“Write? But I’m on vacation,” I protest, picking up the other half of the mystery pastry. It’s flaky and sticky and tastes faintly of figs.
She downs the rest of her freshly squeezed orange juice. “Yeah, but look at this place. You can’t tell me you don’t feel inspired.”
“Of course I feel inspired. This has been the best people-watching week of my life.” I cackle.
“What’s the thing you and Brooks are always saying?” she asks.
My chest expands and warmth unfurls when I think about Brooks and our writing sessions. “For the plot?”
“Yeah, that.” She waves a hand like Vanna White at the vacationers milling around us. “How muchplottieris this?”
“True.” I split a smile. “But ‘for the plot’ is typically reserved for turning inconvenient moments into positive experiences. Like the subway unexpectedly shutting down or breaking a heel on the sidewalk.”
She steals a piece of bacon from my plate. “Why can’t it be about whatever the fuck you want it to be about? ‘For the plot’ could be used to describe any juicy-ass shit, don’t you think?”
Huh. She’s not wrong.
“Take Cam, for example.”
“What about him?” I can’t help the shiver running through my veins just thinking about him.
“The two of you together are definitely some juicy-ass shit.” She winks.
Yeah, it’s juicy, all right.
I roll my lips and school my expression. This is why I love this woman. She helps me see things from other perspectives. Everyone deserves a Millie.
Maybe a dayfor the plotis exactly what I need.
After breakfast, we return to the room, where I pull out my laptop—a first since we arrived on the island.
She changes into a bathing suit and cover-up, then snags my Kindle off the nightstand.
“Don’t you dare judge my smutty books or the stickers on my case,” I call over my shoulder.
My newest sticker, from a niche romance bookstore in Brooklyn readsBegging for a Pegging.
“Oh, we both know you wear them like badges of honor.” She cackles on her way out of the suite.
I fluff the blue-and-white striped cushion of one of thebalcony chairs and dust the surface of the wooden table with a towel before placing my laptop on it. The most opulent panoramic view unveils itself from my vantage point. Fronds from flourishing palm trees frame the resort’s private beach. Workers scramble below to secure umbrellas in the wind. Sailboats and luxury yachts kiss the horizon while paddle boards and jet skis sprinkle the cerulean coastline.
I snap a panoramic picture of my dreamy office space and text it to Brooks with a message that reads:For the plotbefore remembering it’s three a.m. in LA. Oops. When I moved to New York, I was worried our friendship would suffer. While it has changed due to our geographical circumstances, we still communicate regularly and make a point to be available for one another for encouragement and support.
Just as I connect to the hotel’s Wi-Fi and set a timer on my phone, there’s a knock at the door. I consider ignoring it. Housekeeping has already been here, and Millie should have her key card.
Another knock, louder this time, sounds.
“Coming!” I hustle to the door and throw it open. When I do, my heart leaps in my chest. “Cam,” I breathe. “What are you doing here?”
He’s dressed in a tight sage green tee and navy blue shorts that hit his thighs a third of the way down. Just how I like them. And that damn backward cap. How the hell am I supposed to be productive now?
As if he can read my thoughts, he holds up a hand. “I ran into Millie, and she mentioned you were going to write.”
“Mm-hmm.” I take a small step back, hoping that if I can avoid his intoxicating smell, I can keep my hands off him.
He holds up his laptop case and camera bag, his eyes shimmering with hope. “I thought maybe we could share an office space?”
Biting my lip, I step aside.
