Page 60 of Scandalous Lover

I shake my head and my phone. “I’ve got the whole package right here.”

Fran glances down at her own phone. “Shoot, I have to get to The Sands for the tasting. Do you want to come?”

I smile and shake my head. “I’ll follow you back, but I have to get packed up. I’m moving up to Dom’s this afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Fran says as she gets up and starts packing the wedding notes in her portfolio. “No more private room to carry on secret affairs.”

I laugh. “Not that there was all that much carrying on happening, but yeah. Moving into the belly of the beast is going to put a damper on any possible future trysts.”

“Have you been out to Sam’s place yet?”

“We’re not exactly on going to his house together alone terms.”

Fran looks at me like she’s scheming. “It’s pretty private.”

I sigh. “I’ll be waiting for my invite.”

Chapter Eighteen

Naomi

We part ways in the resort lobby, Fran hurrying off to Raft and me slinking up to my room to pack. I didn’t fully settle in over the last few days, knowing I’d have to move, but I still have items strewn from one end of the room to the other.

I’m just tossing my last bikini from the porch railing toward my suitcase when I catch my own reflection in the mirror. I smile at the girl there, tossing my hair and posing.

There’s no denying it—island life looks good on me. I left my hair to dry naturally this morning after an early swim in the ocean and it’s dried into soft, beachy waves. I gave up on makeup, so my only highlight is my lash tinting, giving me a slightly glammed up natural look that I’m absolutely loving.

Even my curves, which I adore but still try to smooth out with flattering cuts and colors, look voluptuous and sun-kissed, from the tan lines on my shoulders to the new smattering of freckles on my chest.

I feel like a goddess.

Snatching up my phone, I do what I do best, capturing just the right angles, creating some really stunning images.

I can’t post it to my socials yet, and somehow…I don’t even want to. I’ve spent a lot of years dolling myself up in the freshest styles and hippest filters, trying to match my own face to the aesthetic of my perfectly curated channel.

The girl looking back at me from the screen doesn’t fit the look at all, but somehow, I like her more.

On a whim, I pull off my top and run the hand not holding my phone over my bare breasts, enjoying how the cool breeze from the patio door sends goosebumps up my arms and pebbles my nipples.

I snap a couple shots that only include slivers of my face, focusing on the bare skin of my chest and the shadows cast by my fingers.

Glancing through them, I’m struck by the bold contrast and edgy rawness of my own image. I scroll back up a few weeks to some of the shots I took of myself in Austin. Meal prepping in a matching two-piece sweat suit. Sipping perfectly foamed matcha in front of a living green wall in a café down the street.

I pause on that picture in particular, zooming in to look closely at my face.

This was taken when I was happy.

Full days before I knew my life was about to come crashing down.

My hair and make-up are perfect, my outfit portrays the ultimate afternoon out with the lady friends vibe I was going for, even though I was completely alone. I’m smiling, like I always am, mouth open just slightly as if I’m laughing at something one of my besties said.

I scroll up even more, a frown spreading across my face as I see photo after photo with that exact same expression.

How could I not have ever noticed this before?

My signature look is just me pretending to be happy.

Pretending to be hanging out with my friends.

---