Chapter Fourteen
Revel
I’ve officially decided being stranded in Miami is the best thing Cece’s shitty little Honda has ever done for me.
She disagrees.
Obviously.
The motel we found yesterday is nothing fancy, but it’s clean, a couple blocks off the beach strip, and somehow, had one room left when every decent hotel in Miami was either booked solid or charging enough to qualify as extortion.
One king bed, tiny bathroom, questionable artwork bolted to the wall, and an air-conditioner that sounds like it’s fighting for its life.
Works for me.
After the garage, we grabbed food, checked in, dumped the duffel on the floor, and spent the rest of the night doing absolutely nothing.
Ate in bed, watched TV, talked shit, made out until neither of us remembered what was playing, then passed out sometime after midnight.
Honestly? Solid fucking evening.
Cece, however, woke up today acting like relaxing for twelve consecutive hours put her behind schedule.
She’s been at the little table by the window for almost an hour now, sitting cross-legged in the chair with her laptop open, lavender hair piled messily on top of her head while she answers emails.
I’m stretched across the bed watching her pretend she hasn’t checked the repair shop’s message three times already.
“You know staring at that email isn’t gonna make the part show up faster.”
Her fingers keep moving over the keyboard. “I’m working.”
“You’re obsessing.”
“I can multitask.”
“Clearly.”
She finally looks over her shoulder at me. “Do you plan on lying there watching me all morning?”
I grin. “It is a pretty good view.”
Her eyes narrow.
“What?” I gesture toward the room. “Cheap motel, beach two blocks away, one bed, hot woman trapped here with me for another couple days. I’m making the best of a difficult situation.”
“Ay, pobrecito. Your suffering is inspirational.”
“Thank you. I’ve really been trying to be brave about it.”
She rolls her eyes and turns back to the laptop.
I settle deeper into the pillows, still grinning, and grab my phone.
Miami can keep the Honda another day.
I scroll without really paying attention, bouncing between messages and whatever bullshit the algorithm throws at me, until an ad for jet ski rentals pops up.
I stop.
Well, fuck.
That could work.
Cece loves jet skis. Back home in Tampa, she’s never the one sitting on shore while everyone else is out on the water. The second she gets comfortable, she goes from cautious to completely fucking fearless, which is exactly what she needs right now.
Less staring at emails and thinking about shit she can’t fix.
More sun, speed, and water.
I click the rental page and check availability.
Two machines.
Obviously.
No chance in hell she’s riding behind me once she realizes she can have her own, and honestly, watching her talk shit while trying to outrun me sounds way better anyway.
Then there’s the bikini.
That part is purely for me.
I glance over at her sitting at the desk, still focused on the laptop, and picture her in one of those tiny black bikinis she keeps wearing around the crew.
Yeah.
This is a fucking excellent plan.
I book two before she can somehow sense me spending money and start asking questions, lock my phone, and toss it onto the bed.
Cece checks her phone again.
Okay.
Enough.
I sit up and reach for the shorts I tossed over the chair last night, pulling them on before grabbing my shirt.
“Get dressed.”
She doesn’t even look at me. “I am dressed.”
I glance over at the oversized shirt she slept in. Mine again.
“As much as I fucking enjoy seeing you in my clothes, you’re gonna need a swimsuit.”
Her fingers stop over the keyboard. “For what?”
“Got a plan.”
“Ay, no. Your plans are exactly why I have trust issues.”
I grin and get off the bed. “What’d I tell you yesterday?”
She looks up at me, already knowing where I’m going with this.
“Trust me, Mama. I got you.”
She holds my stare for a second before rolling her eyes so fucking hard it’s practically a full-body movement.
I look her over and bite back a grin. “Keep doing that.”
Her brows pinch. “Doing what?”
“Rolling your eyes at me like that. Gets me fucking hard every time.”
“Jesus Christ.” She grabs the nearest pillow and launches it at my head.
I catch it, laughing, while she digs through the duffel, yanks out her bikini, and heads for the bathroom.
“Five minutes,” I call after her.
The door shuts.
“Chinga tu madre.”
I stare at the bathroom door.
“No fucking clue what you just said, Mama, but shit, the way you said it made my cock twitch.”
“Pendejo!”
I grin.
“Yeah, that one too.”
****
Twenty-five minutes later, we pull up to a marina tucked just off the beach strip, and the second Cece sees the row of jet skis lined along the dock, I know I fucking nailed it.
She stops beside me, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, eyes moving from the jet skis to me. “You rented these?”
“Two of them.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Two?”
I stare at her. “You really think I’m putting you behind me and listening to you bitch about my driving for two hours?”
“You mean while you drive like a fucking lunatic?”
“Exactly. This way you can try to keep up.”
That gets her.
She laughs and starts toward the rental kiosk. “Ay, please.” Her gaze stays on me a beat longer before she turns away. “Still gonna smoke your ass.”
“Cute.”
“Start making excuses now, pretty boy. It’ll hurt less later.”
Fuck, she’s back.
By the time we clear the marina, the stressed-out woman who spent the morning glaring at her laptop is gone.
The water stretches wide and blue around us, Miami fading behind into glass towers, white hotels and a strip of pale sand lined with palms. The sun is fucking relentless, high overhead and flashing against the chop until the whole ocean looks covered in broken glass.
Cece takes the first few minutes easy, getting used to the machine beneath her.
Then I pass too close and spray her.
Her mouth falls open.
Even from twenty feet away, I know I’ve fucked up.
She wipes water from her sunglasses and points at me.
I laugh. “What?”
She guns it.
“Oh, shit.”
Her jet ski launches forward, cutting across my wake as she flies past me with a scream of laughter.
I punch the throttle after her.
From there, it turns into complete fucking chaos.
We race between markers, cut across each other’s wakes and argue over who cheated every time she wins—which is bullshit, because she absolutely cheats.
She takes off before we agree on a start at least twice and nearly falls off laughing when I call her on it.
At one point, she pulls alongside me and lifts her sunglasses.
“Having trouble keeping up?”
“My view’s distracting.”
Her eyes narrow before she catches where mine drop.
“My ass is not an excuse for losing.”
“Have you seen it in that bikini?”
“Yes. I own a mirror.”
“Then you understand the disadvantage I’m working with.”
Her laugh gets carried away by the wind. “Losing is still losing, Papi.”
Then she sprays me directly in the face and takes off again.
Fucking menace.
And I’m having the best goddamn time.
More importantly, so is she.
There’s no phone in her hand. No crease between her brows. She isn’t worrying about the Honda or what she should be doing back in Tampa. She’s soaked, sun-flushed and laughing so hard after taking one wake too fast that she has to slow down to recover.
Exactly what I wanted.
Eventually, we head farther out, slowing near a shallow reef where the water changes completely. The darker blue gives way to clear turquoise, pale stretches of sand visible beneath the surface between patches of reef.
The city looks distant from here, softened by heat and salt haze, and without both engines screaming, I can hear the slap of water against the hulls.
I kill mine and look over at her.
“Going in?”
Her expression changes immediately. “Absolutely fucking not.”
I laugh. “Come on, Mama.”
“Nah, I’m good right here.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” I slide into the water and swim around to the back of her jet ski. “You’re practically welded to the fucking thing.”
“Exactly. We’re happy together.”
I rest my arms on the platform and look up at her. “Trust me.”
She gives me a look. “You say that way too casually for someone who regularly makes terrible decisions.”
“Not with you.”
That quiets her for a second.
I move closer, holding my hand out. “Come on. I had you on the surfboard, I’ve got you now. I’m not going to let you go.”
Her eyes drop to my hand, but she still doesn’t take it.
“Do you trust me?”
That takes some of the fight out of her.
Her eyes drop to my hand, lips pressing together while she thinks about it. I don’t push or try to joke her into saying yes. I just wait.
Finally, her hand slips into mine.
“Yeah,” she admits quietly, eyes lifting to mine. “I do.”
Ah, shit.
I wasn’t prepared for how hard that would hit.
Not ‘I trust you to drive’ or ‘I trust you not to let me drown.’ Just I trust you.
Something tightens behind my ribs, and every smart-ass comment I had lined up disappears.
My fingers close around hers as I move between her legs at the back of the jet ski. “Then come here, Mama.”
I reach for her slowly, settling my other hand around her waist as she starts scooting toward the edge.
The second her feet touch the water, her hands land on my shoulders. Her grip tightens when I ease her farther down, and I keep her close, letting her take it as slowly as she needs.
Then she's off the jet ski completely.
Her arms circle my neck almost immediately, legs wrapping around my waist while I brace one arm securely around her.
For a few seconds, she’s tense against me.
I don’t tease her.
I just hold her.
The water lifts us gently with each swell, warm from hours beneath the Miami sun. Her cheek rests against my shoulder while I keep us close to the jet ski, one hand spread across the middle of her back.
“I've got you,” I murmur.
Her fingers loosen slightly at the back of my neck.
“I know.”
There it is again. I close my eyes for half a second.