CHAPTER SEVEN
CAM
GROUP CHAT : CPK FOREVER
Petra: Quick Poll: How many island boys have you corrupted?
Me: Current count: negative zero. My vajayjay is in mourning.
Katie: Let me guess, Grumpy McCrankyPants is cockblocking paradise?
Me: Dios mo! You have no idea. Kai the resort owner keeps flirting with me
Petra: Just googled Kai. You NEED to let that tattooed island God wreck you.
Me: Except my boss is everywhere. Get this, Kai gifted me a vibrator the size of Maui.
Katie: Take what you can get, but after experiencing what Matteo can do with his tongue, batteries cannot compare.
Me: Excuse me while I die of sexual frustration and live vicariously through your Italian adventures.
IM DREAMING OF MARSHMALLOWS?
Warm. Soft. Deliciously dense but still plush enough to sink into, like some kind of fancy artisanal marshmallow at a boujee farmers market. My fingers flex, testing the firm-yet-fluffy consistency beneath me. It smells good toolike sea salt, and something spicy, maybe ginger?
Wait.
Marshmallows dont snore.
Every muscle locks up as I register the deep, rhythmic vibrations rumbling through my torso. I pry open one sleep-heavy eye, and Im spooning Reece Dare.
And not like, barely brushing against him in a whoops, mustve rolled too close kind of way.
No. I am a needy koalafull-body latched on to him, my thigh draped over his hip, my face smushed into his shoulder blade, andAy, Dios!my hand!?
Firmly gripping the unmistakable bulge poking up under the blanket.
I release him as if hes radioactive. My limbs go full Mission Impossible mode, slowly peeling away so I dont wake up the human furnace Ive been unconsciously cuddling the hell out of.
The burrito blanket situation is not helping. Reece has wrapped himself up so tight that only one bare arm, the sharp edge of his jawline, and a sliver of messy dark hair are visible. The rest is a mummified cocoon of heat and muscle. No wonder Im snuggling on top of him.
Because God help me, hes adorable.
Dammit. He should not be adorable.
He stirs right as I make it to my side, and I freeze faster than Gordons Botoxed forehead.
He shifts slightly thenthe snoring resumes.
SNNNRRRKKKKK! RAAAARRRKKKKK!
This is no ordinary snoreits an auditory contradiction: part congested rhinoceros, part malfunctioning Roomba.
Seriously, I mutter under my breath, you might want to get that checked out.
I pull the covers over myself and stare at the ceiling, replaying yesterdays shitshow like an embarrassing highlight reel.
Astrid calling me thunder thighs. Reece retaliating and publicly declaring my curves perfection. The poolside penis floatie battle. Reece retreating to his blanket cocoon like a man on the brink.
Yeah. Yesterday sucked.
And no, Im not still thinking about the way he pointed to me and said, This is what perfection looks like. It was a ployhad to bea way to get back at Astrid and score some fake-dating credibility.
I know this because he has reminded me, approximately 3,542 times, that I am not his type and he is my boss.
Cam, youre my employee.
Cam, this is just for PR.
Cam, you are my boss. Wait, noIm your boss. I am the boss.
I get it, Reece. Youre not interested.
And yet why was he being so freaking weird about touching me yesterday?
Like, he had zero issues accidentally groping me in the shower, but when it came time for structured, totally-allowed-in-the-rulebook pool games, suddenly he was handling me (or rather NOT handling me) as if I was made of live explosives.
Ugh. Men.
I glance over at his blanket-wrapped form as another seismic snore shakes the mattress. Hes dealing with so mucha failed wedding, viral humiliation, his entire brand imploding because his ex replaced him with his bestie. I think hes finally cracked.
His words from yesterday slice through my confidence like a machete. You dont have experience, hed said, unknowingly sneering at my dreams. The guy who inspired me to buy my first camera thinks I belong permanently behind it.
No preparation. No guidance. Just BAM! Hey, DareSquad, meet my new girlfriend! And out of nowhere, Im supposed to sparkle as if Ive got glitter in my veins instead of anxiety. Two years of making him look good through the camera, and he couldnt give me five minutes to find my footing.
And boy did I bomb hard .
I was stiff, awkward, and painfully aware of the way my face moved. Was I blinking too much? Was my smile weird? What about my hands? Should they be limp? Activated? By my sides? Moving so they accentuate what Im saying?
And then there was Astrid, with her everythings artificial superiority complex: Go hide behind your little camera. I played it off like her words were as fake as her eyelashes, but they hit me hard. Every second thought Ive had about being good enoughabout deserving to tell my own storiescame rushing back in a tsunami of self-doubt.
So, while Sir Blanket-a-lot was having his existential crisis yesterday, I practiced. Hours of talking to the camera, watching the playback, and confronting the horrors of my own awkwardness. My fake-happy voice sounded like an overly chipper Starbucks barista. But I kept going, because theyre rightboth of them. If I want this dream, I need to level up.
Plus, theres no place to take care of my other frustrations in this mirror-covered fun house. I might as well redirect all that sexual energy into something productive.
A growl erupts from my stomach loud enough to rival Reeces snoring. My eyes dart to him. He doesnt move. Good. Im not ready to deal with that hot mess yet.
Next to the nightstand, I see the new gift bag that was left in our room last night. I would kill for more of that delicious pineapple popcorn.
I stretch my arm out from under the sheets, but its just a little too out of reach. So I slide my foot out instead, curling my toes in a desperate attempt to hook the strap. Victory! My toes snag the bags handle, and I drag it closer like the snack burglar I am
BEEP. WHIRRR.
Oh, fuck.
The bed starts rotating.
I frantically swipe at the sensor, cutting off the motion right as Reece grunts in his sleep.
My whole body goes rigid.
He lets out a snort that resembles a warthog discovering masturbation and settles back into his sinus symphony. With such unholy sleeping sounds, its a good thing this man is pretty.
Phew! Crisis averted.
I reach inside with the stealth of a ninja, trying to avoid the crinkling tissue paper.
My fingers brush against something rubbery? Definitely not popcorn. I extract what appears to be a palm-sized penguin, complete with bowtie and a come-hither expression.
The tag reads: The Pleasure PenguinSlide, Glide, and Enjoy the Ride!
I turn it over in my hands, searching for clues about its purpose, when my thumb hits something and
BZZZZZZZZZZ!
I start pushing everywhere on the poor bird, molesting it beyond comprehension. It just keeps buzzing.
My roommate stirs beside me, his snoring pattern changing.
With pure panic, I shove the vibrating penguin under the covers, squeezing it with my thighs to muffle the sound, and
Jesucristo!
The spasming hellbird dances against my clit, and suddenly Im having a very different kind of morning wake-up call. My legs clamp together on reflex, which increases the intense sensation.
This is inappropriate.
This is unprofessional.
This is happening people. Holy fuck, that feels good.
I press the device more firmly against my clit. I should stop. No, seriously. But Ive been on edge sexually since before we landed in Paradise Gone Wrong, and the anticipation of climax has been building, and the pressure God, the pressure!
My traitorous brain floods with images of Reece. His strong, possessive hands on my breasts in the shower. Then when he first saw me in my swimsuit, his pupils dilatedfucking dilated! Those steel-blue eyes went black as they were dragging over my curves like he was mapping territory. The throbbing intensifies, and Dios mo!, how am I climbing this fast just thinking about
My bedmate snorts like a sleeping dragon getting ready to wake.
Im seconds away from discovering enlightenment via my new tuxedoed friend with benefits.
Waddle faster, you sinful little bird!
Suddenly, the man rolls. All two hundred pounds of muscled male landing directly on top of me.
Im somewhere between frozen and stuckhis arm wraps around me, his chin nuzzles into my shoulder, his morning stubble scraping deliciously against my cheek, and then
Mmm Camila.
Did he say my name?
Red alert!
I cannotCANNOTorgasm while Reece Im Your Boss Dare is moaning my name like Im his favorite cheat meal.
Hes as heavy as I am determined. I try to shimmy away under the covers, accidentally conjuring up more friction
BZZZZZZZZZ!
I reach to retrieve the demon toy, gripping it like Im rescuing my phone at 1% behind the couch, and
BZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!
Somehow Ive cranked up the setting to MAXIMUM.
With a surge of desperation, I grip the vibrator and wrench my arm free. It pops loose like a champagne cork, sending Reece rolling onto his back and out of his blankets.
The flightless bird launches from my hand like a lust-fueled comet.
And lands.
Directly.
On.
Reece.
His body jolts like someone hooked him up to a car battery. Those devastating blue eyes fly open, still cloudy with sleep.
And then
He looks down.
Right at the vibrating menace having a rave against his eight-pack.
He blinks once. Twice. Three times.
I stop beating I mean breathing. That is, my heart stops breathing. I mean Whatever. All I know is time stops.
He picks up the bird, examining it as if its evidence in a crime. Which, lets be honest, it kind of is.
And then
The slowest, most devastating, and most devious, panty-melting grin spreads across his face.
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
Must have fallen from the ceiling! I squeak. You know, from Kais jungle show. Probably got confused and thought it could fly. But penguins cant fly. Thatd be crazy.
Oh my God, shut UP, Camila!
I snatch the beaked bandit from his hand, my fingers frantically violating its every crevice and no-no zone to find the off button. Its bill? Nothing. Webbed feet? Nada. Tail? Just more buzzing. Im performing emergency surgery on a sex toy while he watches with that insufferable smirk.
Finally thank you, sex gods I pull on a wing, and the perverted penguin goes silent.
Reece gives me a look thats half amusement, half arousal, his hair sticking out in every direction like hes been thoroughly debauched. His eyes drop to my chest and
My nipples are standing at attention in my dark-purple satin camisole set. This naughty number has a flyaway center that parts like curtains at a peep show, framing my belly button and giving a glimpse of underboob.
His eyes snap back to mine, and the heat in them could melt polar ice caps. I suck in a gasp, and my veins fill with lava as my core clenches. I can feel each pulse between my legs growing stronger, hotter, remembering a mere thirty seconds ago I was about to orgasm thinking about the man whos currently eye-fucking me.
I just
Need air! he shouts.
Oxygen. Right? We need oxygen?
Super important. Great idea. Me, air, and no this.
We both bolt out of bed. He hits the floor, still tangled in his duvet, while I dash for the bathroom. He stumbles toward the balcony, and we both slam our doors shut.
I am so monumentally screwed.
Or rathertragically un-screwed.
God, I hate this resort.
***
Hey, DareSquad, its ya girl Cam!
No. Too influencer-y. I sound like Im selling DareFuel.
Hey! Camila coming at you from Maui
Ugh. Why am I giving off Disney Channel vibes?
I exhale slowly and evaluate my reflection. My hair is curled in soft waves that are actually behaving tonight. My makeup is freshly applied, andsurprisemy winged liner isnt even lopsided. My green leaf-print halter dress, however, is on my last nerve.
I adjust my cleavage for the millionth time, wrangling my breasts into submission. Theyre staging a jailbreak, threatening to spill out of this dangerously low neckline. Three years ago in Cabo, Katie and Petra convinced me to buy this thing, insisting I looked like Jennifer Lopez in her iconic green dress.
I had agreed because, wellJLo. My sister Aria and I grew up idolizing herthe curvy Latina fashion icon who taught us to be proud of our figures and that our bodies were meant to be envied.
Normally, this dress makes me feel powerful, confident, perhaps even a little lethal. Normally
But right now, Im two deep breaths away from a full-scale wardrobe malfunction, and whats really not helping? My stupid brain flashing back to this morning.
To waking up tangled around Reece.
To the way he murmured my name as if he was dreaming about me.
Shutting that thought down right now.
Just stay put, I mutter to my cleavage while swiping on mascara. My eyes drift to the balcony, where he now sits like a haunted statue, staring at the ocean. Hes barely moved all day except for a few bathroom breaks, each time avoiding eye contact as if Im Medusa and one look will turn him to stone.
I shake out my hands and swipe on a second coat of mascara. I have to go to this stupid couples luau alone. Fine. Its probably for the best. Except I kind of want him to come, if Im being honest. The thought of filming by myself makes my stomach twist into a pretzel. Or maybe its because every time were near each other lately, this electric current crackles between us, making my skin buzz and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
Gah! I miss the old Reece. Mr. Critical. Mr. Predictable-Pain-in-My-Ass. That version I knew how to handle. But this new one? This quiet, wounded man who Ive caught staring like he wants to peel my clothes off with his teeth? Hes making me feel things.
Hey squad, its Camila! Reece Dares girlfriend!
For a split second, it sounds real.
And for another split second (and I mean only like, half a millisecond), I dont hate how it sounds.
What if this wasnt pretend? What if I was actually getting ready for a date with him? A real date. I definitely wouldnt be trying to hide these curves. Id be choosing this exact dress, putting my boobs on full display, knowing damn well hed be looking and loving him for it.
I reach into my makeup bag for my favorite shade of deep-rose lipstick that begs, Kiss me .
I apply it with careful precision, letting myself indulge in the fantasy for a moment longer, picturing Reeces hungry eyes on me. I pluck a plumeria flower from the nearby vase and tuck it behind my ear.
Damn, I whisper. I could definitely pass for his girlfriend.
My phone vibrates on the vanity, flashing a name I wish I could ignore.
Gordon (Actual Devil, Do Not Answer) .
I stare and wait. Maybe hell move on to bullying someone else a poor intern, an ex-wife, an unsuspecting UberEats driver who brought him the wrong-sized latte.
The phone keeps buzzing. Persistent. Loud. As if Gordons already yelling at me.
I sigh, accept my fate, and swipe to answer. Here it comes.
Gordons face explodes on the screen, his forehead smoother than a dolphins backside, his pulled-too-tight eyebrows permanently raised in a way that suggests either imminent rage or a fresh round of Botox. Honestly, with Gordon, its a toss-up.
Where. The. Hell. Is. He? Each word is a tiny angry fist punching through my speaker.
Oh, you know I glance at the blanket burrito formerly known as Reece. Hes meditating?
Technically not a lie.
Cut the crap, camera girl. Your resignation letter sounded like a YouTube mission statement. Following my dreams and making content that mattersvery touching. Really pulled at my heartstrings. Well, it would if I had any.
Note to self: Maybe dont treat your two weeks notice like a LiveJournal entry detailing your future plans.
I offered you this girlfriend gig because I knew you wanted to start your own channel and would jump at the chance to bankroll it.
My stomach drops.
Have you told him? About me quitting?
Fuck no. You think he needs more stress right now? Listen up, Spielberg. You need this opportunity more than it needs you, so stop. Fucking. Up.
Im doing this for more than the money. My grip tightens on the phone. He needs someone in his corner right now, someone who
Save the speech for the Oscars, Gordon says. You cant bullshit a professional bullshitter. I put you on that island for one reasonto keep my golden goose laying eggs.
I dont need this shit. I open my mouth, ready to cuss him out in two languages, but he yammers on.
Your job is to keep him in line. Youre the man on the ground. He cant afford to spiral, and you sure as hell cant afford to let him.
Maybe I try again, softer. Maybe he needs a break? Ya know, a few days to
Oh, thats cute. And maybe you should knit him a sweater while youre at it. Let me spell it outno channel means no moolah. Either he performs, or the whole thing crumbles.
I shake my head. But my skin itches at the way he talks about Reece like hes a product. A machine to be reset and put back to work.
Are you listening? No sponsors means no company means no paycheck for his three hundred employees, which includes you. Now, go give him the damn phone!
My chest aches. Yes, I wanted the extra cash when I took the job. Yes, Im trying to launch my own channel. But watching Reece break down, seeing him carrying the weight of everyones expectationsI want to build a fortress around him and tell the whole world to fuck off.
I step onto the balcony, the evening air warm against my skin. Gently, I place my hand on his blanketed shoulder.
Reece? I keep my voice tender, as if Im approaching a wounded animal. Sorry to bother you, but Gordon is on the
DARE! PHONE! NOW! Gordons voice makes several nearby birds take flight.
When he looks up at me, something in my chest splinters. Those blue eyes that usually spark with criticism or heat are dull, heavy. His jaw is buried under dark scruff, and his hair is a wreckas if hes been clawing anxious fingers through it all day.
He sighsa bone-deep sound of defeatand takes the phone.
Id love to snatch it back and throw it into the ocean. But I cant. Im just his fake girlfriend with an exit strategy and a guilty conscience thats getting heavier by the second.
Gordon launches into his tirade before Reece can say hello. You need to get your head out of your ass!
I turn to leave, to give them privacy, but his hand shoots out and grabs mine. The contact sends electricity zipping up my arm, but this isnt some romantic gesture. His eyes stay fixed on the screen, jaw clenched, but his grip says please stay louder than words.
So, I stay.
His thumb strokes over my knuckles, tentative, as if hes unaware hes doing it. I squeeze back, hoping he gets the message. Im here. Youre not alone.
That pool video was total shit! Astrid has better footage of you on her channel! And wheres the chemistry between you and camera girl? Its like watching two male seahorses not sure where to stick it! The potted plant on my desk has more sex appeal!
Reece doesnt react, simply stares straight ahead, but his grip on my hand tightens.
Either sell this fake relationship, or were going in a different direction. You hear me? DIFFERENT. DIRECTION.
I stiffen. I dont know exactly what different direction means, but considering Gordon operates with the moral compass of a Hell, who am I kidding? He has no moral compass. This is bad.
Reece must know too. His hand slips from mine, and I immediately miss the warmth.
Its not Cam, he says, voice rough. Its me. Ill fix it.
Gordon doesnt miss a beat. Damn right you will. Because this content is going to sink this ship faster than
I will. He hangs up mid-rant. The silence that follows feels thick enough to chew. He releases a heavy breath and says, Dont listen to that blowhard.
Its fine. I aim for casual. Im used to it. Though I resent the potted plant comparison. Im at least as charming as a succulent.
You shouldnt be used to it. Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. Its not okay from him or me. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it even more devastatingly disheveled. I placed you in an impossible position yesterday. Im sorry.
I blink. Is this a real apology? From my fake boyfriend?
Honestly, I dont know what to do with that.
Ya know, Reece you dont have to film. You could take a break. Actually breathe for once? Figure out what you want instead of what everyone expects?
His head tilts slightly, as if hes considering it. Then his gaze drifts over me, and his face softens.
You look really nice, Camila, he says quietly. Beautiful.
Heat floods my cheeks. Thanks. Just you know. Getting my luau on. Living that tropical life. Attempting to not flash anyone when I hula.
His lips twitch, he smiles, and my heart liquefies into a warm, gooey puddle.
He gestures to the balcony. If you dont mind waiting, Ill join you. Ill shower quickly.
Sure! I mean, yes. Thats yes.
Someone please remove my speaking privileges.
He unwraps himself from his comforter cocoon, and even emotionally wrecked, he moves like a tragically majestic Greek godchiseled, brooding, and devilishly dramatic. The curtain swishes shut behind him, leaving me alone with the sunset and approximately eight thousand racing thoughts.
I grip the terrace railing, watching waves crash below. Why did he hold my hand? Was I merely the closest warm body? Was I just temporary emotional support while Gordon yelled at him? Or does he actually feel comfortable with me?
My documentary filmmaker side cant help but analyze this, breaking him down like hes my next big project. Every good documentary needs three things: a compelling subject, a journey of transformation, and a truth waiting to be uncovered.
And Reece? Hes a sexy, complicated mess of all three.
The compelling subject: YouTubes favorite daredevil turned burned-out showman.
The transformation: Going from grumpy boss to what? To the man who stood up for me and held my hand when he was hurting. Thats the story I want to tell.
Not that Id actually make a documentary about him. Although The thought takes root. The pressure of influencer culture, the toll it takes on mental health, the way social media turns people into products.
Hold on. Youre supposed to be helping him, not turning his pain into content.
Ready?
I turn andhot damnthe blanket burrito has morphed into a tropical dreamboat. I have no complaints. My boss-slash-fake-bae sports a pair of light linen shorts that hang low on his hips, giving me a sneak peek at those sculpted legs. His short-sleeved button-down is a vibrant explosion of blues and greens, the top buttons undone, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the tattoos on his chest.
His dark hair, still damp from the shower, curls at his neck in a handsomely boyish way, and I have a sudden craving to tangle my fingers in it. The camera strap crosses his body like some kind of unfairly hot accessory.
You clean up hot, I blurt out, immediately wanting to jump off the ledge. I mean, fast. You clean up fast.
You already said hot, Morales. No take-backs. His blue eyes roam down the shape of my figure like an invisible caress. Youre pretty hot yourself. That dress is fire.
Smooth talker, I say casually, pretending his words dont set off a chain reaction inside me.
Seriously. You look incredible, he says before adding a smirk. Almost as good as me.
My heart skips because right therecamera in hand, smile lighting up his whole faceI see him. The teenage boy who used to film backflips off his garage into pools of Jell-O. The Reece before the algorithms. Before the brand deals. Before the worlds relentless demands turned him into a monetization puppet.
The camera settles naturally in his hands, like it belongs there. And in that instant, I know really knowthat I can help him. Not with fake dating, or saving his empire, or whatever project-of-the-week Gordons throwing at him. I am going to make Reece fall in love with filming again.
Make him feel that pure joy of creating something real, something that matters.
Give him the rush of capturing a perfect moment, not because itll get views, but because itll make his soul sing again.
Help him find the real Reece, the one who loves making content as much as I do.
Youre staring, Morales. See something you like?
Just wondering if you remember how to use that thing.
Youre the one who has a problem finding buttons on little toys. He offers his arm with a wink. Ready to convince the internet were madly in love?
I slip my arm through his, startled by the pullthe quiet, electrical charge between usand how undeniably right it feels.