Page 7 of Beauty
Me: You did this? Why?
War: Congrats on the deal, buddy. I’m proud of you. I’ll miss playing with you, though.
Tears prick my eyes. I’ve always been an emotional guy. Maybe it’s because I was raised by a single dad who made a point of always being open and vulnerable with me. He was always affectionate and made sure I knew how much he loved me. That he was proud of me.
War wasn’t so lucky. He lost his mom at a young age too, but his father couldn’t have been less interested in being a parent. During college, he typically spent the holidays with either Brooks or me. Now that he’s in Boston and playing for the Langfields, he’s got a good support system. I’m glad he’ll be so close to Brooks’s family, but damn, will I miss this guy.
Me: You didn’t have to do this, but I appreciate it, man. Hockey isn’t going to be the same without you.
War: Don’t go getting emotional on me now. You’ll still get to see me on the ice. You know, when I skate by you and score.
Just like that, the tears clear and I’m laughing. War’s one of the kindest people I know, but he’s also the cockiest.
Just as I look up from my phone, a figure appears directly in front of me. So close that I have to throw my hands out and grasp her arms to keep from walking into her. “Shit. Sorry.” I steady her, and when she tips her head and I get a look at her face, I can’t help but break into a smile.
Pretty green eyes widen in shock and those fuck-me red lips drop open.
My seat mate from the plane.
“Hi,” I force out past where my heart has lodged itself in my throat.
“Sir,” the attendant calls from several feet ahead of me.
The woman from the plane bites down on her bottom lip and pulls out of my grip. Then she offers me the tiniest of waves, her fingers dancing subtly, and walks away.
I turn, watching her disappear from view for the second time, only looking away when I crane my neck so far it cracks.
This is going to be a problem.
FIVE
SIENNA
As the doorcloses with a loud snick behind the attendant, I blow out a relieved breath.
Finally.
I take my time examining my home for the next few days, exhausted but also excited and beyond ready to check out the minibar and relax. The villa is decorated in colors fitting for a tropical location. White walls, turquoise rug, white bedding with turquoise stitching on the pillows, white couch, and turquoise vases stacked on the minibar. The highlight of the space, though, is the enormous set of double doors leading to the expansive deck that looks out over the turquoise waters. The vibe here is perfect. Well, almost perfect. A little music will fix that.
I power on my phone, set it to do not disturb, and tap the Spotify icon. As I scan my playlists, I make my way to the bar, where the attendant left an open bottle of champagne sitting inside a—yes, you guessed it—turquoise ice bucket. Once I settle on a little Lana Del Rey mix, I set my phone down and pour myself a glass. The bubbles cause the liquid to foam to the top, but because I’ve mastered the art of drinking champagne, it doesn’t spill over.
After a sip of the crisp liquid, I head for my suitcase, already feeling lighter, and pull out the first bathing suit I find. It’s a cherry-red set of strings. Thank god my brothers aren’t here. If they were, I’d have hideous tan lines from the one-pieces I would have been forced to wear. Once I discovered I’d be on my own, I gladly packed several more indecent options.
The deck is private, but I pluck out a sheer black wrap skirt as well. If someone shows up at the door, at least it will cover my ass. Then I strip off my travel clothes and get comfortable.
Within minutes of settling on the chaise lounge, with my head tilted toward the sun, I’m bored out of my mind.
What do people do on vacation? Is there a trick to turning off an overactive mind?
What I want to do is take out a sketchpad and get lost in designing, but Cat’s insistence that I not work this week is valid. I haven’t slowed down since I started my fashion line. For the last two years, my brain and my body have been in high gear, always working, always pushing.
And in Paris, there will be cameras and a film crew following my every move. I’ll barely have time for bathroom breaks, let alone free afternoons to lie in the sun and relax.
Eyes closed, I tap my red-painted toes to the beat of the music. I can do this. I can lie here and clear my mind. This is enjoyable. This is fine.
I count to ten, and when that doesn’t work, I hum along with the song, focusing on the lyrics.
Oh, fuck this shit.
