Chapter Four – Andie
Chapter Four
ANDIE
I catch my beach towel a fevered beat before it slips down and hug it closely to my chest, my pulse thudding in my ears as the men loom at the front door.
‘Holy shit! Who ordered the entertainment?’ The voice belongs to the tallest guy, shouldering a slab of beer.
A man in a full tuxedo steps forward, frowning. ‘You really shouldn’t have, Richie. Seriously. It was one of Mel’s deal-breakers.’
‘Andie! Why did you scr–’ Taylor barrels through the back door and skids to a halt. She has failed to grab a towel.
I look at the men, horrified. The captain’s face immediately blooms pink, a hand shooting up to shield his eyes, while ‘Richie’ stares at Taylor’s nipples. They’re like ripe, red cherries atop generous sundaes.
He wolf-whistles. ‘Was it two for the price of one?’ he asks, turning to a third man. ‘Garth, you sneaky devil! Did you organise this?’
I want to give my towel to Taylor, but then I’ll be the one left standing in my birthday suit.
‘What’s going on?!’ Taylor shrieks, moving her hand to cover her light puff of golden pubic hair.
‘He thinks we’re strippers,’ I hiss.
‘Ah – er, girls, there seems to have been a mix-up with the booking,’ the captain stammers.
I found Moorings on Airbnb just three weeks ago. It was a ‘rare gem’, a ‘typically booked at this time’ property. By some divine intervention, I managed to rally the girls over our group chat and secured the booking that evening. As agreed, our host, Clara, left the key in a lockbox at the side of the house, so we haven’t even met her. Imagine if this is some kind of scam?!
Obnoxious Richie’s brow furrows. ‘I don’t understand. So you lot aren’t here for Ben?’
‘Who’s Ben?’ Taylor asks over my shoulder. I’ve moved in front of her and she’s cowering behind me.
‘Sorry, that would be me.’ The tuxedo-clad man raises a reluctant hand. ‘The buck.’
The captain clears his throat. He no longer appears frazzled; his shoulders are relaxed and his expression calm. ‘Gents, what do you say to cracking a few cold ones out the back and letting these ladies get themselves sorted while we work out what’s happened.’
We lock eyes. ‘Thank you,’ I mouth.
The men traipse through the house, following the captain, leaving Taylor and me in the kitchen, clinging to each other.
‘This pad is gonna be a chick magnet!’ Richie’s irritating voice booms. Moments later, he shouts, ‘WOAH, THERE’S MORE OF YOU!’
Oh my God, Grace and Lizzie!
My heart sinks as I picture them, bobbing in the pool like peeled apples.
Someone – the captain, I assume – has left a tower of fluffy towels on the bottom step.
Once the girls’ private bits are safely encased in soft cotton thread, we scurry up to the bedrooms and launch ourselves at our suitcases. What does one wear to confront one’s male intruders? I reach for the lemon dress I was wearing earlier.
Then I look for my phone so I can message Clara and clear up the confusion. Surely she hasn’t managed to let her property out to two sets of guests? After a futile hunt, I decide my phone must be downstairs.
I can feel myself starting to sober up – probably not a bad thing under the circumstances. Obviously I feel responsible for this mess.
‘Are we ready, girls?’
Grace and Lizzie are also back in their travel outfits of linen shirts and pants, looking comfortably casual, while Taylor has changed into a silky dress with spaghetti straps. Clearly one of us is dressing to impress.
‘Which one do you fancy?’ I tease as Taylor applies a swipe of pink lipstick and gives the mirror a satisfied pout. Some flirting is a hallmark of a great girls’ trip.
‘The one in the suit,’ she replies.
The buck?
‘But that captain is pretty cute too.’
My tummy feels a little funny as I link my arm with hers.
Our group winds slowly down the spiral staircase, like we’re descending into battle. Echoes of conversation bounce off the walls. It sounds like the karaoke machine has been plugged in.
As we hover at the living-room entrance, I see that the captain has pulled up one of the dining chairs in front of the fireplace. He’s taken off his cap, revealing a tousled mess of mocha-coloured waves. In his hand is the karaoke mic.
The bucks’ party have parked themselves on one of the lounges, cans of beer in hand and limbs splayed over the cushions and nearby coffee table. They’ve really made themselves at home.
‘Come in!’ the captain bleats through the mic. ‘Wow, this thing’s got some serious punch.’ He grins, amusement streaking through his eyes like tiny rip-tides. ‘Pearl Island is sure going to love the likes of you.’
I was expecting more of a tense atmosphere, not this relaxed vibe. As my eyes follow the microphone cord, they pause just before his bare feet, lingering on his well-defined calves, and a delicious warmth settles in my stomach. It must be all the champagne.