Chapter Three
Taylor
I can’t believe I’m on Saint Aurelle Island.
I’d stacked up a thousand excuses to back out of this trip, but for reasons I’ll never know, I actually went through with it.
I called my father and Becca before leaving for the airport to make sure he hadn’t gotten into trouble last night.
He was as ornery as ever, claiming to be fine, and basically told me to bug off.
As I climb into my rental car, I can’t decide if this is a dream vacation, a mistake of an escape, or both.
Driving away from the airport is a little intimidating at first, since they drive on the opposite side of the road than we do in the States.
Apparently, they also have few traffic lights, but once I get over my initial anxiety, I’m fine, as long as I remember not to slide into the right lane when I make a turn.
The rest of the drive is like watching a watercolor come to life, with bursts of bright tropical flowers spilling over fences, powdery white beaches giving way to water so blue it looks unreal, and private estates tucked behind gated drives camouflaged with leafy palms and other gorgeous foliage.
When I arrive at Seth’s estate, I input the security code he gave me, and the elaborate iron gates glide open.
The driveway cuts a wide path through wild, lush greenery, interspersed with brightly colored flowers and tall palms. The untamed wilderness reminds me of Seth.
Not because he seems wild, but because I can’t imagine a man who doesn’t take the time to make sure his shirts are buttoned properly or his clothes match for interviews having any type of manicured yard.
The sun is blinding against the white exterior of the sprawling villa, and blue shutters give it a pop of color. Set against the backdrop of the clear blue sky, it’s absolutely breathtaking.
I carry my luggage inside, and the open layout is every bit as impressive as the outside, with gleaming white walls, high ceilings, and four enormous glass sliders that lead to a terrace with a pool and the kind of views travel magazines promise.
Making my way deeper into the living room, I notice a bar to my right and a gorgeous picture of birds flying over the ocean on the wall behind it.
I wonder if it’s one of Seth’s mother’s photographs.
My gaze is drawn up the wall to an accent strip of sea-colored tiles that runs through the spacious living room, the enormous kitchen, and a sun-filled dining room.
The furniture is tasteful but not over the top.
Three leather couches, two white and one brown, are adorned with colorful pillows.
A worn seafoam-green armchair sits beneath a reading lamp near the fireplace.
Beside it, several books are stacked on an end table.
Just as I consider curling up on that chair tonight with my sketchbook or my ereader and a glass of wine, I imagine Seth reading in that chair.
I know he’s a big reader because he’ll often ask me to find hotels within walking distance of bookstores, and sometimes late at night I receive random requests from him to have certain books sent to his hotel when he’s traveling.
I’ve suggested he buy an ereader, but he acts like the mere suggestion is sacrilegious.
There are several other mismatched pieces of furniture around the room, and a wall of bookshelves by the fireplace.
Family photographs are everywhere, decorating the walls, tucked between books and vases on shelves, and atop the mantel.
I head over to the mantel to get a better look.
I’ve never met any of Seth’s family, but I feel like I have.
They email and text when they need things added to Seth’s calendar, and I keep up with their lives on social media and in industry articles.
Seth and his family smile brightly from the mantel as I admire their pictures.
A pack of young siblings standing in a river, squinting into the sun, all lanky arms, knobby knees, and messy hair.
The boys are shirtless, Seth, with his little glasses and crooked smile, is beaming at the camera, one arm around Clay, who’s holding a football like a prize.
Clay recently retired from the NFL as one of the country’s top quarterbacks.
Seth’s other arm is around his older sister, Victoria—aka Victory—who now owns an entertainment agency.
In the picture, she’s eyeing her brothers, and Flynn, a world-renowned survivalist-turned-program-director for the Discovery Hour show, is holding a net with a fish in it, while Noah peers at the fish with the wide-eyed innocence of the baby of the family. Noah is a marine biologist.
There’s a candid shot of Seth at maybe nine or ten, tall, lean, and shaggy-haired, giving Noah a piggyback ride.
They’re both smiling, but there’s something akin to pride in Seth’s eyes that captivates me.
I study the picture, wondering what he was thinking, before moving on to another, more recent picture of their parents.
Belinda and Charles Braden are windblown and tan, standing by a forest, still looking more like the explorers they once were than suburban retirees.
I linger on what looks like a fairly recent picture of Seth, tan and scruffy jawed, sitting on a dock beside Sutton, Flynn’s pretty blond wife.
They’re wearing bathing suits and reading.
Seth’s dark hair is wet and pushed away from his face, as if he’s raked a hand through it, and he’s wearing the easy grin that’s been captured in nearly every picture I’ve ever seen of him. The grin that makes my pulse quicken.
It’s strange knowing so much, and so little, about a person I’ve never met.
Forcing myself to look away from my mysterious boss, I head into the kitchen.
A bowl of papaya, mango, bananas, and a pineapple sits on the island, along with a stack of menus and brochures about the island, as if someone staged it for a photo shoot.
The refrigerator is chock-full of food and drinks.
There’s a separate wine fridge with several bottles chilling on racks.
I peek in the freezer and see a variety of ice cream and ice pops.
Thank you, Seth. I know what I’ll be eating tonight.
I head down the hall and find a bathroom, closets, and what is probably the master bedroom.
I should walk away, but curiosity draws me in.
Sun spills over a massive bed layered with crisp white sheets and fluffy pillows.
A blue blanket is folded across the foot of the bed, and there’s an inviting sitting area with a circular couch and to-die-for views of the ocean.
I peer into the master bathroom, a spectacular vision of marble and windows, with a shower big enough to host a party, and several shower heads.
There’s body wash and shampoo in the shower, toiletries, lotions, and cologne on the counter.
It appears my boss likes to pamper himself.
I can’t resist opening the cologne and spraying it on my wrist, smelling it as I head back into the bedroom.
Mm. It smells dangerous and sensual, like warm cedar and leather. The scent must be rattling my brain, because I stand there staring at the bed, picturing Seth stretched across it, his broad chest bare, his blue eyes beckoning me to join him, silk tie in hand.
Heat sparks in my chest, spreading up my neck and face, jerking me from my reverie.
What am I doing? This is beyond inappropriate.
It’s one thing to fantasize about my boss when his life is completely separate from mine, but being here in his house? Standing in his bedroom? This is all Becca’s fault for putting thoughts about silk ties and Seth Braden together in my head.
Now I know I’ve made a mistake coming here. I drag my ridiculous ass out of his bedroom, swearing I will not step foot in it again, and head back to the living room to get my head on straight. I snap a few pictures of the house, then head out to the terrace.
The sun instantly warms my skin, and my breath catches at the beauty before me. The horizon looks seamless where blue sky meets bluer water. In the distance a boat sits idle in the sea, while others glide along serenely or race by leaving wakes of white.
The terrace and views are so lavish, it feels like a resort.
In addition to the pool, there’s a lounge area with oversize lounge chairs, couches decked out with plush cushions beneath white umbrellas, and a table for eight.
A gazebo anchors the right side of the terrace, and there are two smaller terraces off each wing of the house.
I peer over the railing and see stone steps leading down the hill to a patio tucked into the lush landscape with another table and chairs.
Farther down by the water, there’s a pergola with a lounger the size of an enormous bed with colorful pillows, and beside it, several more lounge chairs and steps that lead down to the water.
I take several pictures, unable to believe I’m really standing on this slice of paradise.
I feel a little guilty as I thumb out a text to Dad and Becca, even though I doubt my father cares about palm trees and turquoise seas.
It feels weird being someplace so luxurious while they’re back home, but I can’t help my excitement. I’m only human, after all.
Me: I made it! This place is insane. Look at the view! Becca, thanks for pushing me to come. How is everything there? Dad, how’s your arm?
Dad: We’re fine. Glad you’re safe. Now throw away your phone and go have some fun.
I send a private text to Becca.
Me: How is Dad? He says he’s fine, but after your mosh pit outing, he might be sore and not telling me. Have you checked his arm today?
Becca (group thread): That looks amazing! Like Dad said, all is well. Toss the phone and go get into trouble.