All I Do: Paradise Beach #3 Page 2

  Mom smiles, probably because once a week, we pack a cooler full of her favorite rosé wine and go to Bayport Park to watch the sunset. “True. Oh, I’ve got it!”

  “Where?”

  “That place we went when you were in high school. Remember?”

  “Our girls’ weekend? Which one? God, we haven’t done that for years.” Haven’t because I’m poor, and her husband siphons her decent paycheck so that he can bet on every sport possible. I’d once asked Brent for the money to take Mom somewhere, and he asked why I wanted to “run away for the weekend” and leave him behind. That had led to a screaming match, and I never asked again.

  “The one where we rented that condo. Somewhere south of Tampa. Lord, that was probably more than fifteen years ago, because you were still in braces, I think. Fantasy Island? My memory is shot.”

  I laugh. “Paradise Beach, you mean?”

  “Yes. That’s it. I remember it being real Florida. A sleepy, little downtown. With beautiful beaches and tiki bars and handsome shirtless men playing volleyball on the beach.”

  Cracking up, I grab her hand. “Of all the things you remember about our vacation, you recall the part about the shirtless dudes?”

  “Of course.” She squeezes my hand and winks. “Seriously, why don’t you go there? Rent a place for a few months and research whether you should open a bar?”

  I squint at her. Surely the place has changed in fifteen years. Still, I don’t recall it being on any lists of the most expensive places in Florida, or the most dangerous places, either. Seems as good of a town as any, even if I only go there for a few months to gather my bearings and try to heal from Brent’s fury.

  My eyes go to my purse, where the million-dollar check sits. I reread Aunt Shirley’s letter. Twice.

  Isn’t it time you work on making yourself as happy as you’ve made others?

  It would be impulsive to quit my job and move to an island I’ve been to only once. But, really, what do I have here? A rent-free existence with a man who berates me daily? What am I waiting for? Him to finally slap me, punch me, kick me — as he’s threatened to?

  Staying at my job doesn’t make sense, even with this windfall. I make nine dollars an hour, and I’ve tried to squirrel away as much as possible. And even though I love my job, it isn’t something I can do forever. I’m already the oldest mermaid at the attraction.

  “Everyone at the park keeps asking me what’s next,” I say.

  “Why is that?” Mom asks, the lines between her brows deepening.

  “Because there’s an unspoken rule that mermaids usually move on once they get into their early thirties.”

  Mom fiddles with her coffee cup, her bright coral-colored nails glittering against the black mug. “I guess that’s the question you need to ask yourself then. What’s next?”

  For the first time in my life, I can do whatever I want. I imagine my own little beach house, decorated in shades of gold and light blue. Swimming in the Gulf with my mermaid fin at sunrise. Watching the sunset with a glass of wine in hand from my balcony.

  Not taking abuse from anyone ever again.

  If that’s not a reason to make an impulsive decision, I don’t know what is.

  Grasping Mom’s hand, I grin.

  “Paradise Beach it is.”

  Chapter Two

  LEILANI

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  I am a maker of lists.

  Everything from the mundane (milk, bread, eggs) to my dreams (open a mermaid-themed bar, adopt a kitten, learn Spanish), I write down.

  I have daily to-do lists, weekly planning lists, monthly big picture lists. Notebooks filled with lists. Goals and hopes and dreams. Lists of wardrobes, favorite synchronized swim routines, Etsy shops that sell shimmery fabric for the custom mermaid tails that I make by hand.

  Today’s Saturday and I’m sitting in my office at Mermosa, my business — God, I love the sound of that — and I’m working on a list. Naturally. It’s a mega to-do list for the coming week.

  Let’s see. Interview bartenders, meet with contractors about the giant tank where the mermaids will swim, attend an island Chamber of Commerce meeting… I bite my lip and doodle small check mark boxes next to each item. Being a business owner is way more involved than I had expected, but I’m loving every second.

  Oh, social media. I need to tackle that soon, too. In careful cursive, I make a list on a new page.

  From the time I arrived four months ago on Paradise Beach, I knew it was home. After Mom handed me the check that day at the diner, I’d driven to Tampa and opened a bank account. Then I went back to Brent’s and pretended nothing had changed. Then I made lists. Secret lists in a password-protected app. I planned and plotted for a solid week until my departure. Everything was orchestrated around the fact that Brent didn’t know I was leaving, because he’d have begged me to stay. Or worse.

  And then I left. He thought I was going to work, but instead, I hopped in my old truck and drove south. When I crossed the Sunshine Skyway Bridge over Tampa Bay, I sang Katy Perry’s “Roar” at the top of my lungs and sobbed. I felt featherlight, as if I could float away. The heaviness of the past year lifted. I was free.

  Oh, sure, it was scary. On Paradise Beach, I’d rented a little furnished house a block from the historic downtown and three blocks from the beach. For the first month, I barely went anywhere, too paralyzed by fear and anxiety. Sleeping alone at night, I’d wake with a start at every creak and crackle. Was it Brent? Or someone worse? I’d remind myself that the wooden bungalow was old, and the orange, feral kitty outside liked to hunt after dark.

  Then something turned on inside me. I’d been given a great gift — many, really. The world once again took on vibrant colors, and I decided to really live. I started searching for a commercial space. Amazingly, a former bar at the far end of Main Street was empty, and the owner cut me a deal on a two-year lease.

  And just like that, I was a businesswoman. I’ve been amped up and edgy for weeks. Not the kind of churning unease I’d experienced with Brent, the walking on eggshells out of fear I’d say something wrong and he’d lash out. This is a different kind, a thrilling vibration of starting something new and incredible.

  Something that’s mine, and mine alone.

  Even looking around my empty bar gives me a feeling of giddiness. I need to fill it with furniture and mermaid kitsch and love.

  The space had been a longtime fish house, and then briefly, one of those ice-themed bars. Apparently, tourists didn’t want to revisit their chilly, northern memories while on a Florida island, and the business tanked a few months after it opened. The ice walls, tables, and chairs have all melted and washed away via drains in the black cement floor, and all that’s left behind is a sparse, white interior. Which is perfect for me, because I can turn it into an underwater paradise.

  Taking a sip from my water bottle, I grab another notebook. It says PART TIME MERMAID, FULL TIME DREAMER on the front. I leaf through the pages, all written two years ago, right before I’d met Brent. That had been when I’d first come up with the concept of Mermosa. I’d held onto the notebook and considered it my “someday dream list.”

  Those someday dreams are here, looking me squarely in the eye. And I’m staring right back, with a smile on my face.

  I flip through my early notes about the bar. I have sketches of a massive aquarium tank where mermaids will perform live shows. There are pages and pages of ideas, for bachelorette parties, kids’ birthday parties, mermaid photo shoots, you name it. If it’s mermaid-themed, it’s jotted in this notebook.

  At the end of the notebook is a different kind of list. I’d read some article online about writing out a “dream guy list” to attract my soul mate. When I met Brent, I was convinced that I’d conjured him with my list.

  I laugh out loud at how wrong I was.

  THE PERFECT MAN, I’d written in careful calligraphy at the top of the page. I read the items out loud, my voice echoing around the bar.

  * T
all

  * Handsome (six-pack abs a bonus)

  * Someone who believes in me

  * Treats me like a queen

  * Has a sense of humor (laughs and smiles a lot)

  * Doesn’t make fun of my mermaid obsession

  * Excellent kisser

  * Likes the ocean

  * Loves his mom

  * Adventurous

  * Loves snuggling, kissing, and oral sex

  * Isn't commitment shy

  I chuckle bitterly. Talk about being a dreamer. Gah. Could I have been any more naïve about relationships? I was describing a mythical creature, a freaking unicorn, on that list. Not a mortal man, that’s for sure.

  No guy will ever meet the criteria I’ve listed. Because he doesn’t exist. Which is fine with me, because I’m not looking for a relationship right now. Not after Brent, and definitely not now that my life is consumed with opening this business.

  I slam the notebook shut and look around. There’s not a lot I can accomplish today because it’s a weekend. The contractors are coming Monday, and I’m starting interviews for staff on Wednesday, if I’m lucky.

  It’s a gorgeous summer day, or at least it was when I arrived at eight this morning, armed with a giant cup of coffee. I’ve shed the ever-persistent colds, headaches, and twinges of back pain I’d had in my old life. It’s funny how stress affects you physically.

  Maybe I should take my canoe and mermaid fin out on the water. I haven’t been swimming in a week, which feels like an eternity to me. And I haven’t taken an entire afternoon off in two months; every available moment has been spent researching, meeting with the leasing agent, or applying for permits at the county building on the mainland. In the time I’ve been here, I haven’t gone out or made friends. A social life will come soon enough, once I open the bar.

  Today, though, I deserve a swim.

  Slipping my arms through my backpack, I lock up and hop on my bike. My beach bungalow is only a few blocks from the bar, so I’ve been biking everywhere. Part of the reason I love Paradise Beach is that it’s so easy to get around. I can pedal to the grocery store, and when I want to take my canoe out, it’s only a five-minute drive to the marina where there’s a boat launch.

  So within a half hour, my kayak and mermaid tail are loaded in the back of my truck — even with Shirley’s money, I’d kept my old, beat-up Toyota pickup because I love it so much and figured I’d need it for the bar renovations — and I zip to the launch.

  Because I’ve been a swimmer since I could walk, I’ve got decent upper body strength. I easily lift my one-person, plastic kayak and set it in the water, tying it to a dock while I load my fin and a small cooler into the boat.

  After undoing the line from the dock, I paddle away, a huge grin on my face. I’m headed for a little spit of sand not far from shore; I’d read about it in the local newspaper.

  I paddle so hard and fast in the calm, blue water that I work up a good sweat. The little island comes into view, and I glide into shore, then hop out and drag my canoe onto the beach. Hunh. I’d figured there would be others here, but today, it’s deserted.

  With the couple of palm trees, white sand, and weathered, half-submerged driftwood, this island looks like something out of a postcard. And today, it’s all for me.

  How did I get this lucky? Somehow, I’ve gone from living with fear and sadness to this.

  Paradise. Freedom. My best life.

  I strip off my life vest, T-shirt, and shorts so I’m in only my blue bikini. Then I take the plastic fin — it’s like a single snorkel fin, with spaces for my feet — and slip it into the stretchy, shimmery, blue material of the tail.

  Then I roll down the fabric as if I’m putting on tights, sit on the sand at the edge of the water, and stuff my feet into the monofin. Rolling up the fabric like I’m putting on a body-hugging, lycra pencil skirt is a little harder, because it has to be flush against my legs and wrinkle-free so I can swim without friction. Probably I look ridiculous as I squirm around on the sand, pulling the fabric over my ample butt. I couldn’t care less, though, because I’m eager to get into the water.

  Finally, the fabric is over my belly, sucking in the flesh. My legs are bound together by the tail. After swimming and performing in similar costumes for years, I feel relaxed when my body is compressed like this. It’s similar to wearing a weighted blanket for anxiety — the more sensory feeling I have on my skin, the better I feel.

  All that from a sparkly, blue mermaid tail. Strange, I know.

  With a twist of my torso, I roll myself into the water, using my hands to walk, digging into the sand until I’m a foot or so deep. Once I’m buoyant, I dip under, and take off.

  Underwater, the real world falls away. I open my eyes. All I see is the electric blue of the water and a school of small, silver fish. The feel of the water against my face makes me grin wide. I surface for a breath, then dive back down, my spine undulating in a serpentine movement. Surface, dive, swim. Surface, dive, swim. Even though at the park I’d learned to use an oxygen line underwater, I can hold my breath for quite a while.

  Could this day get any better? Sun and sand and water all around me? Wow. I was born for this moment.

  There is a sailboat a little ways away, but it looks like it’s anchored and I can’t see any people aboard. Taking a dive underwater, I spot a small sting ray, a spotted flounder, and — oh my God — a bright, tropical parrotfish. I slow down for that little, blue-green-yellow guy, so I can admire his beauty.

  Surging to the surface, I inhale a few huge breaths and bob in the warm, calm water.

  The ocean is my home.

  I power swim for a while, my tail fin allowing me to pick up speed and do flips and turns easily. My long hair flows and floats around my face. As much as I don’t miss my old life with Brent, I do miss being a professional mermaid. Swimming here in the Gulf eases some of that homesickness.

  When I surface again, I realize I’m near that sailboat.

  And there are three pairs of eyes watching me. Well, four, if you include the dog in the red life vest.

  Amused, I sweep my eyes from the pudgy canine, to the brown-haired woman next to him, to the bearded guy next to her, and then to the second guy… wait. The second guy is hot. Startlingly so. He’s got longish, messy, dark hair, intense eyebrows, and a hint of matching black stubble.

  And then I’m staring into his eyes. The most soul-searching, honey-colored eyes I’ve ever seen.

  Oh, hello.

  My gaze drops to the guy’s sculpted shoulders, then his biceps, which aren’t massive but are definitely rock solid. The guy’s tall, tan, and sinewy, and I can see every ridge and muscle in his washboard abs. He grins, revealing dazzling white teeth.

  “A real, live mermaid. Hey, beautiful. Where did you come from?” he asks in a smooth baritone and a slight southern accent.

  There’s a tightness in my belly, one I haven’t felt in years. Or maybe ever, now that I think about it. An electric tingle goes through me, as if a current has entered the top of my head and shot down my spine. I propel myself a little closer to the boat. Even when I’d met Brent, I hadn’t been this instantly captivated.

  I’ve never been instant anything with a guy. I always need to weigh a man’s pros and cons, make a list. Of course, my lists didn’t do any good with Brent, and I suspect that they would be useless with this guy, too.

  Insta-love is not my jam. Any brand of love is not in my lexicon right now.

  Mr. Honey Eyes leans forward on his muscular forearms. Whoa. This guy is pure trouble. I can tell by his cocky grin.

  I should probably swim away before I do anything stupid.

  Chapter Three

  REMY

  Man, life.

  It’s funny how it works.

  One minute, I’m on my sailboat with my brother, Tate, and his fiancée, Isabella. I’m trying not to get cavities from the pure, extreme, too-saccharine sweetness they’re throwing off. Ever since he met her, he’s turned into a
different guy. Before, we had been each other’s wingmen.

  Today, they’ve been smooching and groping each other nonstop, and I feel like a third wheel. I've been paired up with Chunky all day, and a pug in a life vest isn’t how I usually roll.

  The next thing I know? It’s as if I’ve been struck by lightning in a summer storm.

  Because there’s a fucking mermaid in the water. She’s swimming like she’s lived in the Gulf for all of eternity. When I first see her, I think I’m hallucinating. But no.

  It’s a real-life, sexy AF mermaid. One with curves for days and long, dark hair that’s billowing and floating all around her in the blue water. She’s wearing one of those mermaid tails you can buy online, the kind that slip over the legs, hips, and stomach, with a wide tail fin.

  I know about these contraptions because my family does an annual mermaid party for kids at our family’s resort, and I usually dress up as Poseidon. Little girls wear the mermaid outfits and romp in the resort’s pool.

  But the creature swimming in the water here isn’t a little girl. She’s all woman, just the way I like ‘em. An aquatic Aphrodite, if we’re continuing the mythology metaphors. Her whole outfit is shimmery and blue, a slightly darker hue than the water. There might be some green streaks in there, too. Whatever it is, it’s hot on this woman, not childish.

  I lean on the boat’s rail, captivated. It’s like watching a professional ballet dancer or an Olympic athlete. She’s an amazing swimmer, powerful and graceful. It doesn’t even seem like she’s using her arms a lot of the time, just undulating her body enough to move forward, turn, and somersault.

  I feel like I’m in the presence of something magical, an experience made all the more incredible because we’re near a spit of sand in the Gulf of Mexico and surrounded by sparkling blue water. Maybe she’s a mirage and only I can see her.

  The way she’s swimming, it’s as if she’s not even human. Her spine seems hyper-flexible, she’s flowing so fluidly. She appears to be one with the current, her body writhing and bending as she skims the surface. Occasionally she dips below, and that’s pure poetry — the water is so gin-clear that I can see her hourglass figure shooting through the water.