All I Want Read online

  And he’s definitely good-looking, but whatever. I glare at his rock-hard biceps. “I think you’re headed to jail. I’m going to return to reception and call the cops. Hope you get your clothes on before they come.” I jam my hand in my giant purse, hoping to find my cell. The first thing I touch is a tampon. Then a pen. Then another tampon. I grunt in annoyance.

  Keeping a hand on the pillow pressed to his crotch, the guy holds out his other hand in a stop motion. “Wait, wait wait. I think there’s been a mix-up. Don’t be angry. Don’t go all krav maga on the door. This is my room. Suite two hundred, all the way at the end of the hall. Look at your check-in packet. The little sleeve the key came in. The desk should’ve written the room number on it.”

  I’d taken the key out of its paper holder. My hand manages to locate it in the detritus of my bag. I pull it out and wave it triumphantly. At the same time, a tampon also leaps from the purse and lands with a thwack on the tile floor.

  Yeah, if only this scene was on IG for the world to see. Pure glamour.

  I ignore the tampon, attempting to locate the dignity and grace I project to the world daily on social media. Obviously those things left me somewhere between Italy and Paradise Beach.

  My eyes scan the curly handwriting. “I am in suite two-zero…” My eyes snap to the last number. “Two.”

  My cheeks flare with heat. Of course I’d misread the room number and barged in on some guy jerking off. Oh yeah. This is shaping up to be an awesome trip.

  I sigh. “Crap. I don’t know why the key worked on your room. I’m sorry for interrupting.”

  The guy shuffles a few steps, still shielding himself with the pillow. It’s then I notice his electric blue eyes. “I don’t know why the key worked, either. I’ll talk to the desk about it. Hey, I can help you with your bag—”

  “No. I’m good! Stay right there. Carry on with your business and the family jewels!”

  Trying to muster as much poise as possible, I put the key and the check-in packet in my bag, bend to scoop up the tampon and wrench the battered suitcase to a standing position.

  The door, which is heavy and on a particularly strong spring, bangs into my shoulder as I lurch into the hall. The tampon falls again to the floor, and I kick it into the corner.

  “Ow,” I mutter, turning my head to the left. I pick up the tampon, and the guy’s door slams shut.

  Great. My room’s right next to his.

  I repeat everything I did with the guy’s room: open the door, hurl the suitcase inside, swear, bang my shoulder into the door, swear some more. I’m still holding the tampon, and I fling it into the room, which is blissfully free from naked dudes. The tampon bounces off the flat screen TV.

  The door slams shut with a loud thunk, and I fall onto the sofa and sigh. Jesus, what’s this? Am I crying?

  Ugh, I’m crying and sweating. Even with the air conditioner on, the Florida humidity has seeped everywhere. I feel a trickle of sweat between my boobs.

  Why am I so emotional?

  Is it because the last four photos on IG only got a fraction of the likes my posts usually do? Or because the jerk at the hotel in Italy refused to fully comp my room, saying they doubted if I was an effective social media influencer? Or is it because I’m back in the States, which seems heartbreakingly familiar and makes me realize I have no permanent home anymore?

  Or because my best friend is getting married on this pretty little island to a sweet man, and I have no one?

  Maybe I’m exhausted. That’s it. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.

  The curtains to the balcony are open, and I ease off the sofa, my muscles aching and tense. I go to the sliding glass door and push it open, sniffling.

  I knew Kate reserved a beachfront room for me, but I assumed it was one of those deals where I’d have to crane my neck to see the water. I didn’t anticipate being twenty feet from sand so white and fine it’s as if someone had backed up a dump truck of sugar underneath my balcony.

  And the water, my God. It’s electric blue, kind of like that guy’s eyes. I wince at the memory of him and let out a little laugh.

  I didn’t realize it was this gorgeous here. It reminds me of the Caribbean.

  In an email, Kate had told me her fiancé’s family owns this resort and recently closed it for renovations. Since they’re almost finished with the repairs and upgrades, the wedding guests are staying free. A nice perk. Obviously, they haven’t ironed out all the kinks with the electric key cards. Will I need to put a chair or some other barricade to prevent someone from barging in, like I had on that guy?

  Speaking of the naked guy, he must know the groom. Maybe one of his military contractor friends. Isn’t that what Kate said about Damien? He’s headed to somewhere in the Middle East soon?

  I’ll likely run into Naked Dude again. Crap, how many people did Kate say they’d invited to the wedding? Eighty? One-eighty? I scan the stunning beach, wondering if I have time for a swim before the party. Kate texted me earlier, saying she’d meet me at six. I check my phone. It’s only four. I didn’t think I’d get here this early.

  A sign at the reservation desk says the water is eighty-something degrees. Yeah, perhaps a dip in Florida water will take my mind off this horrible travel day. I draw the curtains, slipping off my dress and my bra, free to wander in my panties. There are few things in the world better than removing a bra at the end of a long day.

  A sigh of pure relief escapes my mouth. I do a few yoga stretches, pee, then begin to unpack. I’ll wear a super cute outfit tonight to the dinner, my favorite beach dress. First, I’ll swim. There. All better. My mood lifts. I can handle this.

  I’m pawing around in my suitcase for my bathing suit when I hear a knock on the door. I tiptoe and peer into the peephole.

  My breath catches. It’s Naked Dude. Well, he’s not naked now. He’s got on cargo shorts and a blue T-shirt that stretches snugly over his broad shoulders. He’s holding two beer bottles with limes stuck in the top. Condensation coats the bottles.

  I almost salivate. I rarely drink—usually I keep it to one glass of champagne a night—but right now, I’d love to feel that cold beer slide down my throat. But I’m topless and in my panties. It’s not like I can open the door, and I don’t particularly want to make small talk with anyone, especially Mr. Handsome Formerly Naked Dude. I’ve been sobbing and sweating, and surely I look like hell.

  “I don’t need housekeeping,” I call out.

  “This isn’t housekeeping. It’s your friendly pervert neighbor. I wanted to bring you a drink. You seemed upset and thought you needed one.”

  “Oh. That’s nice of you. But, um. I’m not in a position to socialize right now. I have work to do.”

  I blink and watch him grin. He’s adorable when he grins. He’s kind of dreamy, actually.

  As enticing as it is to have an eager, grinning man at my door with a cold beer, I’m really not in any shape to open the door and chitchat. Plus, I need down time after that Transatlantic trip to figure out what to say to Kate before tonight’s dinner.

  “How ‘bout I pass it through the door so you can drink it while you work?” His grin gets bigger, and he cocks his eyebrow. Cocky, cocks, cockfull. I laugh and open the door six inches.

  A beer held by a strong, tan hand appears.

  I accept it, and our fingers touch. I’m not sure if it’s the ice-cold bottle or his skin that sends little tingles up my arm.

  “Thank you,” I holler. “I’ll get the next round.”

  “I’m gonna hold you to that. And don’t work too hard. This is Paradise Beach. You’re supposed to relax here.”

  Slamming the door and locking it, I put my eye to the peephole to see him grinning. He’s got the beginning of little lines at the corners of his eyes, a sign he laughs a lot. I think he’s older than me. Older men are hot.

  He turns to head down the hall, and I catch a glimpse of his backside. He’s got a nice butt in those cargo shorts.

  I chuckle out loud as I s
tuff my lime in my beer and take a long, delicious sip.

  Yeah, I’m here to talk Kate out of getting married. But nothing’s stopping me from having a weekend fling with a guy who looks like the eye candy in a rom-com movie.

  Maybe that’s exactly what I need.

  Four

  Max

  The welcome dinner is pure Damien: informal, laid-back, funky. For one thing, it’s not even a dinner. It’s basically an hours-long beach beer bash, so everyone in attendance will likely get nice and lit, if they aren’t already.

  Apparently we’ll have a Cuban pig roast at some point tonight, but the beast looks like it’s far from being cooked through, and Dad is concerned the Marines manning the thing will burn the resort down, so he’s hovering. While wearing a black apron with a manatee on front.

  The guest list is a mash of cultures and traditions, like Damien, like his friends. As a party goes, it’s perfect.

  As the welcome dinner for my youngest brother’s wedding, it’s questionable. The whole relationship is questionable as far as I’m concerned. Too much, too soon. Maybe it’s because I can’t help but think of Damien as a ten-year-old.

  Or because it seems like he and Kate have been dating about five minutes. Who falls in love that quickly, anyway?

  Sighing, I look around. Scattered across the beach at our family’s resort is an assortment of beefy ex-military guys and their girlfriends, interspersed with wiry, tan, long-haired beach bums and women in bikinis.

  There are a few people missing.

  Namely, Damien and his fiancée. I still don’t quite understand how their relationship happened so quickly. Sure, they knew each other in high school. But he’d returned in November after an overseas assignment and then, like a flash of heat lightning, he was engaged.

  I still haven’t gotten used to the idea. Seems too impulsive. Even for Damien. Then again, we’re total opposites. Of all our siblings, he’s the one I’m the least close to, in part because of our ages. He’s more moody and dark, and I’m by nature optimistic. Still, we have some things in common—we’re the only two of the five who have left the island, and that’s been our bonding point for years.

  I’d give my life for the guy and want him to be happy. I just don’t get the shotgun wedding bit.

  Tonight, there’s also one other person absent from the large group: the woman I want to see in a bikini. The one who’s staying next door to me in the resort and who rebuffed my attempt at an apology when I brought her a beer.

  Where is she?

  I spot Ma and my sister Natalia standing in the sand clutching red Solo cups and amble over. Ma’s eyes get big.

  “Max! You look so handsome. So dignified.” She smooths the front of my white linen shirt.

  I chuckle, thinking about the woman who walked in on me, and how she probably assumes I’m the opposite of dignified. “Where’s the man of the hour and his bride-to-be?”

  “Damien and Kate are going over their vows inside and discussing other arrangements. You know, it’s good to have you home.” Ma pinches my side and pokes me in the ribs, a look of mirthful worry on her face. She’s been saying this for the entire time I’ve been back. “You’re too thin.”

  Natalia rolls her giant green eyes. “Here we go. The endless worrying about the first-born prince.”

  I reach to give Nat a hug, and she squirms her slight frame out of my embrace. My younger—and only—sister is the snarkiest and smartest of us all. Guess she had to be, growing up with four brothers. For her first eighteen years, I think we did everything in our power to try and annoy her.

  I flash back to the other night at the dinner table, when she and Remy got into a pitched battle over who drank her last cherry-lime fizzy water.

  Okay, maybe we’ve annoyed her into adulthood, too.

  “Maybe I’m the most fragile, my dear little sister. I seem responsible and organized, but inside I’m a tender soul. Remember, I was an only child for a few years before Mom and Dad decided to bring the rest of you urchins into the world. You guys took everything away from me,” I joke, giving her my best cute-puppy-dog-face.

  “Whatever. I’m glad you’re back for this spectacle.” She grins a little and gestures around the party with her cup.

  I roll my eyes. Spectacle is right. We’d grown up with our parents’ marriage being the pinnacle of love, and if I had to bet, all of us want to hold out for a love like Ma and Dad’s.

  That Damien’s tying the knot in such a cavalier way almost seems like a sacrilege to our family.

  “Oh, there’s Mrs. Patterson. I haven’t seen her in ages. I’ll be right back.” Ma flutters off, tossing her silver wrap over her tanned shoulders. As usual, Ma’s dressed like a hippie headed to Woodstock. Her Birkenstocks are a shiny silver, and she’s wearing a flowy white tank top and billowing white pants. A giant silver pendant shaped like a sand dollar hangs around her neck on a matching sterling chain. She’s always had a strong New Age streak, which is hilarious because Dad stays far away from the hippie-metaphysical stuff.

  I glance at Natalia, who has dyed her long blonde hair a light bluish-purple since I saw her last. Which was yesterday. She looks like a woodland sprite, if woodland sprites vacationed on the beach.

  “Ma seems better. More social. Check out the silver sandals,” I say.

  “This is the best I’ve seen her since her heart problems. She even called me when she found the shoes in the store. Hasn’t done that in a while.”

  I raise my brows, impressed. Ma is known across the island as a lover of shoes. A benevolent Imelda Marcos. Once, she even sacrificed several expensive pairs she’d worn only once for a fundraiser for the island library. Right before the doctor diagnosed her with chronic angina, and immediately after, her passion for all things had almost withered and died. “Good to hear. I hope she’s back.”

  “She’s excited about the wedding. Might be the only one here.”

  I nod slowly, unsure of what to make of this information. Damien’s shocked all of us, that’s for sure. Leave it to Ma, the romantic of the bunch, to be thrilled. She’s probably the only one who truly approves of this, and hasn’t stopped chiding me whenever I’ve grumbled about how sudden everything happened.

  It might be the only reason why more of us aren’t openly questioning Damien’s judgment—because Ma’s back to her usual, bubbly self. Where we want her to be.

  “Think we can talk some sense into D?” I sip my beer and stare into my sister’s blue eyes. Of the five of us, Natalia and I look alike—fair hair, blue eyes, runners’ builds. Like Dad and his Scottish heritage.

  Damien and Remy are identical twins, and Tate is a slightly older-looking carbon copy of them—dark hair, dark eyes, taking after Ma’s Italian-Puerto Rican side.

  Nat shrugs. “You mean talk him out of the wedding? Nope. You’ve seen him. He’s uncharacteristically head over heels.”

  I grimace. “This is true. He’s never been one to bring a girl around.”

  “Yeah, always had one-nighters, from what I’ve heard, like Remy. So gross.”

  “But this Kate woman…”

  We sigh in tandem.

  “Shifting gears.” Nat fixes a hard stare on me, and I know we’re off the subject of Damien and his impending wedding. “Ma’s ecstatic you’re home. She can’t stop talking about it. Went on and on today as we were getting the flowers ready. She thinks you’re testing the waters to move back for good.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right.”

  “I keep telling her you won’t leave the city. You love money too much.”

  I smirk. “It’s not that, Nat.” But there is some truth to it, I guess.

  Natalia gently presses her shoulder into mine. “I know. It’s that you like the challenge of surviving every day in New York. Maybe you’d find the challenge you’re always looking for right here. Have you thought of maybe buying the resort yourself? I’d be happy to help you run it, you know. We’d be a team.”

  “Let’s not get into it. You kno
w I have a complicated relationship with New York. And you know Dad wants to sell. I’d have you on my team any day, and you know I’d welcome you in New York. Been trying to get you there for years.”

  She shrugs impatiently, and frown lines appear between her eyebrows. For the first time, I notice how my sister looks older. She’s thirty-two but somehow I always picture her as a kid. I back up to study her as she speaks.

  “Why do you even put up with the city? It sucks, you know that. It stinks like garbage in the summer, it’s a long way from a decent beach, and you can’t get a good grouper sandwich anywhere.”

  “I know. But my consulting business…” I let my voice trail off.

  “You could sell that business for a crapton of money. I don’t see what you’re trying to prove. I’ve seen you here and in New York. And let me tell you. You look a hell of a lot happier here on Paradise.”

  I reach for Nat’s cup and take it out of her hand. Take a long swig. I can’t argue with her, because it’s true. So I change the subject.

  “Hey, have you trained the new front desk people? The ones we hired the other day?”

  “Hunh?” She stares at me, confused. “Why?”

  I raise my eyebrows skeptically. “They royally screwed up this afternoon. Have you explained to them how to properly check people in, hand out the correct keys, y’know, the basics?”

  “Yeah, of course we have. I did personally. You don’t trust your sister to handle the ins and outs of customer service?” She snatches her beer back.

  “Well, this afternoon, the desk programmed another guest’s key for my room. And some woman walked in on me.”

  Natalia grunts and holds up a hand. She obviously hasn’t stopped biting her nails, and I wonder if the sale of this place is too much for her to deal with. Nat’s the only one of us who stayed behind to help Ma and Dad. Well, that and because she has a thriving side hustle as a designer of beach-themed jewelry. It dawns on me the necklace Ma’s wearing tonight was made by my sister.

  “Who was at the desk today? Do you remember? Was it James? Skinny guy? Black rimmed ironic glasses?”