Chapter 7
7
ALEXA
If your kids dream of water slides and you dream of poolside margaritas, this place might just keep everyone happy…
My pen hovers over my notebook as I completely fail to focus on anything except Jonas teaching his kids to ride the waves. Professional distance is really hard to maintain when a hot hockey player keeps emerging from the ocean like some kind of male Sports Illustrated cover model. The Hawaiian sun has no business making him look this good, all golden skin and perfect smile and... wait, what was I writing about?
Family-friendly amenities include...
Include what ? Include the way water runs down his abs? Include how his dad voice somehow makes him hotter? Include how he keeps catching me staring and grinning like he knows exactly what I'm not writing about? Include how watching him parent is threatening my carefully constructed child-free vibe?
"Miss Minty." Lukas yells, waving from his boogie board, nearly capsizing himself in the process. "Watch this."
I watch him perform what’s supposed to be body surfing, which looks more like enthusiastic drowning. Jonas steadies him with those hands that I definitely haven't been thinking about since our almost-kiss on the balcony before he kicked me out of his suite. I took no offense. I needed to leave, anyway.
But his touch is so gentle, so sure—the same way he steadied me during our conversation about Genny. The same way he...
Nope. Not going there.
My phone buzzes. Ryan:
Draft status?
Working on it
You said that yesterday
Very thorough research
Is that what we're calling it? Because TMZ has different words for it
I'm observing family activities
You're observing something alright. Have you seen their latest headline?
I click the link he sends, immediately regretting it. There Jonas and I are, at the sunset dinner. The photos aren't even bad—just a family having dinner on the beach. Except the way Jonas is looking at me in them... like I'm some kind of answer to a question he hasn't asked yet. And worse, the way I'm looking back.
Shit, shit, shit.
"Daddy, Miss Minty isn't watching." Jace's protest draws my attention back to the water, where she's attempting to stand on her board while wearing what appears to be three different types of flotation devices, like the world's smallest competitive lifeguard. "She's looking at her phone.”
"Sorry, Jace." I tuck my phone away, catching Jonas's knowing smile. "You have my full professional attention."
"Professional?" he calls over the kids' heads, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners should be illegal. Everything about him should be illegal, in fact—the way he teaches his kids with endless patience, the way his board shorts sit just low enough to be distracting, the way he keeps looking at me like...
The resort's body surfing program provides individualized instruction from certified...
Another buzz. Mom this time:
Three-day rule update?
I don't know what you're talking about
The photos say otherwise
What photos?
The ones where you're looking at him like I used to look at Gerard
You left Gerard
Because he wanted to clip my wings. This one looks like he might help you fly
That's disturbingly poetic for eleven a.m.
Love makes poets of us all
Who said anything about love??
Those photos did. All twelve of them. Nice sunset lighting
"Miss Minty." Jace is waving with her whole body now. "Can you do the dancing thing again?”
Yesterday, as if I knew what I was doing, I somehow ended up teaching an impromptu hula lesson after the kids became fascinated by luau dancers. I'd caught Jonas staring with an intensity that had nothing to do with professional interest. I also felt his eyes following every one of my movements like he was memorizing them for later.
"I'm working, Jace.” But, in spite of myself, I'm already getting to me feet because apparently, I've lost all control of my life choices. Boundaries are slipping between my fingers like the fine Hawaiian sand.
"Please?" she yells. "Daddy said you looked pretty doing it."
I glance at Jonas, who's suddenly very interested in something out on the horizon. Something way out on the horizon.
Incidentally, I see nothing on the horizon.
"Who wants to try catching another wave?" Jonas asks.
I've already started the basic hula moves and I figure, if he's going to stare, I might as well give him something to remember. The ocean breeze catches my sundress just right, and I definitely don't miss how he’s trying not to look.
My phone buzzes, so I reach for it while doing my lame hip-swivel.
Ryan:
Seriously, where's the draft?
Also, TMZ wants to know if you're moving to San Francisco
Also also, your Instagram followers have doubled
What exactly are you researching out there?
"You're doing it wrong," Jace informs me, having abandoned her surf lesson to join me. "You have to tell the story with your hands. That’s what you said."
"Like this?" I incorporate some of the hand movements I learned yesterday, definitely not noticing how Jonas has stopped pretending to focus on the horizon. The way he watches could make a girl forget about TMZ and her boss and her three-day rule.
Not me, though. No, never.
"Hey, like this." Jace demonstrates something more along the lines of jumping jacks than hula. It’s pretty funny.
I catch Jonas's eye and the air feels charged with more than just ocean spray.
Another buzz. Mom again:
You know the three-day rule was always more of a guideline...
Also, when do I get to meet them?
The kids are adorable in those photos
And their father isn't hard on the eyes either
I ignore Mom in favor of continuing to hula with Jace. She follows my lead with the intense concentration only a preschoolers could manage, while Lukas gets out of the water and joins us, providing sound effects that make his father laugh.
My phone vibrates again. Who is it now?
Ryan:
Draft. Now.
Mom:
Still not talking about the three-day rule?
Ryan:
Unless you're writing with your hips, I need words
Mom:
Those photos are getting quite the circulation
Ryan:
Is this research or romance?
Mom:
Both, if you're doing it right
Ryan:
Your next piece better be Pulitzer worthy
Mom:
Or at least worth breaking rules for
"Miss Minty." Jace tugs my hand. "Keep dancing.”
Of course. Because what else would I be doing during a week that’s already hijacked my sanity?
I continue with my amateurish demonstration and Jace attempts to follow, her brow furrowed in concentration. I dodge her flailing little arms as she performs her version of the hula.
Then, I spot my notebook, open on my lounge chair where I left it.
The resort offers…
Offers what ? Awkward mornings with overenthusiastic kids? A reminder that I don’t belong in places like this? Proof that family-friendly chaos is best admired from a distance?
And as if on queue, Jonas catches my eye. I quickly look away.
The resort offers... more than enough material for a blog.
He catches my eye again. This time neither of us looks away.
The resort offers opportunities… to see things differently than you ever have before.
The dinner clears out family by family, drifting away with their shell necklaces and sugar-crashed children. I watch Jonas gather his kids’ things—a discarded flower crown and an attempt at a volcanic rock collection.
"They didn't even make it through dessert," he says, looking at his conked-out kids.
"Your hula dancers crashed, huh?"
"Three performances of their 'special dance' might have been pushing it. Though you have to admire their commitment to the encore."
I smile, remembering their hilarious interpretation of Hawaiian dance, which involved a lot more jumping and sound effects than the more traditional performance. "I thought the part where Lukas added hockey moves was creative."
"He does like to stay on brand." Jonas adjusts Jace's lei, careful not to wake her. His hands are so gentle, and I definitely haven't spent all evening watching them, wondering what they'd feel like in my hair.
Definitely not.
The tiki torches cast everything in flickering gold, making the evening surreal. As if we've slipped into some parallel universe where professional bloggers fall for hockey-playing single dads and sticky-fingered kids with milk mustaches.
Yeah, right.
We sit in silence, close enough that our hands brush, sending a thrilling jolt up my arm.
I’m not gonna lie.
"Thank you," he says after a while, speaking over the incoming tide.
"For what?"
"For today. For, you know, making it special for the kids. For..." he pauses, “for making it special for me, too."
"Jonas..."
"Yeah.” He slides his chair closer, shrinking the space between us and leaving it charged with anticipation. "This probably breaks all kinds of your rules," he says.
"So many rules," I say. But I move closer too, drawn by gravity or fate or maybe just the way he looks at me like I'm something special. Something worth breaking his own rules for. "Professional distance..." I whisper.
"Very professional," he murmurs, his hand finding my cheek, his touch burning hot.
"My three-day rule..."
"Too late for that shit." His smile is naughty.
"Your PR team..." I say, trailing off.
"Don't care." His other hand slides into my hair, and oh, this feels like coming home to a place I've never been. He pulls back for a moment. "Unless you want me to stop?"
I should say yes. Should get up and get the hell out of there. Go back to my room and continue setting up my fancy new laptop, and get writing what I owe Ryan. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Should think about my career, my lifestyle, my carefully constructed child-free existence. I should look over at the mom squad to see whether they’re all up in our business.
Instead, I press my lips to his.
The world stops. At least it seems to. I no longer hear the waves crashing, smell the salt air, or see Jonas.
Because my eyes have fallen closed. My other senses have gone on strike.
His kiss is gentle at first, seeking, but when I make a soft sound against his mouth, something shifts. His hand tightens in my hair, and suddenly there's nothing gentle about it and damn this man, he’s just as sexy as I knew he would be. Everything narrows down to this moment, to his grip on my hair and his other hand holding my chin.
He releases me and I open my eyes again, not wanting to miss a thing.
"That was..." I start, trying to find words that don't sound totally lame.
I can feel his smile. "Very professional?"
"Quite. Quite professional. As professional things go." My hands find their way under his Hawaiian shirt, the bright pink and green one the kids convinced him to buy, which he doesn’t like but wears for them. I trace the muscles I've been watching since I first spotted him at the pool, around the time his children destroyed my laptop and we were forced to talk and negotiate, and I tried so hard to be mad and failed miserably. “I guess I could say this is part of my research. Thorough research."
He laughs, the sound vibrating through me. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What else would we call it?"
His answer is another kiss, deeper this time, like he's trying to tell me something. Like he's been wanting to do this, like he's been thinking about this since that first splash in the pool.
This is just lust. Pure attraction. Breaking rules. Nothing more. A silly vacation romance with a hot, famous athlete who will forget about me the minute he boards the plane to head home.
But damn if his hand in my hair doesn’t feel like it belongs, and his kiss doesn’t taste like a connection.
A cry breaks through our haze.
"Daddy?"
We spring apart like guilty teenagers.
"I should..." Jonas gestures vaguely toward his kids, but he doesn't move yet.
"Yeah." I steady my breathing and remind myself why this is complicated.
But he pulls me in for one more quick kiss before he scoops up his kids, one under each arm.
"To be continued?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Very unprofessional of you," I tease.
"Completely unprofessional."
Yikes. Something in my universe feels off. And I'm in so much trouble. But maybe some trouble is worth having. Some rules are worth breaking.
Maybe.
Back in my room, I still feel his kiss. Still feel his hands in my hair.
I should be writing my article. After all, I’ve downloaded the last bit of software needed for my replacement laptop, so have no excuse to do anything other than start pounding my story out on the keyboard.
Instead, I'm lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling fan, imagining things I have no business imagining.
Like how his voice sounds.
Like what it might be like to wake up next to him
Like how San Francisco is foggy, and that the mornings there have their own charm.
Jesus, what’s wrong with me?
"Stop it," I tell myself firmly. But my traitor brain is already there, picturing it, clear as day.
Dammit, I am so not that sort of woman. I don’t dream about some dude sweeping me off my feet, and I certainly don’t dream about one who comes already equipped with kids. Oh, hell no .
But the vision of working on my laptop at his kitchen counter, writing my next blog… won’t get the hell out of my mind, where it’s taking up real estate that is not and never will be available for such drivel.
My phone buzzes. A text notification about the Aftershocks' upcoming season schedule, and a link to purchase tickets. I've somehow subscribed to their updates. Somehow. For research purposes. Obviously.
I imagine the stands full of cheering fans. Me sitting with the other players' families. Jace and Lukas decked out in tiny jerseys with their dad's number. Teaching them to cheer at the right moments. Learning hockey rules beyond "puck goes in net."
God help me. But I'm already googling average temperatures in San Francisco. Already wondering if Jonas would teach me his pancake recipe. Already thinking about how to write about family travel from a… family perspective.
Without the snark, without the disdain, without the air of superiority that’s earned me my loyal social media following.
Another image invades my thoughts. It’s not welcome…
Christmas morning. Stockings hanging. Kids running down actual stairs in an actual house. Jonas in one of those ridiculous holiday sweaters. Me taking pictures, not for Instagram, but just to have. For the memories.
"Nope." I sit up, trying to shake off this domestic horror. "Absolutely not."
But, too late. The images keep coming, faster now, more vivid.
My phone lights up with texts from Mom:
How's the view?
Of the ocean, I mean. Not the hockey player
Though that view looked pretty good in those photos
I might be in trouble
The best kind of trouble
I'm having... thoughts
Domestic ones?
The scariest kind
Oh honey
I get up, pacing my room. This is crazy. I don't do domestic. I don't do families. I definitely don't do winter sports or foggy mornings or make freaking pancakes.
Except...
Except I can see it all so clearly. Not just the big moments, but the small ones like having someone to meet me at the airport for a change rather than walking out and hunting down a cab all alone.
Or, even, someone to come home to. Maybe multiple someones.
My phone buzzes again. It’s Ryan:
Please tell me you're writing
Does writing it in my head count?
No. Only actual words on actual paper. Unless your new laptop has arrived
It has.
Great news
I flop back onto the bed, overwhelmed by possibilities I never wanted. I still don’t want. This is insane. I've known these people for only a few days.
But it doesn't feel like a few days.
My phone chimes with a text from Jonas:
Kids want to know if you're coming to breakfast tomorrow
Lukas is planning his pancake order
Jace wants to know if princesses eat waffles
No pressure
But they'd really like to see you
I'd really like to see you
Sounds like you’re using your children as an excuse to see me
Guilty
What time?
7:30. Though knowing my kids, they'll be up at 6
That's incredibly early
Worth it though
For pancakes?
For everything
I look around my hotel room – perfectly arranged, perfectly temporary. Just like every other room in every other resort.
See you then
Not sure I can wait. Care for a visitor? We can… discuss your article
My heart thumps against my chest and I can think of a hundred reasons to say no. And really, none to answer yes.
And yet.
*You know my room number
Oh God.
I blame the moonlight. Or maybe the lingering taste of his kiss. Or possibly the way my perfectly organized life has been thrown off-kilter in the space of a few days.
That's why I'm opening my door, clutching my new laptop like it's some kind of shield. Like bringing work somehow makes this not exactly what it is—me, breaking every rule I've ever made about relationships, about families, about keeping my heart safely locked away in carry-on sized pieces.
And there he is, in all his delicious dressed-down glory—wearing a faded t-shirt with a small hole at the neckline, worn sweats, and looking so hot I can hardly breathe.
"The kids?" I ask, because it is the easiest thing to say.
He steps inside, but not before putting the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of my door. "Finally asleep, thanks to the amazing babysitter the front desk sent. Took three stories and two glasses of water, but they're out. Though Jace did try to negotiate for a snack."
"Good negotiator?"
"Scary good. But sleep won."
"Got my new laptop." I hold it up like evidence. Like proof that I'm still professional. Still in control.
"Great. Glad to see," he says, not even looking at it. Instead, he steps closer, his hand taking my face, and my carefully constructed walls disappear as fast as I put them up.
"I don't do this," I whisper.
"Which part?"
"Any of it. The families. The complications. The..." I gesture between us.
"And now?"
Instead of answering, I kiss him. Not gentle like before, but this time, hungry, demanding, like I've been thinking about it for way too long. We stagger into my room, and my laptop hits the couch—carefully, I'm not risking losing another—and his hands are in my hair again.
All rational thought goes out the window, and I’m one big ball of compulsion with no ability to restrain myself, or even remember who I really am.
And I love it.
"Your article?" he murmurs against my mouth. “How’s that coming along?”
"Well, I’m conducting very important research."
"You're breaking rules."
"You're worth breaking rules for."
Oh God. Did I really just say that?
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and oh, those eyes should come with a warning label. "Am I?"
"Well. You're ruining my carefully constructed plans."
"Good plans?"
"Safe plans."
His hands slide under my shirt. "We could make new plans."
"Complicated plans."
"The best kind of plans."
"Are you sure?" he asks, ever the gentleman, even with his hands doing very ungentlemanly things. "This changes things."
"It certainly does." I pull him closer, needing his skin against mine.
His mouth finds that spot on my neck that makes me forget why this is complicated. Why this is terrifying. Why this is everything I've been running from.
He smells like plain soap, and it’s lovely, so lovely that a tingle lands in my core.
“Well,” Jonas begins, and I shake my head. “What?” he asks.
I don’t speak, I just press against him, wrapping my arms around his neck and slanting my mouth over his. Our kiss is slow and heady, and I feel his fingers flex before they dig into my hips, giving me a delicious thrill.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he mutters against my lips.
“I’m quite lucid, Jonas. And I want you.”
With a growl, he yanks me to him and crashes his lips against mine as we stumble through the bedroom door of my suite.
I shiver from anticipation and let him tug my shirt over my head. Thankfully, my bra has a front hook. I flick it open to let the straps slide down my arms, and as I do, he tosses the black lace away and fills his hands with my breasts. I moan at the contact, loving the way his rough palms feel against my skin.
When he lowers his head and catches a nipple in his mouth, my head falls back against the door and I whimper. His tongue laps at me, his mouth suckles, and I am in fucking heaven. He plucks and rolls my other nipple and I feel myself grow wet. When he growls, I know he smells it, smells me, and I am torn between desire and indecision.
And yet I don’t stop, desire winning out.
I can’t lie. I have been imagining him inside me. My fingers running through that perfect hair of his while he ravishes the stuffing out of me.
We kiss again. Hard. Our tongues search around one another as his strong grip massages my ass. It’s amazing. All of it.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he mutters and pulls my skirt to my ankles. I wriggle out of it and then the black panties I’m wearing. I stand before him, completely naked, and the desire in his eyes sets me on fire.
“Your turn,” I tell him, reaching for the drawstring on his sweats. He helps and before I know it, they’re gone and his cock is swaying back and forth.
It is big. Bigger than I expected. I grip it in my hand and begin stroking it.
I push him toward the bed, and after he sprawls across it, position myself kneeling beside him with my ass up in the air. I bend over his cock and lower my mouth onto it, working the shaft while he lightly pumps his hips.
Next thing I know, he’s reached around me to rub me from behind. I am already wet, and his finger slides into me with ease, working its way in and out while I work his cock in and out of my mouth.
“Feels good,” he murmurs.
“Yeah? You want to come for me?” I ask breathlessly.
“Yeah. I’m going to come on you.”
“Come on my tits,” I say.
He teases me with his fingers a little longer, and an orgasm crashes over me.
“Fuck,” he groans.
I know what that means and quickly turn onto my back. I grab his cock and work the shaft, watching his face.
“I’m coming,” he grunts.
I aim him toward my breasts, and his cum starts to flow. His cock pulses in my hand as I continue to stroke it, milking every drop I can. His eyes squeeze shut, leaving him convulsing for a few seconds.
“So fucking hot,” he says a minute later. We lie there in silence for a few moments before I nudge him with my elbow.
“And now we need a shower because we are a mess.”
Jonas sighs. “You’re right. You go first.”
“Or . . .” I send him a lazy smile. “We can shower together.”
His answering grin is full of promise. “Lead the way.”