Page 66 of Bad Mood Billionaire
JAKE
As it turned out, Gabi took beach day as seriously as she took her career when she worked for me. When I picked her up on Saturday morning, I had to help her out to the car because she had so much shit with her. She had a large beach bag overflowing with towels and snacks, a large cooler that weighed more than a small child, a beach umbrella, a straw beach mat that she carried slung over her shoulder like a yoga mat, and a two-gallon water bottle.
I loaded everything into my trunk while she cleaned smudges off her sunglasses.
“Where’s your swimsuit?” she asked.
“Under my jeans.”
“It definitely won’t be warm enough to swim. It never is here,” she said, somewhat bitterly, “but it’s going to be a perfect day to lounge in the sun and catch some rays. I packed sunscreen if you need some.”
This was my nightmare.
Sand everywhere.
Kids everywhere.
People everywhere.
Gross.
But for Gabi, I’d do anything. And if this meant I could have her back at the office with me, then I’d let her use me as a beach towel if she had to, sand up my asshole and all.
Actually, letting her use me as a beach towel didn’t sound so bad. I would have that perky ass of hers right in my crotch while she tanned her front, and her tits pressed to my chest when she worked on her back.
The thought alone made my mouth water.
“I think that’s everything.” Gabi planted her hands on her hips and stared into the depths of my trunk. She mouthed out a silent tally of all the items she’d brought as she counted them on her fingers. “We just need to stop for ice on the way.”
“Easy enough.” I moved to the passenger door and opened it for her. She thanked me with a smile, slid into the seat, and buckled up while I walked around the hood and got behind the wheel. The car quickly began to smell like her, coconut and vanilla and a hint of something spicy like cinnamon or clove. I breathed it in and let the scent linger in my nostrils.
Over the duration of the drive, I kept stealing glances at her in the passenger seat. She had her window down and often stuck her whole arm out, using it to ride the wind like a wave. She’d tied her short hair into a tiny ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her bangs were still down, and a few dark pieces framed her face. She looked like a sun-kissed goddess with smooth bronze skin, and when the sun poured through the windows while we drove down the coastline, I noticed there were fine golden glitter particles on her skin.
Perfection.
We stopped at a gas station to pick up ice. Gabi opened the cooler in the trunk, and we poured the ice over the sodas and beers in there. She’d also packed several stackable Tupperware containers. I couldn’t tell what was in them, but when my stomach growled, I hoped it was a plethora of good snacks.
I closed the trunk.
She hop-skipped back to her door and tugged it open. “Next stop, the beach!”
I’d never seen her so jovial before. Perhaps this was exactly what we needed to reset and start on a new foot. Instead of going straight to the office and trying to find our groove again, we were going to ease into it in the sunshine. The closer I got to the sand, the more and more I began to think this was actually a smart idea.
Why did I keep getting surprised that she was full of those?
I parked the car on the upper lot and Gabi loaded me up with all our supplies. She carried some items as well, even though I offered to handle it all. She insisted she was no princess and led the way down the rocky path to the sand, where she immediately kicked off her sandals, crammed them into her beach bag, and walked barefoot down to the break in the sand that separated the wet stuff from the dry.
To our right, the Golden Gate Bridge stood like a red beacon against the backdrop of blue sky and ocean. The waves broke rather gently against the shore, and a group of children and their father ran through the waves racing up toward their ankles.
The water must have been damn cold, but none of them seemed to mind.
Gabi shielded her eyes and grinned as she watched them play. “I used to love coming here with my family when I was a little girl. My brother and I would spend hours doing just that, chasing the waves back and running from them when they came rushing back up the sand.”
I had one memory of playing on the beach as a child. I couldn’t have been older than six. The memory was foggy, and sometimes I questioned if it was even real, but I liked to believe it was.
After a particularly rough week on the ranch, which was in Bandera, Texas on a hundred-acre plot of land, my mother had packed John and me up in the station wagon—the only car Dad let her off the property in even though he owned five vehicles—and she drove us down to the coast. It had been a decently long drive, especially for a six-year-old, and I’d been oblivious to the tension in the car. Only now, when I sat and carefully picked through the memory, could I notice the way John sat stoic in the passenger seat while Mom tried to get him talking.
She’d tried so very hard.
