12. Paige
CHAPTER TWELVE
Paige
The sudden shake of the plane snaps me out of my slumber.
My eyes split open, and judging by the force pushing my chest into the seat, I realize we’re landing.
My heartbeat slows as soon as my brain registers I’m not dying, but it quickly picks up when my nose fills with an unfamiliar scent.
It’s far from unpleasant. The combination of fabric softener and musky, manly cologne doesn’t sound like it should work, but it’s almost intoxicating, making me itch for another deep inhale.
As soon as I do, a groan escapes, but it’s not me who lets it out. This time, my head soars up, establishing the source of the groan.
It’s Ryan. Ryan, who is currently groggily rubbing the palms of his hands over his eyes while sporting a very obvious drool stain on his white polo. A stain that is coincidentally located just where my mouth was a few seconds ago.
A pure coincidence, I’m sure.
He glances at the stain before smirking, his eyes still only halfway open. “Had a good rest?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A ding signals we can unbuckle our seatbelts, meaning we have fully landed. I jump to my feet, grabbing my carry-on luggage. Of course, I’m not the only one with the same idea, because a hundred people are crowding the aisle already, making my exit impossible.
“Figures you’d be one of those people,” he mutters low enough only I hear him.
Not typically. I typically hate those people with a passion. But after falling asleep on his chest, getting out of the plane as soon as possible is my imperative.
Sweat drips down my back as I climb into a taxi.
The heat is heavy and damp, but the scent of the salty air makes it all worth it.
This time, I’m blessed by sharing the taxi with Jordan and Emma.
Excitement blooms within me as my eyes trail the endless sandy beaches and tall palm trees lining the road.
The lush green vegetation covers the rocks, and I wonder how many native species the island hosts.
If I play my cards right, this could be good.
A great vacation. I can probably avoid seeing Ryan until our flight home.
A smile pulls at my lips. A week in paradise doesn’t sound so bad anymore.
Yet only minutes after we enter the resort, my suitcase drops to the marble floor with a loud thud as the smile disappears from my face. “What do you mean we’re sharing a room?”
The reception area of the resort is brimming with tourists and staff, most of them chatting. It’s possible that I have misheard. Please let it be that. A misunderstanding.
Dad raises his head, his fingers wrapped around a hollowed-out coconut with a bamboo straw sticking out of it.
The smiling receptionist hands us each a welcoming drink, and he waits for her to be done before answering.
“Not a room, sweetie. A villa. A villa where each of you will have your own room.”
“Still, it doesn’t make sense. Why would we share?” Jordan now doubles down on my previous question.
Kim’s hand wraps around Dad’s, squeezing it in a gentle, loving matter.
My gaze zeroes in on the gesture, my molars grinding.
Even though she’s wearing a wide-fitting, beige linen dress, unlike his previous fiancées, who would’ve definitely worn something bright red and/or see-through, the intention is the same.
Show Roger that you’re on his side, while his daughters are on the opposite one so that by the time they gather enough evidence of your disingenuity, you have laid the ground for him not to trust them.
His own daughters. It’s not a new prospect, but my throat still constricts as the realization sets in.
“They only had two more villas available. We figured you’d prefer this over sharing a one-bedroom one with us.” Dad glances at Kim seductively, and my nose scrunches up.
“Ew, Dad,” Jordan comments while Ryan’s face twists into a horrified expression.
Kim slaps his hand away playfully, giggling like a teenager. “What Roger means is that the whole reason for this trip is for us to get to know each other. What better way for you kids to do that than to share the space?”
Dad’s chin bows in agreement. “Remember when the two of you fought when you were kids?” He glances at Jordan and me, and I swallow.
Jordan and I fought pretty frequently, but when it got out of hand, Dad used to have an enormous shirt on hand. He would pull it over both our heads and force us to wear it until we got along.
“Consider this your grown-up version of the fight shirt.” It’s what he used to call it. Not very inspirational, I know, but it served the purpose.
There’s an edge to his gaze. This isn’t a statement.
It’s a warning. No matter how much he loves us, he won’t let us disrespect the woman he’s chosen as his partner.
Something both Jordan and I know very well.
He hands us each a key card to the villa, and I’m left there wondering how the hell hearing my dad have sex seems like a safer option than whatever this is.