That deep masculine American accent continues replaying on a loop through my mind like fucking audio porn.‘There’s always more than one choice, Irish.’
Last night, I wasn’t willing to explore what that other choice entailed.
This morning—my body is brutally berating me for it.
I grab a hot pink bikini from the suitcase I haven’t yet unpacked. It’s simple, sleek and looks understated until it’s actually on, then it hugs all the right places to the point of indecency. I’m not going to lie. I’m hoping to run into a certain hot, flirtatious American by the pool. And then we’ll see what type of choice he offers me.
I tug on the oversized loose linen shirt from yesterday, and my sunglasses, then throw some sunscreen and my Kindle into my Marc Jacobs beach bag. Breakfast can wait.
I fire off a quick text to Tate.
Awake. Heading to the beach. Don’t panic, I’m not running away with any Yanks. Yet.
His reply pings back before I’ve even left the suite.
TATE:Copy that. I’m right behind you. Just finishing breakfast. Don’t forget the sunscreen.
Typical Tate. He’s worse than my mother. Probably because Killian will likely kill him if I go home with so much as a scratch on me, let alone sunburn.
For me or you? ; ) See you shortly.
I toss my phone into the beach bag, slip into my sandals and step out into the sun-drenched morning. The air is already balmy, heavy with heat. The scent of hibiscus and happiness wraps around me like a hug as I make my way down the short wooden boardwalk toward the private beach.
As the sand seeps between my toes, I kick off my sandals, letting the warmth soak into the soles of my feet. A row of pristine white loungers stretches out along the shoreline, each shaded by a swaying linen parasol. I pick one at the far end, close enough to hear the gentle lap of waves but far enough from the honeymooners feeding each other fruit like they’re in a Club Med advert.
I drop my bag, shrug off my shirt, and sink onto the lounger with a sigh of utter contentment.
Heaven.
My phone rings from the beach bag beside me. It better be Tate. I told everyone else I categorically did not want to hear from them. I love my brothers. I love my sisters-in-law more probably, but all this wedding talk can wait until I get home.
Unless it’s Layla, of course. I have a super soft spot for Sean’s fiancée, and not just because she used to be a British princess, but because she’s one of the most beautiful souls tobless this earth. And she actually understands what it’s like to be suffocated by family.
I hold my bikini top in place as I arch over the daybed to reach into my bag. The sun is blinding; even with my sunglasses on, it’s impossible to make out the name on the screen. With a reluctant sigh, I swipe to answer it blindly.
‘Hello?’
Chaos ensues as multiple voices compete for my attention.
‘Aunty Zara, where are you?’ My niece, Orla, wails. ‘It’s Sunday lunch, you’re supposed to be here!’
‘Are you wearing sunscreen?’ My mother worries.
‘Are you wearing clothes, more importantly?’ My brother James growls.
‘Oh, leave her alone, she’s on holiday,’ Scarlett, my sister-in-law, scolds her husband.
‘Get the girls out! Tits need a tan too!’ Killian’s fiancée, Avery, whoops, then catches herself. ‘Oh, sorry, Mrs B, you know I was only joking.’
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the intrusion of my peaceful morning.
‘Where’s Tate?’ Killian demands. ‘Are you safe?’
Thankfully Tate chooses this exact moment to arrive. ‘All is well, boss,’ he assures him.
‘Good. Make sure it stays that way,’ Killian commands. ‘Don’t let her out of your sight.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Where’s Rian?’ Out of all my brothers, he’s the one I’m closest to. He’s the closet to me in age and in mindset. He’s not as serious or as bossy as my other brothers. If he was, there’s no way we could live in the same apartment block.
