She throws her head back then, her rich, throaty laugh echoes through the air again, attracting the attention of half the people in the pool. ‘Thanks for the offer, California, but, believe it or not, I have my own connections.’
‘California?’ My eyebrows furrow.
‘I have to call you something, and I don’t care for your real name. Like I said, I didn't come here for deep and meaningfuls. I would call you The Yank, but I already have one of those hounding me—I’ve never even laid eyes on the man, but I’m pretty sure he’s an asshole.’
I snort. ‘I’d hardly call offering to buy you a drink “hounding”.’
‘You did admit you were trying to buy your way into my bikini bottoms.’
‘I’m only human.’ I shrug.
A shadow falls over us from the edge of the pool. I look up to see a pale, auburn haired six foot five brick shithouse blocking my sun. Man, the guy is ripped. I’d put money on him being military.
‘You okay?’ He asks the woman beside me, his face creased with concern.
Ah fuck. So she does have a boyfriend. It was stupid to think otherwise.
‘Great, thanks.’ She downs her cocktail in four mouthfuls. I watch as she swallows. It’s practically a porno. She sets herglass down, then turns her megawatt smile to him. I don’t even know him, but right now, in this second, I hate him.
Okay, hate may be a strong word—but I am jealous as fuck.
He extends a hand to her, and she slips her tiny palm in his huge one, then he hoists her up out of the water—away from me and my silently screaming penis.
She throws me a wave over her shoulder. ‘See you around, California.’
Oh, I fucking hope so.
Preferably without the bionic boyfriend in tow.
I watch her pert round ass cheeks sashay away. Never mind a drink, I’d buy her the entire damned resort to get into those bikini bottoms.
She’s the first woman Iwantto tell my name.
And ironically, she doesn’t want to fucking know.
Chapter Three
ZARA
Tate and I spend the afternoon exploring the resort. Well, I explore; he scans the perimeters, no doubt cataloguing every entrance and exit, while simultaneously clocking every guest in the vicinity. The resort isn’t busy. Luxury and crowds don’t gel well together, and this place is pretty luxurious. And with five pools, three kilometres of private beach, and four Michelin starred restaurants, there’s plenty of space.
‘Who was he?’ Tate asks as we make our way back to my suite—the Coral Reef Residence. I’d had my eye on the Celeste Suite, the only one with a rooftop hot tub, but it was already taken. Still, the Coral Reef is a close second. Quadruple glass doors open onto a white-wicker terrace with a small hot tub and private beach access. The shoreline lies barely ten metres away, and the waves provide the perfect soundtrack to my vacation.
Inside, it’s almost exactly how I’d have designed it myself—open plan, bathed in natural light, with oversized ivory furnishings that balance form and function. Soft pops of turquoise and sea-green ripple through the space, mirroring the water beyond the terrace. The lighting is warm, diffused,complementary. Whoever designed it understands flow, proportion, and how to utilise the space perfectly. I love it.
‘Who was who?’ I don’t know why I’m pretending. I know exactly who Tate is referring to. California’s unforgettably chiselled features and blatant flirtation is right at the forefront of my brain. He had great banter—and an even better body. The muscular planes of his chest looked like a goddamn marble statue. He’s ripped. Not like Tate—no he was leaner, more athletic than buff.
Tate quirks a brow. ‘Don’t give me that. If you’re planning on spending time with him, I should suss him out.’
‘I’m not planning on “spending time” with him.’ I use my fingers to make air quotes.
‘Good, because he radiated arrogance. I bet his ego needs its own suite.’ We reach my front door. I swipe my keycard to unlock it. Tate steps in first to check it’s safe. It’s utterly unnecessary. No one but my family, Livvie, Nico, and my family’s private pilot knows I’m here.
‘Ego?’ I echo, following him in, sighing in satisfaction as the aircon hits us. ‘I’d call that big dick energy.’
Tate snorts. He’s grown accustomed to my less than ladylike language over the years. I blame my brothers. ‘Whatever floats your boat. I know you, Zara. I’ve watched you for long enough.’
‘Because that’s not creepy at all.’
