Chapter 3
Three
Jason
I’m exhausted from the flight delays and sweating like a pig from wrangling my rolling suitcase and the bulky garment bag containing my suit for the wedding across the winding, brick-lined paths on the grounds of the resort.
I need coffee and a shower, or a raid on the minibar and a nap, and I haven’t decided which yet—or in what order to do any of those things—and my key isn’t unlocking the door to the tiny cabin—casita, in Spanish—that I’ve been assigned.
I let the strap of the garment bag slide from my shoulder and dump the damned thing on the ground, then let go of the suitcase’s telescoping handle.
It rolls a foot or so away, but catches on a crack between bricks in the path and stills.
I turn back to the door and, with both hands free now, manage to jiggle the key in the special magic way it apparently needs to unlock the fucking door.
Thank you, Jesus. I stick my foot in the door to keep it from swinging shut again, grab the garment bag in one hand, stretch to catch the handle of the suitcase in the other, and wrestle both and myself through the door into a narrow entryway.
As soon as I get through the door, I abandon my luggage against a stucco wall in the small entryway.
I’ll unpack and hang the suit up later. A few steps in and the entryway opens to an expansive room, with sunlight streaming through filmy curtains that billow in the breeze from the open balcony doors.
There’s a small sofa and a pair of upholstered armchairs grouped around a low coffee table.
The set faces the balcony but there’s a large credenza on the wall perpendicular to the balcony doors, which I sincerely hope contains the minibar.
A small round table and a pair of wicker chairs take up the corner near the balcony and a writing desk sits on the other side of the room.
Through a half-open door, I glimpse the end of a large bed with a tropical print coverlet.
I’m standing in the middle of the suite, my brain sluggishly debating between making a beeline to the bedroom and face-planting into the mattress or finding that minibar and draining it dry first.
And that’s when a man wearing only a towel swathed around his hips appears in the bedroom doorway.
“Isn’t it bad luck to see the bride’s father before the wedding or something?”
I’m dreaming, right? Or I’m so tired that I’m hallucinating, because Victor is standing half-naked in my suite, like he owns the place.
His hair is standing up every which way in wet spikes and water droplets dot his shoulders. There’s another bead of water between his pecs and I can’t tear my eyes from the path it leaves while it slides down his chest, over his abs, and gets soaked up by the towel.
How is he in his late forties and still so ripped?
“The fuck are you doing here?” I address this question to the towel because I cannot lift my eyes from it—or the parts of him the towel is barely covering—and I’m also too embarrassed to look him in the eyes after ogling him like a piece of meat.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m here for our daughter’s wedding.” His tone is amused, like he can tell how flustered I am and is laughing silently at me.
“I meant, why are you in my suite?” I’m holding my breath like that will hold the towel up, because every breath that Victor takes makes the towel shift a little and I’m afraid that it will slither off his hips and puddle on the floor.
Victor takes a deep breath—I can see his ribs expand with it—and the towel slips incrementally lower.
“Yeah, so, funny story about the suite. Apparently, when Kelsey told the wedding coordinator to reserve ‘a casita for my dads,’” Victor’s fingers make air quotes and now I’m absolutely certain that towel is going to fall.
“She forgot to add the word ‘each,’ so the coordinator only made the one reservation. And the rest of the resort is booked solid, so…we’re going to have to share. ”
My brain, which has not been firing on all cylinders to begin with and is still deeply distracted by the acres of Victor’s bare skin on display right in front of me, takes its sweet time parsing out the meaning of Victor’s words.
“Wait, what? What do you mean, we have to share?”
Victor takes a couple steps forward and the edges of the towel split to reveal one muscled, hairy thigh, then the other one.
“What do you mean ‘what do I mean?’ Should I say it in Spanish?”
He rattles off “we will be sharing this casita because there are no others available” in perfectly correct Spanish and I…didn’t know he had any Spanish.
What else don’t I know about Victor?
And now what the front desk clerk said when I checked in makes more sense. He spoke to me in Spanish, doubtless because of my last name, and when he said, “Ah, Senor Perez, you are already checked in and here is your second key,” I didn’t clock what he meant.
“How on Earth…?” I sputter. I can barely find words. “You’re the one who negotiated this place. Did you arrange this?”
“I connected the girls’ wedding coordinator to the resort manager and helped negotiate the overall rate. I didn’t plan out who sleeps where.”
I run a hand through my hair. Mother of God, I think I need that nap even more than I need that drink. “There must be some other option.” I pat at my pockets. Where the devil is my phone? “I’ll call the front desk.”
“And ask if they have a cot they can set up in Kelsey and Adrienne’s bridal suite?”
What a ludicrous question. Of course I’m not going to sleep in my stepdaughter’s and her fiancée’s suite.
I rack my brain. Who else on Kelsey’s invitation list confirmed?
There was someone on Adrienne’s side…Logan, that’s his name.
Partner at Adrienne’s law firm. Kelsey calls him Adrienne’s work husband, whatever that means.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. I don’t even know the man. Am I really going to ask to share a room with a stranger just so I don’t have to share this one with Victor? And how exactly am I going to explain why I can’t share a suite with my stepdaughter’s co-parent?
“You look exhausted, Jay. Why don’t you—”
This is the absolute last straw. “My name is fucking Jason and you fucking know that. I will not share a room with a man who cannot use my goddamn name.”
I pivot on my heel, finally tearing my gaze away from Victor in his towel, though not before I catch a glimpse of his shocked expression.
Okay, yeah, it’s not like me to explode like that. I’m the calm one, the one who never loses control. I can handle the children’s choir at Saint Sebastian without raising my voice, but I apparently can’t deal with my daughter’s father using a nickname that he’s called me by ever since we met.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I stalk to the entryway and sling the garment bag over my shoulder. I grab the suitcase handle and I’m yanking at the door with my other hand, when Victor calls after me.
“Jay—Jason. Come on, man, where are you going?”
Mother of God, I will not stay another minute in this room with this man.
“Anywhere you’re not,” I snap.
I feel a hand grasp my upper arm and I jerk my arm out of Victor’s grasp. Which only makes the strap of the garment bag slide off my shoulder, so I whip my elbow up and back and it collides with something hard behind me.
“Shit,” Victor grunts. There’s a heavy thud, then a sound like something sliding along the wall, then a quieter whump. I glance over my shoulder and Victor is crumpled on the floor. His head is tipped back against the wall and there’s a sort of dazed look on his face.
Sweet blessed Virgin, what have I done?
“Jesus, Jason,” he mumbles and then there’s a jumble of unintelligible sound that falls out of his mouth.
I cradle my elbow in my other hand. “Ow,” I say. Victor gives me his middle finger, then mutters a repeat of the unintelligible sounds.
“What?”
“You clocked me in the jaw and made me bite my tongue,” he articulates. He sticks his tongue out and his eyes cross as he tries to get a look at it.
I drop the thrice-damned garment bag, and Victor pulls his bare foot out of the way just in time. Another reproachful look from him, and for fuck’s sake, can I do anything right today?
I squat down in front of him with a deep sigh. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to catch you in the face.”
Victor opens and closes his mouth, moving his jaw around like he’s testing it, then waggles his tongue up and down. I feel bad for hitting him, but really, it was an accident. I couldn’t have really hurt him, surely.
Though, my elbow still aches and I rub it with my other hand. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a really hard jaw?”
He quits with the ludicrous faces he’s making and levels a look at me. “No, Jason. No one’s ever told me that.”
It’s possible I’m imagining an extra emphasis on my full name. Or maybe he’s just over me and my bullshit. Wouldn’t blame him either way.
I go to apologize again, but the words die in my throat because I make the mistake of glancing down, away from his face. His bare feet are planted on the floor and his knees are bent, which pulls the edges of the towel apart enough that I can see…well, everything.
His inner thighs, taut and muscled. The curve of his dick, lying in a nest of dark curls. His sac, hanging heavy below it.
I imagine sliding my hand down, letting the weight of his balls rest in my palm, and I think I forget to breathe.
“You going to kiss it and make it better?”
I jerk my gaze up. “What?” My voice sounds strangled and Victor looks amused. He points to his chin.
“Kiss the boo-boo? Like we used to with Kelsey?”
Holy Virgin, thinking of our daughter while I’m looking at Victor’s dick is eighteen kinds of wrong. I can feel myself go hot with shame. My hand caught in the cookie jar. Or nearly caught cradling Victor’s nuts.