Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
LEXI
Ihave some time to kill before tonight, and it would be useful to think about something else anyway. Now that the wedding is over, I can refocus on Deshni’s proposal. Sitting at my desk in the office, I open up the proposal file.
Deshni and Sarika are always responsible for the bride and her entourage’s hair and makeup, and I can’t understand why Beaumont isn’t proudly displaying their talents somewhere on the internet.
Between everything else these last weeks, I’ve sourced wedding photos directly from some of the couples who’ve been married on Ne’emba.
If Beaumont doesn’t care to showcase these women’s talents, I do, and I will.
Nothing like an Instagram or TikTok profile with reels and shorts and some breathtaking photos from brides on the beach to upsell what they have here.
Hashtags everywhere. When these sisters eventually leave Ne’emba, which they will, this social proof of their skills could be a great springboard for them.
During the quieter times these past few days, I’ve tweaked Deshni and Sarika’s proposal.
We’re shaking things up, but I’ll still let the head office know.
I’ve inserted some of the best bridal photos I’ve gathered, suggesting that the Beaumont Ne’emba Island website have a separate page for weddings.
The destination is doing well enough that nobody has bothered to include this marketing strategy, but that doesn’t do the sisters any favors.
I’m nervous, though. This needs to be perfect because I want to do Deshni and Sarika’s work justice.
They trusted me with this, and I don’t want to let them down.
I exhale a slow breath, wishing for a moment alone.
Usually Jem calls it a day at this hour, but instead of giving me space, today she’s working on her whiteboard, updating random stuff.
I’ll bet she’s hanging around to keep an eye on me.
It’s a feeling I’ve had for a few days now, and I don’t like it.
I’ve noticed that my screen reflects on the glass panel of the cupboard behind me.
Jem’s gaze often latches to that spot beside my head. I’m so being watched.
Screw it. I open my private email, wanting to check in with Tessa as I do every day. She needs support, and this is the least I can do. If I message her now, I might get her before she goes to bed.
I open up Instagram because that’s where Tessa hangs most of the time and a little thrill runs through me as I spot the green dot telling me she’s online.
Me
What are you up to? Good day?
A message pops back seconds later.
Tessa
Found my stride! Only had to do three re-takes today. It’s a miracle really.
She follows the text up with a photo of her and another actress also playing in the film.
They are pulling faces and I laugh. She hasn’t only found her stride; she’s found her tribe.
My heart pangs a little, not being able to be there, but also happy that Tessa has found a friend who gets what she’s going through.
“What are you laughing about?” Jem asks as she puts down the whiteboard marker.
“Nothing.” I quickly type a Gotta go and close the app.
I’m basically here to keep an eye on Jem, but the tables have turned.
I had no reason to distrust Jem at the beginning, but her recent behavior has me pulling back.
I should run this proposal past her—if anybody can give decent input, it would be Jem—but there’s a reason Deshni sidestepped her in this process.
Deshni knows Jem better than I ever will.
Trust only runs so far for anybody, and once it’s got a crack, well, it’s not so easy to patch things up.
Plus, it doesn’t take much for that crack to become a crevice.
“Are you going to check in with the guests tonight before dinner?” Jem asks.
That’s the last thing I have energy for. “Yes,” I assure her.
“I can do that if you want to take an early night,” she offers. “You’ve been going full-on for weeks now, and you’ve got your first wedding behind you, so why don’t you take a break tonight? I’m sure Tristan would be happy too.” At these last words, she turns to me, a smile playing on her lips.
I sink back in my chair. Jem is up to something, but an early night would be wonderful. This work isn’t hard, but it’s constant, and I’m running on fumes—fumes I’d rather save for Tristan. “You don’t mind?” I ask, wishing I could read her mind.
“No. When Don and Miriam were here, I was doing it every second night.”
“You were?”
She shrugs. “They were only here to keep the boat afloat. You’re doing more than that.”
I’m battling for my career here—something Jem doesn’t need to know.
I’m here to impress and more. But one night won’t hurt.
“If you don’t mind, that would be great.
” I sit up and shake my mouse to bring the screen back to life.
If this is an option, I have better things to do than sit here in my petri dish.
“Let me send this last email, and I’ll call it a day. ”
It’s now or never. Ne’emba falls under the Beaumont Tropical Island portfolio, and I address my email to the corporate manager.
Then I add Nathan Beaumont for some clout.
At least he knows who the hell I am. Now that my mind’s made up, I’m fast. I write the email, attach the proposal, and send it off in a flash.
I switch off my computer and grab my boutique purchase. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Enjoy, dear,” Jem says, but her tone isn’t warm at all.
Instead of going to the cottage, I make my way to the spa. It’s quiet in the late afternoon as I walk inside, but Deshni and Sarika are both there, prepping for the next day.
“Ladies,” I say in greeting. “Things have calmed down here too?”
“Yes,” Sarika says with a smile. “The run-up to a wedding is always insane, and afterwards we’re dead quiet until the next batch of guests arrives.”
“So you have zero bookings for tomorrow?”
Both women laugh. “Not a single one.”
“Well, that’s good news.” I cast a glance over the tranquil space. “I’ve sent your proposal off to France, but we’re not going to wait for them.”
“No?” Sarika frowns.
“We’re not making drastic changes. Tristan and Roger are available first thing tomorrow morning, so we can meet and take photos for a new brochure.
We should also discuss price points and see how we can load the new treatments into the system.
” Everything here works on paper—beautiful, elegant, Beaumont-embossed paper—but it gets captured on the system at the office for invoicing.
“Do you think you’ll have everything ready?
We can do some photos with the sunrise in the sala and here later on. ”
“Yes,” Deshni says, her eyes shining with excitement. “We’ve been practicing and have the basics ready. We can set everything up for tomorrow morning first thing.”
“Fantastic. Let’s say at six? That’s before the morning briefing, and Tristan will work his magic before anybody is even aware of what’s happening here.” I give them a wink, feeling totally in cahoots.
They nod, and the meeting is set. I wave goodbye and take the trail that eventually leads to our cottage. The sun is dipping, but Tristan might still be a while. At last I can enjoy the romantic bathtub in our cottage and pamper myself a bit, getting into a spa frame of mind.
Two hours later, Tristan is still not home. Funny that I’ve started thinking of it like that. Us. Here. At home in the middle of nowhere.
I slip on a wrap dress and head down to the beach.
In the dark, I walk along the water to the guest area, the waves licking at my feet.
From afar, I can see torches flickering in a line on the sand, but there’s also a bigger fire, which is a first. As I come closer, I hear a guitar playing and then notice the half-circle of people sitting around the fire, drinks in hand, cigarette smoke afloat.
Yikes… that’s not only cigarette smoke. Someone brought the good stuff, as Matthias de Foch asked for.
Thank God he didn’t get it from someone on the island.
A man is playing the guitar, but it’s a woman’s soft, melancholy voice that fills the night air and gives me chills.
Tristan looks up to me, his gaze like a moth to a flame.
The firelight flickers on his face as I approach the group from the side.
He holds his hand out, and the rest of the group looks up, their lazy smiles welcoming as I sink down onto the sand next to him.
“I would have been home already,” he whispers as he brushes his lips along my temple, “but I’ve been lured in, and it’s too early to pull out.”
I chuckle. “They’re good.”
“Apparently they’re famous on the French music scene.” Tristan wraps an arm around my shoulders and offers his drink to me. “You want to stay a bit?”
“Hell yes.” I take the glass of red from him. This is exactly what I need to relax the build-up of nerves I had while waiting. I’d entered my worrier state, questioning everything. I take a drink of the wine. “Yum.”
Tristan chuckles. “It’s a Chateauneuf du Pape, and it’s going to change your life. Apparently.”
“I can totally see that happening.” I take another sip and lean back into the warmth of his body, resting my head on his shoulder.
Tristan presses his lips to my head as he plays with loose strands of my hair. I feel myself go loose, my body molding to his. We share the wine as we listen to the music, which only amplifies the undercurrent of longing and promises made in hushed whispers.
The woman’s voice is soft, but because we’re sitting so close, the haunting timbres of her song come across clearly, full of vulnerability.
I can’t understand all the words, but the song is about love and hurt and loss, and the sincerity and simplicity of her delivery make me think this woman has seen and felt it all.
When Tristan runs his nose along my hairline and temple, I lift my head so he can work a lazy path to that spot below my ear.
Nobody is paying attention to us, too high on whatever they’ve been smoking or sniffing.
My breathing stalls as he nibbles and sucks at my earlobe, goosebumps popping up on my skin as if I’m champagne finally escaping my confines.
He doesn’t stop there. He buries his fingers in my hair and tilts my head until our lips meet in a slow, drugging French kiss.
It’s dreamy. The heat of the flames; the wine, sensual and intoxicating in my veins; and Tristan’s mouth, his tongue dancing languid and erotic around mine.
His fingers trace along my upper arm, and his hand slips to my rib cage as his thumb runs along the underside of my breast…
I feel weak with desire. We need to get a room.
I smooth my hand up his chest, somewhat out of breath as I pull away an inch. “We can go?”
“We should go,” he murmurs. “Staying any longer—” He breaks off, letting my mind run away with the visual of us having sex on the beach.
Tristan stands and holds out his hand to me. The woman keeps singing, and although I can feel eyes on us, nobody says anything. It’s as if we’re slipping off the stage as extras, but a few people raise their glasses in silent goodbyes.
We walk into the night, quietly back to our cottage, hand in hand.