‘Macallan?’ The server remembers me.
‘No. A beer, please.’ Carefully avoiding the sun-warmed stone, I let my gaze roam across the lavish pool deck as I wait for my drink. Couples come and go. But there’s still no sign of Irish.
I drink my beer, the cold fizz cutting through the heat, then sip down two more, watching the horizon until the sun starts to slip lower, and the sky turns into a vivid shade of amber.
I should have arranged a time to meet her.
But instead I’m sitting here like a spare prick.
There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.
Chapter Eleven
ZARA
The sun’s slipping low over the resort by the time Tate and I stroll up to the pool bar, laughter spilling between us. That’s the great thing about Tate. He knows when I need company, and he knows when to hang back and let me feel like I’m alone.
This morning, I needed company.
I would have preferred the company of the man who slipped out of my suite at three am, but I think I mentioned before, I don’t chase men—even one who blew my mind and almost broke my body with multiple orgasms.
I also refuse to sit around and wait for that man either.
Which is why I had to get off the resort.
There was no way I was going to spend the day hanging around waiting for California to come and find me like he promised he would before he left my suite last night.
Instead, I hired a private catamaran and forced Tate to explore the hidden coves along the coastline with me. The untouched stretches of sand and turquoise water are like the ones you only ever see in travel magazines. We even saw apod of dolphins racing the bow, their sleek silver bodies slicing through the waves. And a sea turtle gliding lazily beneath the surface like it owned the entire ocean.
Now that we’re back, the evening air is thick with the scent of food drifting from the beach restaurant below. The sunset’s turning the sea to molten gold on the horizon, and the whole place hums with that lazy, seductive energy that only comes at the tail end of a perfect day.
I’m still damp from our late swim, my hair drying into wild salt-sprayed waves down my back. My skin is tight from the sun and from the sea. Tate carries both our beach bags, muttering something under his breath about “glorified pack mule duties,” as I scan the poolside bar for the perfect seat, before settling on a table near the bar.
I slip onto the highbacked stool, cross my legs, stretch back, and let the last of the sunlight warm my skin. The resort looks like a postcard. It’s hard not to feel relaxed here. Even if I can’t stop scanning the vicinity for a certain hot blond who blew my mind last night.
‘You didn’t need to threaten the captain, Tate,’ I tease, sliding my Chanel sunglasses to the top of my head.
‘He was staring at your ass.’ His tone is incredulous.
‘He wasofferingme a mojito.’
‘He wasofferingyou his penis.’
I laugh, shaking my head. ‘God, you sound like Killian.’
‘High praise,’ he deadpans, though his lips twitch. ‘I’ll take it.’
I order an Old Fashioned, Tate orders a beer.
‘So no date tonight?’ Tate asks. It’s the first time he’s broached the subject of California all day.
‘Huh, please, last night wasn’t a date. It was a bit of harmless fun.’ Am I trying to convince him, or myself?
‘You had dinner with the man,’ he reminds me. ‘Anddessert.’ His eyebrow quirks. ‘Maybe we should ring Killian and ask him if he would class that as a date.’
‘You’d better be joking.’
‘You know I am. He’d murder me for letting a man in your suite.’
