Chapter 2
2
Nick Christiansen
Two days without the worries of late-night study groups, working my ass off interning at a law firm, and the constant micromanagement of my dad. At twenty-five, I’ve been ready to break out from under his thumb for a long time now.
He just hasn’t received the memo that I’m not a kid anymore.
A last-minute invitation for a quick getaway before graduation from Stanford Law School and the pressures of my family brought me here. That’s all this was supposed to be. A night of hanging with my best friend, a day of kicking back around the resort pool, and then barhopping to celebrate my final year of school behind me, today should have been much the same.
So, what just happened?
I know. Grinning as I recall how one minute, I was finishing my beer to the sound of spinning keys around my best friend’s finger, and the next, chanting was filling my ears. “Shot. Shot. Shot.”
I saw him first, an asshole ready to take advantage of an opportunity. The opportunity—a certain blonde in a loose white shirt, wide open between the top two buttons. Cutoffs reveal a lot of leg—shapely tan thighs—and a brown leather belt hangs around her waist more for decoration than for a purpose. Her sandals, only noticeable if you’re looking for them, don’t add any height. Bracelets of silver and gold with touches of turquoise covered her wrists, and the bar’s raggedy shot hat had just been placed on her head. Clearly, I spent more than a few seconds taking her in without regret.
She was a vision in any state—from New York to California, drunk or sober—but it wasn’t her outfit that had me acting on instinct and running into others to get to her. It was the asshole bragging about fucking her before she realized what hit her. Sure, I could have snapped back that no one would even know he was fucking her since he has a minuscule dick. But the hard lines of his face and the anger found in his dark eyes had me believing he meant what he said, not in jest or as a threat, but as a mission he intended to complete.
I should have punched him in the fucking face, but I didn’t have time. I dashed the second my attention was grabbed by the sound of a squeal, the sight of arms in the air, and the pretty woman flying toward the floor.
Because I’m good with my hands, I’ve caught everything from the attention of college football scouts to a swordfish on vacation. I’ve also been called a golden boy my whole life growing up in the Golden State. But catching this girl right before she hit the floor might be my best catch yet.
She weighed nothing but made quite the impression. I flexed my fingers under her back to rid myself of some weird energy burning through me. God, I sound like my mom.
I swore I’d never believe in that New Age stuff. She did her best to preach it, but logic has to play a part in our outcomes. But there’s no logical answer as to why I’m still thinking about the woman I held for so long as if more was at play than two people colliding into each other’s lives without their permission.
The back of Harrison’s hand lands on my chest. “Nice save, but why’d you let her get away?”
“She’s free to do as she pleases.”
“What?” he asks, his brow careening between his eyes. “No, I mean, why didn’t you get her number? She was hot, and the way you held on to her was like you had no intention of letting her go. It was becoming awkward watching the two of you cling?—”
“We weren’t clinging to each other. I was?—”
Shaking his head, he says, “Save it, Nick. I don’t need to hear about you falling for some chick.”
“Technically, she was the one who fell.”
“Let’s not make this weird.” He nods toward the door. “Taylor put us on the list. We’ve got to go before the yacht leaves the dock.”
I follow him toward the door, but not without stopping by the asshole on my way out. “Today’s your lucky fucking day because if we ever cross paths or you go within thirty feet of that woman again, you’ll be flat on the ground before you know what hit you. Got it, fucker?”
He stands up but quickly realizes he has to look up to meet my eyes and sits back down. “Fuck off,” he grumbles through a wiry beard.
My arm is caught before I have a chance to land a hit. “He’s not worth it,” Harrison says.
He’s right.
This fucker also isn’t worth a night in jail.
As the asshole cowers on the barstool with his head lowered, flinching from a hit that won’t come, I lower my arm. “Lucky fucking day.”
The conversation slowly resumes as Harrison and I head for the exit. My friend laughs under his breath just outside the entrance. “What gives, Christiansen? We haven’t been in a fight in a long time.” Cracking his knuckles, he adds, “Don’t get me wrong. I’m up for it, but why are we fighting some guy twice our age in Catalina?”
“He needs a lesson in . . .” Blonde. Tan. Blue-eyed beauty.
“In what?” Harrison asks as he whacks me in the arm.
Ripping my gaze away from the blue-eyed beauty kneeling beside a scooter, I glance at Harrison. “Huh?”
When I return my attention to her again, I hear him grumble. “Ah. It’s all so clear now.”
I seize the moment. “This is a coincidence. Hi, again,” I say, raising a hand while my voice pitches like a thirteen-year-old hitting puberty. What the fuck? Clearing my throat, I mentally berate myself for sounding like an idiot.
Harrison and both of the women turn to look at me. The blonde stands up with a reassuring grin on her face and shoves her hands into her back pockets. “Hi again, yourself.”
I’m not the only one seizing the day. Harrison saunters up and asks her friend, “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Trouble with a capital T. Hi, I’m Tatum,” she says.
Harrison takes her hand. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Harrison.”
Although she appears to blush, she pulls her hand and then points at the tire. “We have a party to get to, but we have a flat, and the rental company won’t be here for an hour.”
“That’s quite the dilemma. Maybe we can help,” Harrison says.
It’s funny how he was in such a hurry not three minutes prior. He moves in to take a closer look. Harrison Decker was born with two trust funds and a gaggle of nannies. He didn’t exactly grow up knowing his way around mechanics. I can’t judge him too harshly since my background is similar, but I can still laugh at him because at least I know how to change a tire.
He leans back, glancing up at the brunette. She’s pretty but doesn’t hold a candle to the beauty beside me. Speaking of . . . I walk around the Vespa and lean down. Squeezing the tire, I listen. My eyes meet Harrison’s, who’s stepped off to the side with his new friend. His lack of loyalty isn’t a surprise when there’s a pretty woman around.
Her friend called her Natalie, but since we haven’t been introduced, I just say, “You have a slow leak.”
“Announce it to the world, why don’t ya.” She can’t keep a straight face and cracks up. “Sorry, I had to.”
I chuckle because of how much she makes herself laugh. She still waves it off. “Sorry, as you were saying.” Another giggle escapes, though.
“The company shouldn’t have put you on this scooter without checking it properly.”
I look to my side to find those blue eyes staring into mine. “So we’re stuck?” She grabs the tire, pumps it a few times like that might bring it back to life, and then drags her hand over a few treads. Leaning awkwardly on it, she adds, “Together?”
Is she flirting? It’s not the approach I’d take, but it’s curiously entertaining. “Afraid so.” We both stand back up.
“You don’t have to be afraid. I won’t bite.”
Something tells me she might by how her gaze darts down my body and back up again.
“I didn’t mean I was actually afraid.”
“I know. I was just teasing.” If I didn’t know she was drunk, I’d assume she was odd. She definitely has a quirky sense of humor. Maybe I do too because when she rubs her temple, she smears black grime along the side of her face, and I have to stop myself from laughing.
I reach forward, determined to help her out, but a spark fires in her eyes, and she says, “I knew we should have rented the golf cart. Tatum insisted on the Vespa, but I don’t trust anything with less than four wheels.”
“Wise.” That response brings her earlier smile to the surface. “I heard your friend call you?—”
“The party,” her friend cuts in, wearing an expression scrunched with concern. “We’re not going to make the party if we don’t leave now.”
“We can stay?—”
“That’s it!” Harrison snaps his fingers. “You can stay and help with the tire, and I can give Tatum a ride. Problem solved.”
“A ride? Yes, that’s great,” Tatum says without missing a beat, already heading for the scooter with him in tow. He pats my shoulder on the way, the message already received loud and clear. Guess I’m staying.
“You don’t mind, right?” Tatum asks as she slips on a helmet and swings her leg over the back of the Vespa. I’m about to answer, but the beauty next to me replies instead. “What about our girls’ trip?”
“It’s going swimmingly, don’t you think?” Tatum points at Harrison and silently mouths, “He’s so hot.” For Harrison’s ears, she adds, “We’re turning lemons into lemonade.”
The beauty next to me exhales and then frowns, her eyes reflecting her change in mood from the fun-loving girl I met inside. The sun shines in her eyes just before she rolls them. “Swell. All we need is vodka.”
“Thought you didn’t know much about alcohol?”
Rocking her hand back and forth, she laughs. “I’m no expert, but I’ve had a few lemon drops in my life.” Looking right at me, she asks, “Have you had one before?”
“No.”
“You should.” It’s as if she’s forgotten about her friend altogether. “They’re really good.”
“Maybe we can get one together.”
“Maybe.” Her grin is sure and quite stunning. But that grease . . . I should really tell her about the smudge on her face, but it’s sort of cute how unsuspecting she is of the mess.
Harrison backs out of the parking space and stops in front of me. “I’ll see you back in the room.”
“Yeah. Sure.” I’m not bothered he’s taking off with a chick. That’s how we’ve always operated, not giving each other a hard time over a hookup.
Just as he pulls to the edge of the parking lot, Tatum motions to her friend’s temple area, but then says, “I promise to make it up to you back in the city.”
When they blend into traffic and travel around the corner, we’re left in their dust. I’m more interested in the blonde next to me. She stares down the street with her hand as a sun visor and then shifts to the curb, sitting down on it. She laughs at some inside joke, then turns to me. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
I sit down next to her. “There are worse people to be stuck with, I suppose,” I reply, gently nudging her like we’re old friends.
“You sure about that?” Her smile breaks through the disappointed facade she briefly tried on for size, the other one never quite fitting her natural disposition. Nor her drunk one. “For all you know, I could be a nightmare to deal with.”
“I’m fairly certain I’ll be okay. You’re not a serial killer, are you?”
Offense colors her expression but is whisked away just as quickly. “ Me? ” Her fingers swirl near my nose. “I’m not the one with that boy-next-door face.”
Capturing one of her fingers, I hold it hostage and grin at her. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”
“Handsome guys are always so cocky, too.”
“All I heard was handsome.”
I’m granted another front-row seat to an eye roll, this one more dramatic and aimed at me. “Of course, you did.” Her eyes lock on something lower. “That Omega watch was probably stolen from a victim. If it’s real . . .”
“Let me get this straight. Your serial killer radar is going off because I’m wearing a real Omega watch? I’m no expert in detection, but I’m pretty sure that’s not a reliable method.” I reluctantly release her finger, but I hold onto the fact that she never once tried to pull away.
“Money is always a dead giveaway for lady killers.”
“I thought we were talking about serial killers.”
“Lady-killers. Serial killers . Tomato. Tamahto .” She nods. “It’s all the same thing.”
I chuckle. “I’m still curious about money being a giveaway. Care to expound on that train of thought?”
“Money makes people mean.”
“Do you know this firsthand or something you’ve surmised?”
“A little of both. Anyway, what other method would you suggest I figure out who the bad guys are? I can’t ask because what serial killer would ever admit they’re a serial killer?” The way she angles her head to the side as if I’m going to give her a meaningful response to this insanity causes me to sweat under the collar. Just a little. I’d hate to disappoint her.
“Serial killer conversation aside,” I start, holding my hand out. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Nick.”
She slips her hand against mine, and our fingers wrap around each other. Ah, there’s the gorgeous smile from before. “Hi, Nick. I’m Natalie.”