Chapter Eight
Zoe
When I hear a sound behind me, I spin around to face my roommate for the next week, and my heart drops to my feet. Like yesterday, he’s wearing swim trunks and a T-shirt, but we’re alone instead of having a buffer of people between us. Completely alone.
I clutch my cover-up tighter. “Hey.” Think of something to say besides, ‘Hey.’ Anything is better than, ‘Hey.’ “Um, hi.” Shit, my face heats until it feels like I’ve swallowed a habanero pepper.
“Hey.” He lifts an arm, gives me a half-hearted wave, and glances around the room. “Where’s Zayden? Did he already go down to meet everyone else?”
“Um….” I lick my lips as dread settles in my gut. “No.” It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask to share a bungalow with him. Nor did you demand that your brother fly back home. Stop acting like this is all your fault. If you don’t, he’s going to think you cooked this up to spend time with him alone. “No, he had to fly out this morning.” I march to the refrigerator, grab a jug of orange juice, sit it on the counter, and then retrieve a glass.
“Fly back?” His voice sounds like someone is strangling him as he speaks, but I don’t turn around to witness his horror. There’s only so much humiliation a girl can stand. And after my embarrassing display last night of getting drunk and falling on top of him in front of everyone, I’ve reached my limit.
When I woke up this morning, I promised myself that there would be no more exhibitions of my ridiculous obsession with him. I’ll behave like the adult I am. Mature and in control of my emotions.
“Yes.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “The call he received at dinner last night was from his partner. A case they’ve been working on for months has taken a turn, and they needed him back to go undercover.”
“Shit.” I sense his movement as he closes the gap between us. “Is it dangerous?”
“Yes, I’m sure it is.” I pour the drink and wish there was some vodka to add to it. Thinking about my brother’s choice of profession makes me anxious. “But it’s what he does.”
“That doesn’t mean either of us has to like it.” And then, he’s next to me, only a few feet away, with his hip against the counter.
He smells like musky aftershave and sin. Something woodsy with a hint of vanilla. Those scents mixed with the orange juice and the aroma of brewing coffee has my senses on overload.
“It’s hard to imagine him wearing a badge and taking down the bad guys. He was a loose cannon when I met him.”
“He was an adrenaline junkie.” I wrap my hands around the glass and face him. Lord, he has beautiful eyes. It’s like staring into the ocean or staring at the sky on a bright day. The butterflies in my belly flutter with excitement to find him near enough to touch.
“How’re you handling it?”
“Handling what?”
“Your brother risking his life to take down the bad guys.”
“I’m proud of him.” I lick my lips and bite down on the bottom one for a second. “It scares me every day, and when the phone rings or I see something on the news about a police officer being shot or injured, I freak out, but I’m happy he’s doing something that he loves. He enjoys the challenge and the comradery with his fellow officers.”
“The last time we talked, I couldn’t get him to shut up about it. Not about the case he was working but about the things they look for when investigating, and the different types of crimes he’s assigned to cover. It was fascinating to hear about profiling and how accurate those patterns are.”
“It is.” My shoulders relax as we find something to discuss that doesn’t leave me feeling awkward, ridiculed, or cause an argument. “When he started, I hoped he’d stick with being a traffic cop, but that was stupid on my part.” The corners of my lips rise upward. “His profile tells a different story, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” He chuckles. “Zayden will be on the front line, one-upping the criminals for as long as he’s able.”
The ease of the conversation lulls me into a sense of familiarity I haven’t experienced with him in years. It’s nice. I miss this. This lack of animosity.
“Do you mind if I grab some OJ?” He motions to the jug and glasses behind me.
“Of course.” A light flush rises up my neck. “I wasn’t thinking.” I snatch up a glass and deposit it on the counter.
As I grasp the jug, he reaches around me and grabs it, his tattoo covered hand landing on mine. “Oh….” I inhale, and his scent overpowers me. Or maybe it’s the faint trace of stubble on his cheeks. Or the intensity of his eyes boring into me. Or the heat from his palm covering my hand.
“I’m sorry.” He steps back as I drop the jug back onto the counter and shift out of his way.
“No, it’s my fault. Go ahead.” I tip my head toward the orange juice.
As he pours his drink, the realization that this week will be the longest week of my life sinks in. How am I going to survive when everything feels like it’s a landmine about to explode?
He lifts his glass toward his lips. “So, how do you like working for your father?”
I cross my arms over my chest to disguise the fact that my nipples are as happy to see him as my hand was to feel him. “Working for my father is great.” I shrug as if there’s no other possible answer. And in some ways, there isn’t. I got the music industry bug when I was a child, and it never let go. “I started in the mailroom the summer after graduating high school and worked my way up from there. Now, I’m working under Felix Boyles. He’s a great guy.”
He sips his drink and eyes me over the top of the glass. “Is he?”
“Yes, he’s fantastic. He’s willing to explain the entire talent evaluation and acquisition process from the beginning to the end. I appreciate his attention to detail. He doesn’t treat me like a novice who can’t understand all the ins and outs, and he doesn’t treat me like a spoiled, entitled child who only got the job because my dad is the boss.” I cringe at the word ‘child’ since that was the one he used to describe me, but he continues without missing a beat.
“That’s nice.” His jaw flexes as he drops the glass down with a clunk and yanks open the refrigerator. “Married?”
“Is he married?”
“Yes?”
“No, he’s not married.” I frown. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing.” He retrieves a platter of fruit, hard-boiled eggs, and bacon from the refrigerator and piles some onto two different plates. He glances over his shoulder. “Do you want some breakfast, or did you already eat?”
“No, I haven’t eaten. Thank you. I didn’t realize how hungry I’d gotten.” My mouth waters as he prepares my favorite foods. I’m starving. He pops the plate of bacon into the microwave and sets the timer.
You should be hungry. All you did last night was stir your food around on your plate and drink too much, which led to a fuzzy head, dry mouth, and the promise to cut back on over-indulgence. If Jace can do it, so can I. I can face my problems head on. Sober.
The microwave beeps and he collects the steaming contents from it, adding it to the already prepared plates.
“Here.” He hands me a plate, and when his fingers brush mine, I snatch my arm back. Or ignore my problems and run away. I’m better at that.
“Thank you. I’ll be in my room. We’re supposed to meet Mom and Landon in an hour.”
With that, I ran off like a scared cat and hid in my room for an hour and five minutes so I could avoid walking with him to the main resort area.