Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Théo and Oscar already have a nice setup going when I get down to the beach. As the unofficial party planners, they dug a firepit and brought a few chairs. Nothing else is required, really. The island does the rest of the heavy lifting. The sun’s putting on a show as it drops down toward the horizon, gifting us a cotton candy sky, pink and orange and so beautiful I stop for a second to stare at it. I’ll never get enough. The turquoise water is calm as the waves roll in, and the sand is soft. I slip off my sandals to traipse barefoot toward the guys.
Unlike me, Théo’s from here, born and raised on the island. Oscar’s a transplant from Australia. They both work on the golf course, which never fails to make me smile because of what a contradiction it is. All day at work they’re stuck wearing pressed polos and khakis. Oscar hides his buzzed neon-blue hair beneath a Siesta Playa baseball cap so the guests are none the wiser. Théo’s totally tatted from wrist to collarbone, but you’d never know it when he’s wearing his long-sleeved uniform shirts. Tonight, though, we can just be ourselves. Oscar’s wearing board shorts and a tank top. Théo’s in cargo shorts and a vintage-looking band T-shirt.
I stop in front of them and dip down in a dramatic curtsy like they’re two kings and I’m a mere peasant.
“I bestow upon you two lukewarm beers,” I tease, handing each of them one as a thank-you for setting up the bonfire for the rest of us.
“Damn, I’ll take it,” Oscar says, cracking it open right away.
“How can I help?” I ask, surveying the cluster of chairs and pile of miscellaneous snacks and drinks.
“You can regale us with a story about your day,” Théo replies with a smile. His teeth aren’t perfectly straight, but his crooked smile only adds to his charm. “Heard you got an earful at the excursion desk.”
“You could say that.” I groan. “Have you dealt with the Daughertys much this week?”
“Just the husband. He’s been at the golf course every day hiding out from his wife.”
“Can’t say I blame him.”
“Someone said Cole came to your rescue, though . . . ,” Oscar chimes in with a knowing smile.
“Hardly.”
Théo laughs and points me toward the stack of chairs. “Want to set those up for us?”
“On it!”
I’m one of the first people here by design. I have a strategy for tonight that includes giving Blaze easy access to me. Spatially, that is. I don’t want to be stuck squashed between two occupied beach chairs, so I purposefully lay out my towel on a nice patch of sand near the water with plenty of space on either side of me, and I wait.
The sun has fully set before more people arrive. I’m immensely relieved to see Camila and Lara stroll up. They’re two sisters from Florida who started working here about the same time I did a year ago. They’re slightly older than me, and a packaged duo, but they’re always nice about letting me tag along with them when they go out to clubs and bars.
They’re stunning, like stun-ning. They have long dark hair and sultry eyes. We could not be more polar opposite. My big blue eyes don’t scream sex; they eagerly shout, Hi there! Lookin’ for a friend?
They always modify their work uniforms to somehow make them less cheesy, and their after-work clothes are always edgy and cool, the types of outfits I wouldn’t even begin to know how to put together. Like, is that a shirt or a dress? Shorts or Spanx? Also, ARE WE STILL WEARING HIGH-RISE JEANS OR NOT? Someone help!
I’m shocked they have anything to do with me, what with my hiking gear, workout clothes, and sports bras. What few dresses I own are hand-me-downs from them. When I first arrived here, they took one look at my closet and gasped in horror.
“Where are the clothes for when you go out?” Lara asked with thinly veiled disdain as she frantically leafed through my sensible moisture-wicking workout shirts.
I pointed to some jean shorts and then belatedly remembered that I also had a simple black tank top buried in my bag somewhere, yet to be unpacked. I held it up, proud. Lara signed the cross over her chest and shot up a silent prayer on my behalf.
Since then, Camila and Lara have decided that it’s their sole mission in life to dress me up like I’m their own personal Barbie. It’s, in their words, “a travesty” to let my body go to waste.
“Your legs! That waist! These breasts!”
I mostly let them play dress-up with me because it’s fun and secretly I love that they’re willing to help me out. They’re sexy, and they make me feel like I can be sexy too. So I’m extra glad when they decide to lay their beach blanket out near me.