Chapter 22 #2
She came out of the elevator in a cocktail dress, far fancier than anything I’d seen her in to date.
It was short, black, and tight in all the places I’d imagine the designer intended, leaving little to the imagination.
Her high-heeled strappy black shoes gave her three inches of extra height; I had to make a conscious effort not to ogle her.
It was not your typical tropical island evening wear, although Harmony could light up the room wearing sweatpants, in my opinion.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked her, following a kiss.
“Just be cool. Act natural.”
“Are we off to rob a bank? What kind of criminal activity is this?” I laughed.
“You ever crash a wedding?” she asked, doe-eyed.
“Shut up. Seriously?”
“Not into it?” She frowned. “I thought it would be fun.”
“Oh, I’m into it. But don’t we need a story?”
“Nope. Just act like you belong,” she assured me.
We boarded the boat with a handful of guests, also dressed to the nines. They were chatting among themselves; one of the women appeared concerned about the time, as it was just after 6:00 p.m.
“These things always run late,” her date said.
Berto was the boat’s driver, and he eyeballed Harmony as if he recognized her but said nothing. Just smiled to himself as she said, “Buenas noches, Berto.” Her attempt to communicate with him made me like her even more, if that was possible.
Harmony and I, having taken many of these rides already all week long, positioned ourselves under the front of the water taxi.
I don’t know if you’d call it the “hull” exactly, but it was a bench seat around the perimeter of the front of the boat, completely covered by the boat itself.
It was the only place you could sit without getting wet from the sea spray.
I wanted to protect Harmony’s outfit lest she show up at a wedding she wasn’t invited to looking like a drowned rat.
Once we docked, we sat in the very back on the groom’s side, trying to blend in as much as possible.
Nobody spoke to us on account of our arrival so close to the ceremony start time, other than a polite head nod acknowledgment from the party sitting next to us.
The nuptials were quite lovely. The bride, Rachel, was escorted by her eldest brother down the aisle to wed Preston, a day trader with a penchant for fine whiskey, according to his friend Garrett, who officiated the wedding.
The sun set in the background as they tied the knot, which was good in that the increased darkness of night would make Harmony and me less likely to get caught in the ruse of wedding crashing.
I wasn’t a hundred percent sure why we were doing this, other than maybe to see what a wedding on the island might be like.
Turns out, that wasn’t our reason for being there at all.
Once the ceremony ended, Rachel, Preston, and the bridal party all went off to take photographs on the beach before the last bits of sunset vanished, leaving the guests to a robust cocktail hour just steps away from the ceremony location.
The beach was gorgeous, awash in tiny gold lights that sparkled like lightning bugs.
I could see the appeal of maybe one day getting married here.
“Come with me,” Harmony whispered.
“Where are we going?”
“Bathroom,” she said, and we walked rather nonchalantly toward the bathrooms, which were situated next to the bar at Papagayo’s.
“Now, just listen to me,” she instructed.
“Go in there, feel free to use the bathroom if you need to, and then wait a few minutes. You see that roped-off area over there?” She jutted her chin toward a small planked walkway.
“Yeah?”
“Once all the servers are out with the hors d’oeuvres, I want you to—carefully—make your way all the way down that walkway and then head to the left at the end.”
“Um, okay?”
“Don’t get caught. If someone stops you, just say you’re taking in the view or that you just want to take a quick picture or something.”
“And where are you going to be?”
“I’ll be there three minutes ahead of you,” she grinned. “I know a back way.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay. If we get arrested, though, this one’s on you.”
“Deal.”
I did exactly what Harmony said. I tried to be my stealthiest self as I wove between topiaries and trees and alongside a wall made of thatched dried palm leaves.
I ducked behind a lounge chair at one point when a server headed back in the direction of the bar.
By the time I made it to the end of the deck and turned to the left, my heart was in my throat.
But there she was.
Without her dress.
Harmony stood in the middle of the round hut, with its wood planked floor and dome-shaped, thatched ceiling, wearing only black lace panties, a strapless matching bra, and her high heels.
The spa cove was open to the sea but otherwise private, and there were two massage tables behind her.
Her body, which I’d come to know well over the course of the week thanks to the myriad bikinis I’d seen her in, was perhaps more beautiful than ever, courtesy of the dim glow of the moon. It was our only source of light.
“Hey,” she said.
“Wow,” I replied.
“You like?” She gestured at the space around her.
“Um. Yes? I mean, the space is great, but—you look amazing.”
She grinned, looking down. For someone who was doing something bold and wild, she wore a surprisingly shy expression. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
“This is where you got your rubdown?”
“Uh huh. I thought maybe you’d like one.”
“A massage?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t stop thinking about you when I was lying here. It was the most relaxing experience.”
“I’d love that. But are we sure this is a good idea?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if we get caught?”
Harmony shrugged. “What’s the worst they can do? Put us in hotel jail?”
“I’m sure they have laws about trespassing in Aruba.
Also indecent exposure?” I reached for her bare waist. “God, you’re beautiful.
” Her body was like a magnet, pulling me close.
I placed my lips on her neck and inhaled her scent.
It was clean, fresh—a combination of aloe and citrus fruit.
I tried to focus on the fact that I had the most perfect night planned for us, and it would offer us the privacy we craved, along with the requisite magic that a casino bathroom lacked.
I didn’t want our first time to be here, regardless of how sexy the venue was or how unfathomably striking Harmony looked, standing there in her tantalizing underthings.
She tilted my face away from her neck and moved her mouth in to meet mine.
She kissed me sweetly, tugging my body in one direction when my brain was trying so desperately to remain grounded.
It wasn’t just that I wanted to surprise her—I did, of course, and I knew that no matter what happened, my surprise would floor her. That wasn’t the issue.
Harmony deserved better. She deserved to be held, to be warm under fresh bedding with some crazy-high thread count. She deserved to be loved slowly, thoughtfully, not in a rush with a constant worry about getting caught. She deserved the very best I could possibly give her.
And this wasn’t it.
So it was up to me to make sure we didn’t let the moment get out of hand.
She ran the tip of her tongue along the outer edge of my earlobe. “I want to give you a massage,” she purred.
“Mm mm,” I groaned. “You’re already undressed. Let me give you one.”
“I’d need to be more undressed than this for a massage.”
I pulled my face back a few inches. “Really? You were naked?”
She laughed. “No, silly. But I did take my bra off.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“So, I guess, if you insist…” she trailed off, placing her hands behind her back and unhooking her bra.
It fell to the floor and she stood before me like that.
I could do nothing but revere her, this goddess in my atmosphere, this deity in my ether.
I placed my hands on her so gently, worshipping every inch of skin as my palms grazed it.
“Lie down,” I requested.
She conceded. I took her hand and helped her up onto the massage table, then turned her so she could face down.
I dropped my lips to her upper back, planting tiny kisses along her spine as I pushed her hair to one side.
I looked around, hoping to find anything that I could use to rub into her skin.
There was a cabinet above a sink on the far side of the space.
I walked over to it, opened the door and pulled out what appeared to be a bottle of massage oil.
I pumped a small amount into my hands, smelling it to make sure it was pleasant.
The fragrance was floral and subtle. Rubbing my palms together, I generated enough warmth that it wouldn’t cause Harmony to jump when I finally laid them down on her back.
“Mmm,” she moaned, eliciting a response in my body that I consciously worked to tamp down.
I glided my fingertips down the curve of her back, relishing the slope of her form as it narrowed to her waist. Applying just a light touch of pressure produced another sound from her mouth that threatened to excite me even more.
I fought it, waging complete war between my body and my mind.
I focused my energy on bringing her pleasure in this new and different way, adulating every curve, every rise and fall of her body.
I could hear the music floating into the air from the DJ booth at the wedding, just a short walk down the beach.
I remained engrossed in my reverence, notably proud of myself for winning the battle of mind over matter.
Until she flipped over.
Lying there, with her breasts exposed to the night air and her face so tranquil, Harmony took on a different aura of exquisiteness. “Touch me,” she whispered.
I couldn’t say no.
There was no doubt in my mind that she was trying to entice me to take her on that table, beneath those stars, but a man who knows the treasure he has is careful not to waste it.
I worked to please her in other ways, both physically and emotionally, without crossing the line I’d established in my mind.
I had special plans for us. I only had to wait two more days to execute them.
After bringing her to the height of her desire, Harmony’s body relaxed tremendously. She yearned to indulge me similarly, but a passing group of night swimmers sent us into a fit of giggles that gave us the sense we might be better off not pushing our luck.
I was so, so grateful for those night swimmers.
Beckett’s writing is making me kind of angry.
First of all, the spa-hut-after-dark was so spicy in real life, and to close the door on that scene and deprive the reader of the magic that man’s mouth was capable of is truly criminal.
But given the fact that it happened to me and I am currently drowning in a sea of mixed emotions, I’m sure I’d be angry no matter how he presented it.
I suppose one could say he was being tactful.
And yes, of course there are some readers who prefer a sweet love story.
I guess what’s making me angry is the fact that I knocked that scene out of the park and he just glossed over it, as if it were just another day in paradise and wasn’t one of the sexiest things that had ever happened to him.
Well, at least, to that point. Who knows what kinds of sexcapades he’s participated in with his betrothed, fame-soaked singer-superstar?
I certainly don’t.
But Google does.
Don’t do it, I tell myself.
But I can’t help it. I’m reading a book that he wrote about a trip he was on with me, struggling to keep myself from falling in love with this man all over again, remembering every detail, trying not to let my soul get crushed under the weight of what that week did to me.
And now, the thought of seeing him. And those goddamn words.
Listen to me, Mel, he’d said. I fell in love with you in Aruba.
The chasm that I slide into is deep and dark, leading to the seedy underworld of the internet.
Early pictures taken by paparazzi litter the Images subset of my Google search, along with links to articles from TMZ and the like.
He’s as beautiful as I remember, holding the hand of a woman who could not be less like me.
Look at them, going on a walk with matching Starbucks cups.
Click. There they are on a yacht in the Mediterranean, her entire back showing thanks to a barely there string bikini, with a tattoo of a tree crawling up her spine and extending out over her shoulder blades.
He looks at her with a familiar smirk, but his eyes are shielded by sunglasses.
Click. There they are walking the red carpet at the Grammys.
He’s wearing a tuxedo and has his arm around her waist. The giant rock on her left ring finger glistens in the flash bulbs. Click.
But wait.
There’s a picture of Analise Renda—a blurry one—where she’s canoodling with someone who is most definitely not Beckett. His dark hair is up in a man bun, nothing like Beckett’s closely cropped locks. The accompanying gossip website asks, Is it over for Analeckett?
It was posted three days ago, in S?o Paulo, Brazil.
A few other news outlets have the same picture posted with similar queries but no further information.
Hm.
Stop it, I chide myself. Just read the rest of this damn book, make a decision, and plan your summer already.
“I wish you’d be nicer to yourself,” Mom whispers in my head.
“I’m an idiot. Why am I like this?” I ask the empty room.
“You’re not an idiot, Pretty Girl. You’re human. And you got hurt.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Keep going, sweetheart. You might change your tune if you read the rest.”
I flip the book over and see Beckett’s author headshot smiling at me. In that smile, I can feel the hope of an aspiring debut author, a young guy with big dreams who hasn’t been completely broken by the harsh realities of life yet. Bruised, maybe, but not broken.
I sigh.
Flipping through the paperback, I note that I only have about sixty pages to go.
“Not exactly well timed,” I say aloud. “He’s going to break them apart and put them back together in just sixty pages? And not have Goodreads implode with the words ‘rushed ending’?”
“You can do it, Pretty Girl. It’s only a little more.” Her voice echoes in my brain. “You’ll thank me.”