorably uptight brother -- and the best man in the wedding. Oops. Too bad she's sworn off relationships.

  As a successful real estate broker in New York City, Max Hastings has taken his workaholic ways back to his hometown of Paradise Beach, trying to ready his family's resort for sale and attend his youngest brother's shotgun wedding. Complicating matters: the maid of honor is the sexiest woman he's seen in years, and he wants her in his bed.

  After some hot and heavy flirtation, Lauren and Max come to an agreement: a weekend wedding fling is just the thing both of them need.

  But when Lauren suffers an accident and can't leave the island, Max finds himself more than willing to take care of her for more than a weekend. Will Lauren set aside her doubts about relationships to explore something real with Max?

  Welcome to Paradise Beach. Land of sugar sand, shirtless men, and endless sunshine. Strange and wonderful things often happen here. And island life is even hotter after dark...

  Copyright © 2019 by Tamara Lush

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ALL I WANT — PLAYLIST

  Famous Girls, Wilmer Vazquez

  Money, Cardi B

  Changes in Latitudes, Jimmy Buffett

  Amigos Con Derechos, Maluma

  This Must Be The Place, Talking Heads

  Little Lies, Fleetwood Mac

  Swimmin’ In Sunshine, Billy Currington

  Crash Into Me, Dave Matthews Band

  True Colors, Cyndi Lauper

  Beach Deep, Champagne Supernova

  Right To Be Wrong, Joss Stone

  Shake It Off, Taylor Swift

  Tears Dry On Their Own, Amy Winehouse

  Over You, Macy Gray

  Trouble Sleeping, Corinne Bailey Rae

  Harvest Moon, Neil Young

  Click here to listen to the playlist on Spotify!

  Welcome to Paradise Beach.

  There’s sugar sand, warm water and endless sunshine.

  It's a state of mind. A place with the most stunning sunsets in the world. An oasis with a legacy of passion. And island life is even hotter after dark...

  Come to Paradise and fall in love.

  One

  Lauren

  The photo of me stretched out on the edge of the pool with Italy’s stunning Amalfi Coast as a backdrop is pretty damned good, if I do say so myself.

  Especially with the bikini that matches the color of the sky and the custom filter a hot new app created for me. For my brand, more accurately.

  With a swipe and a tap, I post the photo to my one-point-five million Instagram followers. Supposedly I’m a travel influencer, but I get more clicks if I post photos of myself in pretty places like this. Tens of thousands more likes when I’m in a bikini.

  Tiresome, but necessary, if I want to make money.

  This week I flew to Italy (squee!) to pop champagne on the Amalfi Coast and visit friends who have an INCREDIBLE Air BnB villa with an even more amazing view. I’m chilling by the pool today but last night, designer @prada held an intimate fashion show right in the town square. I hope you all saw the Insta story, but if you didn’t, it’s in my Amalfi highlight. Also check the blog, where I have more behind-the-scenes photos, who wore what, and which fab singer I sat next to! A huge thank you to @chasebank and @alitalia for making this happen! #jetset

  The comments come almost immediately.

  ohhh I’d love to know the filter you used for this shot

  How fun! Love your bikini. Is that from the Chanel resort collection?

  Damnnnn girl

  Such a magical place! How do I get on the guest list?

  Within three minutes, I have a hundred likes. My sponsors will be thrilled, and I know people will snap up those branded photo filters.

  And hopefully this trip will give me another boost, too. I need to convince the social media marketing team at the world’s only seven star resort in Dubai that I deserve one of their coveted junkets. So far I’ve applied three times and been turned down twice. It’s a trip reserved for only the top-tier social media influencers, a group I’ve been trying to break into for months.

  I look up from the sleek, white leather sofa to see the villa’s owner coming in from the terrace.

  “Amazing party, wasn’t it, Lynn? I mean, Lauren?”

  I fight the urge to scream in frustration. Giovanni’s a well-known party promoter on the Mediterranean social circuit, and he can never remember my name. I’ve been to his sprawling villa three times in recent months for various weekend-long parties sponsored by different fashion and liquor brands. I’ve given him all sorts of tags and shout outs on social media, which in turn boosts his profile and makes him appear Insta-famous. That’s a thing, sad to say.

  He still can’t remember my goddamned name, and yet, he keeps inviting me to events.

  It’s superficial and I hate it, but this is my job now.

  “Fab. The party was fab,” I drain the rest of my sparkling water.

  “Going somewhere?” He points at my hard-shelled black suitcase. A willowy, bronze model who can’t be over twenty saunters down the marble stairs as if they’re a catwalk and folds herself against Giovanni’s chest. This must be his girl of the month.

  I’ve never been that girl, thank God. This is all business for me and for him, and I’m grateful Gio understands I never wanted to sleep with him. On social media, I’m a partygoer, quick with a smile and a pithy Insta caption.

  In reality, I’m hired help, like a PR person. I’m selling others’ brands—swank hotels, swag bags on transcontinental flights, Gio’s parties that are sponsored by luxury brands. Of course, all this promotes my own brand, which in turn, puts money in my bank account.

  Cardi B’s “Money” has become my personal theme song. Being an Instagram influencer is exhausting and lonely at times, but it beats being an assistant to a portrait photographer in frigid Chicago. And way more lucrative.

  “Headed to Rome.” I press my lips together in a tight smile. “A hotel’s putting me up for a few nights, and I’m going t
o tour the Porta Portese Market…” My voice trails off because he and the model are kissing, cooing, and obviously paying zero attention to me and my plans to tour a bustling flea market. (A tour I was actually looking forward to).

  Giovanni looks up, flushed.

  “Sounds great, Lynn. Have a good trip, thanks for all of your help and photos. I’m getting so much traffic on Instagram,” he says in his thick Italian accent. “We’re off to the pool.”

  He breaks away from the model and strides over to me, his white linen pants moving effortlessly with his body. I stand up, and we kiss each other goodbye on both cheeks.

  “Until next time, Gio,” I say warmly. Even if he can’t remember my name, he’s an okay guy. More importantly, he’s got a killer villa and hosts cool parties.

  “Ciao, ciao, maybe catch up with you in Berlin,” he trills, gliding back to the model. She gives a beauty pageant wave, and they walk out another door, the one leading to the pool with the stunning view of the coast.

  Berlin? I wonder what’s happening there and when.

  I sink back onto the white leather sofa, straightening my sky blue flowy caftan I’d bought at a boutique in Mykonos. It’s my favorite travel dress, classy and elegant, yet a little sexy with the slit up the side.

  My phone pings, notifying me of an email.

  I pick up my iPhone. “Oooh, Kate,” I whisper out loud. I love hearing from my best friend. Of all the people back in the United States, Kate’s the one I miss the most. Even more than my own blood relatives.

  Hey L. Where are you? I tried Skyping you the other day but couldn’t get through. I really need to talk with you. Can you call me when you get this? ASAP. Any time of the day or night. Love you. K.

  I frown, wondering if something’s wrong. Then a sinking feeling takes over. It’s probably her mother. Instead of staying in our old loft in Chicago, or joining me on my world Insta-travels like we’d planned, she moved home to Florida to be with her mother, who is battling breast cancer. It was only supposed to be for a few months, though, because the cancer was manageable. Stage Two.

  Ah, crap. A lump of dread settles in my stomach because I know how much Kate loves her mom. Their relationship has made me envious on more than one occasion. My mother has her problems, too. But all of her own making.

  Checking the time—I still have a good fifteen minutes, maybe a half hour until my hired car comes, possibly longer if the driver’s caught in Amalfi Coast tourist traffic. I tap over to Skype and dial Kate’s number.

  She answers on the second ring. “Lauren,” she squeals.

  I scream when I see her sun-kissed face. “Oh my God, you look so good! So tan! You’re glowing, my God. Have you been going to the beach every day? Have you lost weight? Or did you get a facial?”

  She laughs. “Shut up. I look like hell. I have been running every day, though. And working in the bar, on my feet for hours. Mom’s not able to do anything, so…”

  Kate’s mom owns a bar on Paradise Beach, a little island off the Gulf Coast. It’s an actual tiki hut, with a thatch palm frond roof and everything, like in the movies. She’d showed me all sorts of photos when we lived together. I’d always meant to visit, but international locations beckoned.

  “Running? Wow! That’s new. What’s going on? Are you okay? How’s your mom? Something about your tone in that email worried me.”

  Kate unties and then ties her long brown hair, which means something is, indeed, wrong. She’s nervous. Four years of living with her in a dorm and then years with her in our Chicago loft means I know every mannerism and gesture, and what it means.

  “Okay, ah, well…”

  “What is it?” I bring the phone closer to my face. Now I’m really concerned because she’s stammering. Kate’s usually blunt as a sledgehammer.

  “I’m getting married,” she blurts.

  I stop breathing for a second.

  “What?” I yell, my voice echoing through the villa’s tastefully decorated living room. My heart hammers against my ribs.

  Kate, married?

  Kate, who loves nothing more than to casually flirt with every man in sight? Kate, who fiercely guards her independence? Kate, who said she was going to Florida only for a few months and promised to join me in Europe by Valentine’s Day? Kate, who said she wanted to be a digital nomad while doing her graphic design business? Kate, who needs to leave the U.S. because she has a rare blood condition and can get cheaper treatment overseas?

  Married?

  “What the hell?”

  She rubs her lips together. “It kind of…happened.”

  “Getting engaged doesn’t kinda happen.” I make air quotes with one hand. “Last time I talked with you, which was, what, a week ago—”

  “Two weeks. We talked the day before New Year’s.” Her mouth slants, showing her annoyance.

  “Sorry. Two weeks. I apologize. But we’ve been emailing and texting.” I lose track of time because I’ve been traveling so much, and she knows it. “Who is he? Where did you meet him? Does he live on Paradise Beach? What about our plans? What is going on?”

  She glances to the side, and for the first time, I realize she’s in her mom’s bar. There’s a framed, autographed photo of Elvis behind her, and a row of oversized, hot pink plastic glasses, the kind tourists use to drink frozen cocktails.

  And a plastic alligator.

  “He’s a guy I went to high school with.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You never told me about a guy from high school. You always said everyone hated and bullied you, and you had one friend, some woman who’s going to own a pirate cruise ship for tourists. You didn’t even have sex until you got to Chicago.”

  “All true. But this is like the one guy who stuck up for me. We never dated back in high school, well not really. But he came into the bar a while back. And, ah, stuff happened.” She waves her hand in the air nervously.

  “Stuff?” My voice is weak. This is unreal. Kate and I are like a buddy movie. A team. The A Team of kickass single women. The operative word being single.

  “Listen, I’ll explain everything later. His name’s Damian. You’ll love him. He’s super sweet. I really gotta go, but Lauren? I need to ask you something.”

  I gape at her. Damian? Super sweet? “What?”

  “Will you please come to the wedding? It’s here on Paradise Beach. His family owns a huge resort here, and his mom is organizing a thing.”

  “A thing?” I screech, feeling like a parrot. “You mean a wedding thing?”

  Ugh. I’m not a fan of weddings. Or love in general. It’s not that I don’t like sex or guys. I do. A lot. But don’t do relationships, probably because I’ve never met a guy worth having a relationship with. Especially lately—all the men I meet are more interested in their phones, their social media, and dating apps. There’s always someone better. When I hang out with guys, I feel like an afterthought.

  Which is fine with me. Gives me more time to pursue my dreams.

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Shouldn’t you look happier about this?” My voice drops to a whisper. “Are you pregnant? We can take care of it. I’ll fly back, and we can go to a clinic.”

  That must be it. It’s the only plausible explanation.

  “No, I’m not pregnant,” she says indignantly.

  I let out a sigh of relief. It would be devastating if she felt she had to get married out of obligation.

  “Why don’t you take some time to think about it? You’re talking like you’re getting married soon, asking me to the wedding. Christ. It’ll take his mother months to get a wedding together. Years, even. Why not join me here, and we’ll discuss it in person? Maybe in Paris? At a cafe!” I clap my hands together. Yes. Get her out of Florida and this insane notion of a wedding. “I know exactly the place for us. It has the best coffee.”

  “The ceremony is soon, Lauren. Damien and I are getting married right away. His mom’s amazing at planning events. Our wedding is in three weeks, and I want you to be my maid
of honor.”

  This leaves me speechless. I open and close my mouth several times.

  “Look, get to the island, and I’ll tell you everything.” She looks up, over the phone camera lens. “Mom, I’m coming.”

  She turns back to me. “Mom won’t stay home. Says she prefers to be busy. But she needs to rest.” Her eyes roll back in her head.

  Just then, a tan-colored animal walks in the corner of a screen. I scowl.

  “What is that?” I point.

  Kate swivels her head. “Oh, that’s a dog. Chunky, come here, baby boy.”

  Baby boy?

  Her face disappears from the screen when she bends down. She resurfaces with what is possibly the fattest pug I’ve ever seen. Like he might be part pig. Pig dog. Dog pig. I don’t know whether to laugh or pity the poor creature.

  I laugh, because I’m that kind of person. And he is super cute.

  “This is Chunky.”

  “Awww, of course it is,” I coo, happy to be not talking about weddings. “When did your mom get a dog? That’s sweet how he goes to the bar with you. Little pupper.”

  She shakes her head. “He’s Damien’s brother’s dog. I’m dog sitting for the day. Chunk’s on a special diet, and we’re all making sure he sticks to it. It’s a team effort, keeping him on track. He lost a pound last month. Didn’t you, Chunk? Good boy.” She jiggles the dog a little, like a baby.

  My jaw drops a little. “Babysitting the dog-in-law?”