Page 51 of Claiming Puerto Vallarta

I think about the apology, like an apology could be a door and a warning at the same time.

My thumb hooks under the belt.

The metal gives a small, clean sound.

I unzip my jeans and push them down my hips, past my thighs, and step out of them without hurrying.

Somewhere by the pool, Becca says, “Damn, baby!”

I pick up the jeans and toss them onto the chair with the shirt and the dress.

I’m standing in swim trunks, bare feet on warm stone, the whole party rearranging itself around the fact of my body. At least it feels like it does.

I finally look for Paul. He’s stopped near the bar, half-turned, sunglasses hiding his eyes.

I walk along the edge of the pool. Water flashes beside me, bright enough to make me squint. One of the pool boys leans back on his hands and gives me an approving nod like I’ve passed an audition nobody told me I was taking.

Becca watches me come closer, one hand on her hip, cheeks flushed from dancing.

“You know,” she says when I reach her, “subtle is always an option.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Georgia snaps her fan open. “Darling, subtle doesn’t live here.”

Becca looks me up and down, then shakes her head, smiling despite herself. She reaches over and adjusts the line of my trunks at my hip, a gesture sharpened by an audience.

She takes my hand and pulls me closer. For a while, I let the party decide what I am.

That sounds stupid, but it’s true.

Somewhere across the pool, Paul Benton is still watching.

Becca eventually changes back into her dress, though she leaves her hair down and her heels in her hand. I put my jeans on over my trunks. Don’t bother with the shirt. I don’t know how long we’ve been here, but long enough that I’ll feel the sunburn in the morning.

We find Paul near the gate as people start moving toward the front, keys in hand, faces turning solemn as they pass.

His eyes flick once over my chest before landing on my face.