“Yes. Well, hopefully…”
“Why? Is my son not paying you enough? I’ll wring his neck.”
I smile picturing it. “It’s not about the money.”
I’ve worked for my family’s corporation, De Vere Diamonds, since I graduated with my MBA, and I have no complaints about my salaryormy trust fund. I want to work and experience a normal summer here—oneanytwenty-six-year-old would enjoy—because this might be my last chance to do something wholly outside the bounds of my family. I’ve spent the last three years working my way up the corporate ladder for no good reason other than to make my parents happy. Working for De Vere is what everyone expects of me. I’m the sole heir now, the only De Vere offspring left to carry on the legacy. Lately that mantle has felt too heavy to bear.
“Where will you work?” she asks. “You could teach surf lessons, I suppose. You’d be good at that. Do you have a work visa?”
“Yes, but it’s a bit of a mess. When I first thought about spending my summer here, I applied for a barista position I found online. That’s how I managed to get my work visa in the first place, but then the coffee shop closed and now I’m scrambling to try to get a job before my visa gets revoked. The nightclub I’m hoping to waitress at is really popular so it might not work out, but I still want to try.”
“What’s it called?”
“Aura.Heard of it?” I quip. All the Ibiza clubs that were around when my grandmother was my age are long gone by now.
She laughs, and then her laughter grows out of control. It’s like I’ve just told her the funniest joke she’s ever heard.
“What?” I ask, having a hard time fighting my smile. “Is it the name? I know it’s a little silly, but all the clubs here have names like that. Amnesia, Solaría, Secreto…”
She finally stifles her laughter long enough to reply. “No, mi niña. Ignore me. I’m old and senile. This nightclub sounds perfect. Let me know if you want me to call the owner and put in a good word for you.”
I laugh at her joke. “Sure. Would you?”
“Consider it done,” she teases.
Chapter Three
Cristiano
Mierda. Something is wrong with me. Usually I love being out on the water. The salty sea air, the lull of the waves, the lure of the surf—the combination is better than any pill on the market.
I lean forward against the railing on my yacht, listening to the peals of laughter and conversation in the distance, but I’m not quite ready to join my friends yet. There’s a tightness in my chest that doesn’t usually trail me out here. On my yacht, I’m supposed to be relaxed, sedate, at peace. It’s in the boat’s name, dammit.Serena.
Today is supposed to be a rare day off. I’ve intentionally made it so no one can bother me unless they have my personal cell phone number. My work phone is back on shore, pinging with alerts I don’t have to worry about until later. The sea is the only place I can feel at peace, far enough away from my businesses that no one can reach me. Well, no one other than the fools I call my friends.
I lean out over the rail, watching Juan Carlos speed like a bullet across the water on his Jet Ski, trying to outpace Mauricio. All the water toys are out today: the slide, Seabobs, paddleboards. I should be down there having fun. Instead, I’m diagnosing myself.
Maybe I’m an addict. Being a workaholic in paradise is a special kind of torture. Constantly surrounded by beauty, unable to actually take it in, is a real problem. I should be worried, but well… who needs all that happiness crap? A life outside of work? A relationship? Who has the fucking time?
I’m trying to conquer the world here, not bore myself to death over a dinner date.
And besides, Icanappreciate things. My boat is beautiful. That new Jet Ski Juan Carlos is careening around on is top of the line. The water is crystal clear and… maldición. I wish I had my work phone. The fires are likely piling up, and I’m going to have to put them out eventually. I could have brought my laptop and chipped away at my emails for an hour or two, and then maybe this tightness in my chest would have eased.
Or who knows, maybe I’m completely off the mark. Maybe at the ripe age of thirty-four, I’m having a heart attack. I should call for the captain. He’s not a doctor, but he’s had basic medical training, right? Maybe he could check my blood pressure. No doubt it’s through the roof.
“Enjoying the view?” Juan Carlos calls out, whipping his (my) Jet Ski around on the water, taunting me.
He can’t resist poking me further when I don’t give him a reaction. “You’re too tightly wound. You need to relax!”
How can I? I’ve been working my ass off for the last few years creating Colectiva Isla Blanca, and it’s not easy runningthe largest hospitality group on Ibiza. Owning and operating a dozen restaurants and nightclubs comes with a very specific set of challenges. Each venture requires careful attention to detail. The new spots have to be babied, the old ones are in constant need of tending—it’s a never-ending merry-go-round. Just when I think I have all the pieces in place, the house of cards neatly stacked, a new idea sparks until I have no choice but to see it through to fruition. There’s never time to sit back on my throne and enjoy the empire I’ve built.
I shoot my cousin a crude gesture with my hand before my phone starts ringing on the lounge chair behind me and I rush to answer it.Gracias a Dios.Maybe a work contact found my personal number. I’m saved.
“You see?” Juan Carlos cackles at my predictability.
“Cristiano,” I say with a clipped tone, already champing at the bit over the problem looming before me. Maybe the chef walked out at Mar Blava before the big lunch rush; maybe there’s a huge supply-chain issue with our alcohol distributor at Aura. Whatever it is, it’ll refocus my attention where it belongs: on work. No more wondering about ambiguous feelings.
“I can’t believe I reached you!” A woman laughs with delight on the other end of the phone. “I’ve been trying all day. You are a hard man to track down.”
