All I Want Read online

  She sighs. “Lauren…I know this is sudden about Damien, but I can’t talk now. He’s amazing, and we have to do this in three weeks because he’s got a work assignment right after that, and our families wanted the ceremony before he goes away for a year. Please say you’ll come. Please? You can do an Insta story on Paradise Beach.””

  My mind is not on social media at all. It’s on Kate. Because this is super weird. Not like Kate at all. She’s normally one to study all possible options, do research, take time to make a decision. She once took two months to figure out which coffee maker to buy for our dorm room. And she decided to get married in…how long? She’s only been back in Florida for a couple months. That’s not enough time to decide on a wedding. Jesus.

  The look in her eyes is so panicked and pleading a stab of fear goes through my gut. Something weird’s going on.

  “Of course I’ll be there, babycakes.” I plaster on a fake smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now go back work. Hug your mom for me. Send me all the details, when you want me to be there and for how long. I was planning to stay in Italy for another couple of weeks, but I can move stuff around. I’ll fly to Miami, rent a car, and it’ll be no problem.”

  That’s the beauty of being a digital nomad. I can pack up and go whenever, wherever. The universe is my playground and all that jazz—at least, that’s the phrase I type into my Instagram captions. Sure, the playground can be a bit of a grind, but I do have the ability to pivot.

  She exhales and finally grins. “Hang on, I’m going to put Chunky down.” I watch him shuffle away, and Kate reappears. “Thank you. I’m so relieved you’ll be here. I couldn’t do this without you. Ok, gotta run. Love, you, L.”

  “Love you, K.”

  The call hangs up, and I sink back against the supple leather cushion, feelings of confusion and sadness washing over me.

  Kate’s getting married.

  I’d been eager for her to join me in Europe. This nomad life is amazing, but it’s also lonely as hell. I’m never in one place for long, so all of my “friendships” are superficial and transactional.

  See also: Gio.

  Being a team with Kate was going to be incredible, and to be honest, the thought of it has kept me sane these past couple of months. Traveling the world, staying in luxury hotels, laughing through parties and events and life with my bestie…

  And now she’s getting married to the super sweet Damien who she’s never even mentioned once. An indignant feeling rises in my chest.

  Goddamn right I’ll be there. I need to figure out what’s going on and talk her out of this stupid decision that could ruin her entire life.

  I tap over to my email so I can send a note to my contact at the airline where I have the most frequent flier miles. Hopefully I can still get a business-class seat back to the States.

  That’s when I notice the name of the social media manager at the luxury hotel in Dubai. Then one I’ve been pleading with for months. He’s sent an email.

  My shoulders tense as I open the message.

  Ms. Sinclair, we are pleased to inform you that your request for a week-long stay at our hotel has been approved.

  Yesss…oh God, please don’t let it be the week of Kate’s wedding…

  Because of other events, we can’t host you until mid March. If this is amenable to your schedule, please contact me as soon as possible to make arrangements. Will you be bringing a travel companion? Please let me know. Warmly, Ahmed.

  My shoulders lower from my ears as I ponder the logistics. Dates and plans churn through my mind, and I swipe over to my Google Calendar.

  I have plenty of time to take on another paid assignment or two here in Italy—a famous restaurant’s marketing office has been trying to get me to take a tour of their Rome location and post my experience on Insta—then fly to Florida to talk Kate out of marrying sweet Damien.

  And to get her on the plane to Dubai with me. Even if I have to hogtie her with my Hermes scarves and stuff her in my suitcase.

  She probably hooked up with this Damien character and thinks she’s in love. As rational as Kate is, she’s not all that experienced with men. She got a bit of Vitamin D and now thinks he’s The One.

  I snort out loud. This is pure lust. She cannot walk down the aisle, it’s as simple as that.

  Dear Ahmed, Thank you so much for your generous offer. Mid March is perfect. I will be bringing one guest. Her name is Kate Cooper.

  Two

  Max

  I look over the balcony rail, down to the stone walkway leading to the pool, and I see her.

  She’s staring at a piece of paper, a riot of long, near-black, wavy hair tumbling over her shoulders. I take in her lips, her hourglass curves in that little blue-and-white striped dress, and her long, tan legs. My God, her mouth. It’s pink and full. Like a flower about to open.

  The wind kicks up and blows her hair so I get a good look at her face. She swivels her head toward the pool, squinting. If she’d turn a little to the left, I could catch a glimpse of her ass. She shifts, and she’s facing my direction. Okay, her mouth is now on the annoyed side of pouty. An enormous, hard-sided black suitcase is parked near her feet, which are covered with sexy, gold sandals. What do they call those? Gladiators? Hers have little straps snaking up her ankles.

  All I can picture is her wearing nothing but those strappy gold sandals.

  She turns her head back toward the resort building, then rattles the paper in her hand, glancing at it again with an adorable furrow in her brow. She’s probably lost. No small surprise, because the signage here sucks. There used to be signs for Gulf front rooms and Bayfront rooms but those must have been taken down during the renovations. We have a mountain of goddamned work, and here we are, having the first Hastings family wedding at our half-renovated hotel.

  Classic, for my crazy-ass family.

  Another glance at the gorgeous brunette makes me grin. Hell. I must be desperate if I’m falling in love at first sight. It’s been two years since I’ve been in a relationship, and I’m man enough to admit I hate being single.

  But I’m not here on Paradise to fall in love. Especially not this weekend.

  So much shit to do…I’ll take care of the signs before the wedding. Right after I send a million emails, hire a new landscaper, and talk to City Hall to see if we need any more permits.

  Dad left all these tasks to me. It’s your business, preparing properties like this for sale, he said when I arrived a month ago. Work your magic.

  I couldn’t say no. Not to Dad. Not after Mom’s stress-related heart troubles last year. I promised to oversee the renovations and get the highest price for the resort so he and Mom can have the best retirement possible. Dad would do anything for her, and I would, too. After running this place and raising us five kids, they deserve all that and more.

  Whether I’ll live up to Dad’s standards is a different matter altogether…

  This isn’t a regular project. It’s my childhood home we’re talking about here, and as each week passes, the idea of selling Paradise Beach Resort becomes more bittersweet. Dad’s a pretty difficult boss, and that has me stressed as fuck, too.

  And now life, and the renovation, has ground to a halt all because my little brother’s decided he’s in love and absolutely has to marry this girl three days before he goes to Syria as a military contractor.

  Hell. Too much to deal with. I’d rather think about the woman down there.

  She takes out her phone and taps furiously with her thumbs, a fierce scowl on her face. I wonder where she’s staying and who she knows in the wedding party. Is this one of my brother’s exes? Would Damien have the balls to invite an ex?

  Or maybe it’s Tate’s ex. Or Remy’s. Yeah. Gotta be one of Remy’s girls. My brothers aren’t exactly the shy, retiring type when it comes to the ladies.

  Or she could be a friend of the bride’s…

  Maybe I should go help her. Although she’ll probably be gone by the time I leave the room, walk
downstairs and outside. I could call down to her—she’s only fifteen or twenty feet below me.

  And how I’d like to close that gap and have her right underneath me. I spread my arms and rest my hands on the balcony rail. I should be returning emails, making calls. But work can wait a few minutes, although that’s the trap almost everyone falls into here on Paradise Beach. Later. Tomorrow. Mañana. It’s how the construction contractors have operated since I arrived, and it’s driving me fucking insane after years in the city. Still, it's hard not to slip into island time. It’s like a Jimmy Buffett song come to life.

  Exactly what my life in New York isn’t.

  But is there anything better than looking at a beautiful woman in the sunshine? I take a deep breath and all the familiar smells of my childhood are there: the salty Gulf of Mexico air, the damp, earthy smell of humidity, and suntan lotion. The last scent makes me think of bikinis and skin and sex. And of surfing, beers with friends, convertibles. All the good things in life I’ve pushed aside for years in New York.

  I never realize what a ball of stress I am in the city until I come home to Paradise Beach.

  Still staring at the woman, I grin at her, even though she doesn’t see me. She’d look amazing in a bathing suit. That’s exactly what I need. Me with a beer, her in a bikini, us at Lime and Salt, the island tiki hut that happens to be owned by the family of my soon-to-be sister-in-law.

  Yeah, right. Like I’ll slow down to allow any of it to happen.

  Against the backdrop of the overgrown, tropical foliage of the resort, the woman is like an angel that fell from heaven, a good witch of the tropics, a fucking goddess.

  I’ve been working too hard to notice anyone on the island this past month. Maybe I’ll be able to have a little fun during this shit show of a wedding. Although I’d planned on working in between family events; I’d even scheduled a few calls with suppliers in between family bar-b-cues and tux fittings.

  I loosen my tie as I watch her, then undo the top button of my shirt. I’d overdressed to meet with the lawyers on the mainland. Christ, it’s warm.

  But this is how it is in Florida. The humidity’s like a familiar blanket, and I only mind because I’m still in my New York clothes. Thought I’d dress up for the damned meeting, act like an adult. Now it’s time to put my cargo pants on and blend in with the locals.

  As I roll up the sleeves of my white dress shirt, I’m about to call down to her—I’m only on the second floor—when one of my three younger brothers run into view, from the direction of the pool.

  I whistle, and he looks up. The woman looks around, trying to figure out where the sound came from.

  “Bro,” yells Remy. I roll my eyes because he does that thing younger guys do. Everyone’s either bro or dude or some shit. He waves his hands wildly. “Bro, have you seen Mom?”

  I ignore him because the woman is staring up at me, those pink lips slightly parted. She’s fucking gorgeous. I grip the railing, which makes my forearm muscles tense.

  “Hi. Are you lost?” I call down to her.

  Remy makes an impatient snort. I think he might have stamped his foot, but I’m not sure because I’m too busy staring at her. I grin, hoping she’ll smile back. Are her eyes blue?

  She opens her mouth but before she gets anything out, my brother steps forward.

  “Bro, I need Mom. I thought she was here a minute ago.” Jesus Christ, he is such a child. There’s a six-year age gap between us but there might as well be a century.

  The woman shoots Remy a grimace, stares up at me with the same expression, grabs her suitcase and stalks off with a huff. Or tries to. The wheels aren’t working, and she mutters something. I watch her disappear between two squat palm trees, dragging the suitcase over the walkway. It makes a loud scraping noise. She’s got a juicy ass. Mmm.

  “That’s the exercise room,” I call out. She probably can’t hear me over the wheels against the stones—or maybe she ignores me—and flings open the door.

  “Hey. Down here.” My brother waves his arms over his head. “There’s a problem with Damien’s tux. Mom needs to fix this. You should come help us and give moral support to your brother.”

  I let out a sigh. “Maybe you two should man the fuck up and deal with this yourselves. He’s your twin. I’ve got some calls to make before tonight's welcome party. Some of us work for a living.”

  I love razzing Remy about work. He spends his days on the water as a fishing charter boat captain. A damned good one, too.

  “Max, come on. Damien needs you. He’s freaking out. This is his wedding weekend. Try not to be a dick, okay?” Remy puts his hands on his hips.

  “Fine. I’ll be there in thirty. Gotta shower.” Of course my little twin brothers wouldn’t know how to wear a tux. One’s spent his life in a war zone and the other on a boat.

  Sighing, I turn and slide open the glass door to my room. I’m staying here instead of at home—well, Mom and Dad’s house—a few blocks away in the village. When I arrived six weeks ago, I figured I should live at the resort so I could keep an eye on the renovations, which are going at a snail’s pace.

  I unbutton my shirt and fling it on the tan sofa. This suite’s going to be my home for another month, maybe two. It’s not like I’m unfamiliar with living in luxury hotels, and this one’s big, with a separate living area. Also comfortingly familiar because I spent my childhood on this property. Hell, I even mowed the lawn here when I was a kid, back when Paradise Beach was nothing more than an outpost for offbeat travelers. Now it’s a luxury destination, and it’s my job to take this resort up to an even higher standard.

  I strip off my socks and shoes. Then my pants and boxers. I let out a satisfied sigh. There. It feels so much better to have my balls hanging in the air. Off comes the watch. I can feel the grimy stress falling away.

  My phone buzzes, and I pick it up off the coffee table. Naked, scratching my chest, I answer a text about another one of my consulting projects. I scroll through emails, pecking out a few terse responses. I’m about to get in the shower so I don’t bother getting dressed. Instead, I stand wedged between the sofa and the coffee table, zoning out with my phone.

  I’m updating Facebook, posting a chamber of commerce-worthy photo of the water I’d stopped to take on the drive back to the hotel, when I give my balls a little tug. Guys do that, not in a sexual way. Sometimes we have to remind ourselves everything’s still there. It’s a man thing. I tug again and type a message to go with the photo.

  Paradise. Anyone from Beach High around this weekend? Damien’s getting married, can you believe it? If you’re on island, hit me up for bachelor party details. Remy’s doing a nighttime fishing trip. Or we can meet for a beer or three at Lime and Salt.

  As I’m tapping the post button, I hear a click and the door to my suite opens.

  What the hell? I look up. Hasn’t anyone trained the new housekeeping staff here to knock? One more goddamned thing to do. And didn’t I put a do not disturb sign on the doorknob?

  “I don’t need room service, thanks.” It’s a big, airy suite, and the door is far enough away I need to shout to be heard.

  A hand shoves a beat-up black suitcase through the doorway. The suitcase tips over, and the door bangs into the handle. A gold-sandaled foot shoves the door open.

  I freeze, my hand cupping my sweaty balls.

  Three

  Lauren

  I kick the door open, and it rams against my suitcase with an insistent bang. The wheels gave out on my layover in Madrid. Then the handle stuck in a pulled-up position when I got to Miami. And the bag barely fit in my convertible rental car. Stupid bag. I kick the door open again, as if it represents everything that’s gone wrong on my way here to Paradise Beach.

  This is the part of being a world traveler my IG followers don’t ever see.

  Normally, I love transatlantic journeys but for some reason, the trip from Italy’s left me exhausted and annoyed. Compounding matters: I’d left my precious e-reader, stocked with my f
avorite books, on the plane.

  All I want is a shower and a drink. Then a long talk with Kate. I can already imagine us fleeing from the wedding, the top down on the convertible, our hands thrown in the air.

  “Shitfire,” I say and kick the door a third time.

  When I look up from my toppled suitcase, I spy the naked guy with his hand on his junk.

  I freeze in the doorway, gaping. Holy hell. It’s the guy who’d been gawking at me from the balcony. By the way he’d smiled and asked if I was lost, I knew he was cocky and bold. I didn’t imagine he’d be a predator, too.

  “What the hell is this?” I yell.

  The guy covers himself with his hands. “I could ask you the same thing. How did you open the door?”

  “With a key.” I shake the card key in his direction and try to rise up to my full five feet, three inches. “If you don’t get your pervy ass out of here right now, I’m calling the cops.”

  The guy snatches a cream-colored pillow embroidered with a green palm tree off the sofa and holds it over his crotch. He grins. “I’m not a pervert.”

  I roll my eyes. “Obviously, you are. You’re in my room, jerking off. Gross, dude. Out.” I motion over my shoulder with my thumb, realizing I look stupid, like a person pantomiming an umpire. I’m totally nonthreatening to a sex offender.

  I take a step back toward the hallway.

  He chuckles. It’s a low, infectious sound, and I fight back a grin. The palm tree on the pillow is entirely too phallic—and hilarious.

  But he’s a sex offender!

  I force myself to scowl and back out of the doorway, slowly. “You’re trying to get me to relax. To appear normal. That’s what perverts do. Perverts and serial killers. Ted Bundy was handsome, too. And he was from Florida. Even I know that.”

  “You think I’m handsome?” He’s now doubled over in laughter, and a lock of his golden brown hair flops around. He’s extremely tan. Everywhere.