“I love you, too. Thanks for taking Maverick back to his mother for me. I wouldn’t have asked you to do it if this meeting with Coach wasn’t so damned important.”
“We’re delighted to get some one-on-one time with our sweet boy. Keep us posted about the golf meeting, okay?”
“You know I will.”
“Thank you again for booking all those bungalows for the whole family. Everyone had so much fun.”
“It was a blast,” I agree. “We shouldn’t wait for another family wedding to do it again.”
“Although I admit I’m partial to the idea of us getting together again soon foryourwedding.”
I roll my eyes. Ever since Maverick came along to show my mother how much she adores being a grandma, she can’t resist dropping hints about how much she wants moregrandbabies.Preferably, on purpose next time. Even better if the next baby is born in the context of a committed relationship. Best of all, in the context of an actual marriage. But we both know she’ll take another grandbaby any way she can get one, as long as it’s sooner rather than later.
“I thought you said the doors were closing.”
Mom snorts. “I’ll text you when we land and when we get to Vanessa’s.”
“Thanks. Make sure to thank her for taking such great care of our boy.”
“I will.”
We say our final goodbyes, and I stare out the large bedroom window at the nearby ocean with my phone in my lap. Spending every day and night with Maverick this week made me even more determined to close a deal with the Thunderbolts. But the fact remains, there are too many moving parts for me to make that happen for sure.
Puffing out my cheeks, I get up from the bed, strip off my sweaty gym clothes, and head into the bathroom for a hot shower. I’ve got several days to myself before my scheduled meetup with Coach on Friday, and I’m determined to spend them relaxing, decompressing, and emphaticallynotthinking about how badly I want to finish out my career in the same city as my incredible son.
Chapter 6
Iris
A grunt hurtlesout of me as I lug my suitcase out the back of the Jeep. Why’d I pack so much?
With the car unloaded, I turn and survey the row of beachfront bungalows before me. They’re even prettier in person than online.
As promised, I shoot off quick texts to my family and best friends, letting them know I’ve made it safely to my hotel; and then, off I go with my rolling suitcase toward my home away from home for the week.
When I reach the front door of unit three, I input a code provided in a confirmation email a couple days ago, but it doesn’t work. I try it again, figuring I must have messed up somehow, but I get the same result.
Oh, God. Did Brandon somehow cancel the bungalow? He shouldn’t have been able to do that without notifying me, since my email was used on the reservation. But I wouldn’t put anything past Brandon at this point. I’ve been in such a daze since the wedding, it didn’t occur to me before now Brandon might have tried to sabotage this vacation for me.
Standing in front of this locked door, it dawns on me how urgently I need to pee. I was planning to go at the airport before making the drive here, but I guess I was in a fog after talking to that nice lady. It also doesn’t help matters that I drank a huge bottle of water during the drive. Why’d I do that?
I notice a maintenance guy on a nearby path, so I waddle over to him and beg him to pretty-please unlock my bungalow door. I show him the confirmation email and my driver’s licenseand confess I’m probably ten seconds away from having an embarrassing accident, and thankfully, the man takes pity on me and lets me in.
Once inside my unit, I vaguely register the tropical perfection of my surroundings—elegant, island-themed décor, stunning ocean views through large windows, high ceilings, and a plumeria-scented breeze wafting through it all—as I frantically scan the place for the nearest bathroom.
The closest door turns out to be a closet, so I sprint toward the bedroom in the back, figuring an attached bathroom in there is a good bet.
Thankfully, my gamble appears to have paid off: There’s a closed door on a far wall of the bedroom, exactly where a bathroom would be. I fling it open and sigh with relief at the glorious sight of a toilet, before frantically yanking down my shorts and panties and hurling myself down.
As my bladder releases, I widen my thighs, lean back, and groan loudly, feeling supremely relieved I didn’t kick off my solo vacation by pissing down my leg in public.
“Thank you, Baby Jesus,” I mutter. “Damn, that feels good.”
My brain abruptly registers something unexpected in the small bathroom.Hot steam.It’s everywhere. Covering every inch of my face, arms, and bare legs. Before my brain processes the significance of the mist surrounding me, however, the shower curtain whips open and a dripping-wet, fully naked, tanned and fit Adonis of a man appears before me, his dark hair wet and his large, naked dick hanging low between his muscular thighs.
“Can I help you?” he asks, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
I’m not finished peeing yet, but I somehow manage to stop my stream, mostly, and bolt out of the bathroom without stopping to pull up my shorts and panties.
