Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Eva
The second the bedroom door clicks shut behind us, I drop my purse onto the bed and do a slow spin, taking it all in.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I whisper, wide-eyed.
The room looks like it was pulled from a luxury resort brochure.
Light pours in through tall glass doors that lead to a private balcony.
The king-size bed is perfectly made with crisp white linens and fluffy pillows stacked against a sand-colored upholstered headboard.
Soft ocean tones decorate the walls and furniture—blue, beige, white—like the whole space is just calm. Peaceful.
“Okay, fake fiancé,” I say as I kick off my sandals and open my suitcase. “This place is a ten out of ten.”
Esteban chuckles from the other side of the room. “Right? I feel like I need a linen shirt and one of those cocktails with an umbrella. Let me change first, that way you can take your time.” He grabs clothes from his suitcase and walks to the bathroom.
While he is gone, I grab my swimsuits and lay them in bed.
I stare down at them still undecided. The black one-piece with gold details feels like the safe choice—classic, understated, hard to misread.
But the deep green two-piece is bold, flirty, and definitely not what you wear when you’re trying not to catch someone’s attention.
Do I want his attention on me? Yes, I do.
But I don’t want to be too obvious about it.
I stare at both swimsuits, thinking which one to choose.
The bathroom door is closed, but I can hear him in there. The toilet flushes. Water runs. I hold my breath without even realizing it.
Then the door opens and I almost drop dead right there.
Esteban steps out wearing nothing but a pair of light pink swim trunks that hang criminally low on his hips, and my mouth goes dry.
His chest is a damn masterpiece—broad, firm, and cut like he’s been sculpted out of marble. There’s a light dusting of chest hair, trimmed and neat, and that V-line leading straight down to where his trunks sit makes my brain forget how to function.
And then I see them.
The tattoos.
A compass inked on the left side of his chest, detailed and bold, like it’s pointing toward something—or someone—he’s meant to find.
And running down his right side, a line of symbols I can’t quite decipher, ending in a single purple rose near his waist. The contrast of the deep ink against his sun-kissed skin is unfair. Completely, unfair.
I’m left speechless.
I never thought tattoos could look this good on a man, let alone make me feel like I’m about to forget my own name.
He looks… dangerous. Beautiful. Like trouble wrapped in confidence, dipped in sunlight.
Is this man even real?
Catching me staring, he smirks. “You like what you see?” His eyebrows do this cocky little wiggle that snaps me out of my not-so-subtle gawking.
“Are you wearing a shirt to the pool?”
“Why?” He grins. “You don’t want anyone seeing how hot your fiancé is?”
I snort. “Nope. I just don’t want Mrs. McNeal to have a heart attack.”
He throws his head back and laughs, loud and full and gorgeous. Then he walks over to his suitcase and grabs a white beach shirt, slipping it on without much urgency.
Unfortunately, the shirt doesn’t help. It clings to every muscle like it’s in love with him too. I force myself to look away, suddenly too hot and bothered by the sight of his naked chest.
Is this what a lady boner feels like?
Because damn.
Grabbing the swimsuits from the bed, I make a beeline for the bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. I lean back against it and take a few steadying breaths.
Get. It. Together.
I grab my phone and open my group chat with Ashton and Payton.
Me: 911
A second later:
Ashton: Please tell me you fucked the man already?
Payton: You know she wouldn’t be texting for that.
Me: No, I would not. Get your head out of the gutter.
Me: We’re going to the pool. He just changed and came out of the bathroom without a shirt and I almost died. He has tattoos and they look so good on him.
Ashton: Okay, you enjoyed the view. Good. What’s the emergency?
Me: Should I wear the one-piece or the two-piece?
Ashton: TWO-PIECE. And girl, if he has tattoos and abs, you need to stop playing and get to work. That man is not a museum—he’s not just for looking.
One second.
Payton: Two-piece. Don’t even think about it. Show that man what he’s working with.
Staring at the green bikini in my hands, heart racing, I quickly change and glance at myself in the mirror. The color pops against my skin, the fit hugging me in all the right places. I look good—better than good—but suddenly, nerves flutter in my stomach.
What is Esteban going to think when he sees me? Would he like it?
I take a breath and push open the bathroom door.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone, but the second he looks up, his eyes lock on me and stay there. Then I feel his gaze travel slowly, like a caress over every inch of exposed skin. Instead of shrinking under it, I stand a little straighter.
I love how empowered I feel in this moment and the worries that I had moments ago, vanishes at seeing his expression.
I toss his own words back at him with a smirk. “You like what you see?”
Chuckling, he sets his phone aside as he stands and closes the distance between us in just a few steps. Now we’re chest to chest, almost. The air thickens with the tension between us.
His cologne hits me again, that same clean, warm scent that makes my knees a little weaker than I want to admit.
He leans in close, his lips almost brushing my ear when he whispers, “If you don’t cover yourself, I’m the one that’s going to have a heart attack.”
I smile to myself but stay rooted in place.
“You look gorgeous.” His mouth is still so close to my ear, I can feel his breath skate down my neck.
My breath hitches, and for a second, all I can do is stare at him, wishing this fake thing between us wasn’t fake at all.
I lean in just a little and whisper back, “Thank you.” With a wink, I grab the white cover-up from the bed and slip it on slowly.
Esteban doesn’t take his eyes off me the whole time.
“You ready?” I ask, acting like I didn’t just catch him adjusting himself. But on the inside, I am so fucking giddy with joy.
“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat and subtly shifting again, trying to hide the very obvious evidence of his reaction.
I walk toward the door, pretending not to notice, and hear him quietly groan behind me.
When he shuts the door, he reaches for my right hand and threads his fingers through mine.
It feels natural. Comfortable. A little dangerous.
We walk down the wide hallway and toward the back of the mansion where the pool area opens up. The second we step outside, I feel the sun kiss my skin and catch my breath.
The pool area is like something out of a luxury resort.
It’s massive—complete with a sparkling infinity pool that seems to stretch all the way to the beach beyond.
Lounge chairs with plush white cushions line the edges, and tall palm trees sway in the soft breeze.
There’s a shaded cabana area with sheer curtains fluttering in the wind, and a private path leads down to the powdery white sand.
The smell of the ocean mixes with something savory coming from the grill.
Adrian is already in the water, laughing and floating on a neon raft beside another boy who looks a couple of years older.
The girls—Josy, Violet, and Mrs. McNeal—are lounging in a row of beach chairs, drinks in hand, sunglasses on.
Noah, Austin, and Mr. McNeal stand near the grill, deep in conversation.
Letting go of Esteban’s hand and head toward the girls, I drop into the empty chair beside Josy, the soft cushion sinking under me like a cloud.
“Hi, girls,” I say, smiling.
“Welcome!” Mrs. McNeal beams. “Do you need bronzer or sunblock?”
“I’d love some sunblock. If I don’t, I’ll burn like crazy. And we always have to protect our skin,” I say, the last part a little automatic from my influencer brain.
Mrs. McNeal hands me a sleek white bottle. I immediately recognize the brand. “Oh, this is an excellent choice. I love that it’s fragrance-free and works well for all skin types.”
Mrs. McNeal nods with approval. “Yes! My dermatologist recommended it. I’ve been trying to avoid more sunspots. Now that I’m getting older, I realize what a mistake it was not to protect my skin back in the day.”
“Mrs. McNeal, you look wonderful,” Josy says warmly.
“Oh, honey, please call me Melissa. ‘Mrs. McNeal’ sounds like some old lady from a retirement brochure,” she says with a laugh.
We all laugh along with her, and I settle deeper into my chair, the sun on my legs, the breeze on my face. I feel relaxed.
Melissa offers me a strawberry margarita, and before I can even say thank you, a woman in a crisp white uniform walks over and places the chilled drink in my hand with a smile. My eyebrows lift as I take it.
Wow.
How much money do these people have to own a place like this and have actual service too? I glance around again, taking in the high-end finishes, the perfectly manicured garden, and the breathtaking view of the ocean.
A burst of laughter comes from the other side of the pool where the boys are still chatting by the grill. Violet turns her head toward the sound and smiles softly. “I’m so glad Adrian is having fun with your son, Melissa.”
Melissa nods. “Yes, Cole is always alone. He’s my youngest, and his older brother never wants to hang out with him. I guess being eight years apart is a big difference when you’re fourteen and twenty-two.”
“I see that same thing in my future,” Violet says with a chuckle. “Adrian is twelve years older than Ethan. I think I might need to give Ethan another sibling, someone close enough in age that he can actually play with.”
The thought makes me smile, but then something hits me. I glance around, suddenly aware of two tiny absences. “Wait, where are Ethan and Everly?”
“Oh, they’re with my daughter Lucy,” Melissa says. “She loves babies. Since both of them were napping, she offered to stay in the living room with them. She’s my sassy middle child,” Melissa adds proudly. “A senior in high school, planning on becoming a teacher.”
“I haven’t met her yet,” I say, already curious.
“Oh honey, you will soon,” Melissa assures me. “She’ll call us the second one of the babies wakes up.”
“That’s why we’re enjoying these few minutes of sun and margaritas,” Violet says, raising her glass with a grin.
I take a sip of mine, sweet, cold, with just the right amount of tequila, and lean back into the plush lounge chair, letting the moment soak in.
I keep stealing glances at Esteban. He’s so at ease talking with the guys, standing there with a beer in one hand, gesturing animatedly as he laughs at something Noah says. He looks like he belongs here, confident, magnetic, sun-kissed skin glowing under the Florida light.
God, he’s handsome. But it’s more than that. There’s something about him that makes it hard to look away, something I want to reach out and hold onto.
And the truth is, I want him.
I haven’t let myself think too much about tonight, about what it means to share a bed with him. But now that we’re here, now that I’ve seen him half-naked and felt his breath on my neck, it’s all I can think about.
I can’t wait to feel him close to me.
To hear his voice low and rough in the dark.
To wonder if he’ll make a move.
Because I know he’s attracted to me, I see it in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
I felt it when he kissed me at his house.
That wasn’t fake. That kiss was fire and hunger and something I haven’t stopped thinking about since.
I also noticed it earlier when he saw me in this swimsuit and how he tried to hide is hard on.
There is no doubt in my mind that he wants me.
And now I have this ache—this deep, pulsing need—to be with him.
Not just to pretend.
But to really be his.