It was beautiful. Paradise.
But the tension radiating off Romelo and Trecee threatened to ruin it before we even entered the Sprinters to take us to the beach house.
“Baby, can you carry my bags?” Trecee’s voice was chipper as she batted her eyelashes up at Romelo.
He didn’t even look at her. Just grabbed his own bag and started walking toward the Sprinter waiting for us on the curb.
“Romelo!” she called out after him, her tone sharper now. “I said, can you carry my bag?”
“The fuck wrong wit’ yo hands,” he muttered, slightly turning his head.
Trecee’s mouth dropped open, her face flushing with embarrassment and anger. Then she looked around—at me, at Mimi, at Oliver—like she was waiting for someone to defend her.
No one did.
Mimi rolled her eyes and made an attempt to grab her own bag, but Oliver slapped her hand away and grabbed it for her. I did the same and grabbed the handle of my suitcase, rolling it on the cobblestone, trotting toward the Sprinter.
“I can’t believe him,” Trecee hissed under her breath as she struggled to drag her oversized Louis Vuitton suitcase across the pavement. “He’s being such an asshole.”
I didn’t respond. Just kept walking.
Honestly, I didn’t feel bad for her.
Not even a little bit.
The beach house was stunning.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the turquoise ocean. White marble floors. Sleek, modern furniture. A massive kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances. Four bedrooms, each with its own en-suite bathroom. It was the kind of place you saw in magazines. The kind of place people dreamed about. It felt exotic.
“This is gorgeous,” Mimi breathed, walking through the living room and onto the back deck. The sound of waves crashing against the shore drifted in through the open doors, mixing with the salty breeze.
“Hell yeah, it is,” Oliver agreed, grinning as he looked around. “Rome, this shit nice, mane.”
Romelo didn’t respond. He was already in his bedroom—the master suite at the end of the hall, away from everyone else. Away from Trecee. Away from me. Though Trecee followed him anyway.
“Baby, is this our room?” she asked. Her voice echoed down the hallway.
There was a pause before he responded, making the house grow silent.
“Take your pick. This one is mine.”
Trecee scoffed. “What do you mean?”
I could hear the irritation in his voice.
“Exactly what the fuck I said, Trecee. Damn!”
Trecee huffed, stomping her feet like a child. Mimi walked back into the house, hearing the noise. We exchanged a look before she mouthed,What happened?
The sound of the bedroom door slamming echoed throughout the house, but we ignored it. I shrugged, trying to play it off like I didn’t know. I was the reason for the tension between them, and Mimi knew that.
That didn’t stop the guilt from twisting in my stomach anyway.
Eventually, we ended up at the beach, trying to salvage the day despite the awkwardness. Mimi and Oliver were in the water, laughing and splashing. She was twerking on him in the water. He was being mannish, trying to slide his hands under her bathing suit.
Romelo was sitting in one of the beach chairs, smoking weed. He looked so fucking sexy. He was shirtless, dressed in a pair of Burberry swim shorts. His Cuban chain glistened in the sun around his neck, matching the diamonds in his Patek. His feet were in a pair of matching slides. His intricate tattoos were glistening in the sunlight too.
His phone was in his hand, an unreadable expression behind his Cartier shades. Trecee sat next to him—too close, trying to get his attention.
