26. Scarlett
Scarlett
“Come on,” I tell Morgan as he stares out over the horizon. “Once you do it, you’ll be happy you did.”
“I’m not sure that’s how this works,” he says with a clenched jaw. Despite his recent improvements to his disposition, he’s still stubborn as hell.
“It’s exactly how this works,” I tell him. “And besides, the fans want to see it.”
“Fans?” he asks as I slip out of my shoes.
“Yep. That’s what they call themselves now. Not followers, fans,” I say.
“Fans of yours,” he argues.
“Fans of ours,” I argue back. “They want to see you on that beach.”
“I’ve been on the beach,” he says defiantly. “That first night, remember? We stood by the water and kissed, and it went viral and–”
“You stood by the water. The fans want to see us in the water,” I say.
“And listen, I don’t love the idea any more than you do.
All this amazing food you’ve been treating me to isn’t exactly doing wonders for my waistline.
God knows swimsuits have never been my best friend.
But it’s what they want to see. Me and you in that water.
That gorgeous, crystal-clear water in the cove.
Now take off your clothes and get in the water,” I say. “That’s an order.”
Morgan snorts at that. “You can’t tell me what to do. I am your boss. Not the other way around.”
“And yet, you rely on me for ratings and reviews. So shirt off, buddy,” I say, and after some huffing and puffing, Morgan tugs his shirt off.
“Good…good…now the pants.” I nod, referring to the linen pants that I know for a fact he is wearing shorts under because I saw them on his side of the bed this morning when he was getting dressed.
“I’m not sure I like this side of you,” he says.
“Drop ‘em,” I say, pointing at him and then the ground.
“Take off your cover-up,” he says and I do. Then he drops the pants.
“And your shoes,” I say, and his eyes narrow. “You can’t go in the ocean in Sperry’s, Morgan,” I laugh.
“Lose the linen pants,” he says and I do. After that, we are both standing in front of each other in swim attire, though the way we’re acting, you’d think we were naked.
Honestly, I think I am more confident when I’m naked. That doesn’t involve cameras and a swimsuit that fit me better six months ago.
But I don’t care about that right now. I grab Morgan’s hand and drag him across the white sand towards the water. Of course, once his feet touch the lapping beach water, he comes to a screeching halt while I run in up to my knees.
“Come on!” I call to him with a laugh. “You made it this far!”
“And this is as far as my journey goes,” he calls back.
“I don’t think so.” I shake my head. “You have to come a little further. Just a little.”
“I’m in the water,” he says, and I don’t know if he really hates the beach this much or if he just likes making my life harder. Maybe both.
I stare at him. And he stares back. And then I splash him.
The sudden gust of water splattering all over his body catches him off guard, and his usual put-together facade slips a little.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he tells me, and there’s a mischief in his eyes that I don’t trust as Morgan takes a step towards me. Then another. And by the time I go to bolt from him into the waves, he has me in his arms, spinning and pulling us waist deep in the water.
I shriek and laugh and hug into him as a wave washes around both of us, and Morgan even laughs too.
“You’re crazy,” I tell him as he steadies us against the movement of the water.
“You’re the one that said we had to come out here,” he says. “I wanted to stay on dry land.”
I stare up at him, and he stares down at me, and I bite my lip, and he smirks.
“How about now?” I ask softly. “Do you still wish you were on dry land?”
He studies me for a moment, his eyes exploring every part of my face, every depth in my eyes, and his smirk only grows.
“What fun would that be?” he asks, and his lips press against mine. It’s slow, warm, unbothered, and sends heat up my spine until I melt against him.
* * *
“I gotta hand it to the nosy people. These photos are pretty good,” Morgan says, showing me his phone.
We are sitting in lounge chairs on the beach, close enough to the bar and pool to grab a drink (some kind of local beer for him and a mocktail for me that I chalk up to not liking to drink when I’m outside in the heat, which isn’t a total lie).
“Cheese and rice,” I say, lowering my sunglasses to look at the photos that people took while we were playing around in the water. “They waste no time posting things, do they?”
“Normally it would bother me,” he says, zooming in on one of them, on me in particular. “But considering how much this is probably burning Conrad up right now, they can take all the photos they want. Catch every side of us.”
“Ugh, but preferably not that side,” I say, shaking my head and looking away from the photo on the screen.
“What are you talking about?” Morgan asks, sounding slightly annoyed. “You post photos of yourself all day long. What’s wrong with these?”
“The problem is, I didn’t take them,” I tell him with a nonchalant laugh in an attempt to wave it off.
“Why does that matter?” he asks, the dreaded photo still displayed in all its imperfect glory on his phone screen.
“Because I take angle shots, that’s why,” I tell him, and Morgan shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
“You shouldn’t,” he says.
I laugh at that. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really,” he insists.
“How do you figure?” I ask.
“Because you don’t have any bad angles,” he insists, but I just shake my head again and put my sunglasses back on.
“Whatever you say…”
Even though I am staring out at the ocean, I can feel him staring at me. And it’s not a good stare.
“You don’t believe me?” he asks.
“No offense, Morgan, but I have spent a lifetime fighting these curves and coming to terms with them. It’s kind of hard to deprogram that.”
“Well then, I guess I am just going to have to work harder, aren’t I?” he says and something about his tone tells me he means it.
“I guess so…” I say, trying to sound playful and casual.
Morgan shoves himself up from the chair and then stands over me for a moment.
Then he bends down, his arms on either side of the chair, caging me in.
Then he kisses me and as he does, his fingertips caress a few strands of my hair behind my ear before trailing down my neck, over my collarbone, over the swell of my breast and down my side until he palms my hip in his hand.
The kiss goes momentarily deeper, as his tongue aggressively finds mine.
Then he squeezes my ass in his hand and stands up again.
“I’m getting another drink,” he says. “And I thought I told you to call me Mr. Bale.”
I nod instinctively and swallow, a smirk tugging at my lips as butterflies swarm around my heart.
God, this man…
I take my phone out again and check up on things.
He’s not wrong. The reviews and comments are great.
I’ve actually gained ten thousand followers since the trip started!
And while I am elated over that, there’s also a pang of something sharp in my chest. A sinking feeling that seems to grow with every post, every picture, every kiss.
Because none of this is real.
None of this is forever.
And at some point, all of it is going to end.
And the worst part is, I can’t talk to anyone about it.
It’s not that I don’t have friends; I do.
I make friends everywhere I go. But keeping in touch is hard when you’re never in the same place for long.
And it’s not like I can vent about this to just anyone.
If anyone is a true confidant in my life, it’s probably Claire.
But I definitely can’t talk to her about this. Any of this.
As I scroll through the comments, hoping for the optimism to tug my spirits back up, I get a new DM that catches my eye. Because it’s a travel magazine. A name I know well.
Compass & Coast- Hello Miss Moore. We have been following your account for a while now, and your adventures with Bale Resorts have inspired us. We would like to offer you a travel journalist job if you are interested.
I speed-read the rest of it, mostly because it’s not every day I get job offers like this. I mean, yes, the offer from Bale was huge, but Compass & Coast is huge. They might just be the most popular travel journalism agency on the planet. And they want me?!
My heart is beating so fast that I am reading the rest of the message a hundred miles per hour. And then it comes to a screeching halt at the compensation.
We are aware that Bale Resorts has the ability to pay you very well, but we are willing to match and even exceed it if you contract for long-term work.
“Match and exceed?” I read aloud.
Suddenly I see Morgan heading back this way and I put my phone down, replacing my sunnies again and acting casual. Meanwhile, my heart is going wild in my chest as my mind races. I’m realizing two things right now, and honestly, I don’t know how to feel about them.
One, I don’t want this to end. I want to tell him the truth: that I know who he is, that he’s the father of my baby, and that I am falling for him.
And two, none of that feels possible. So I would be stupid not to tuck this offer in my back pocket. Just in case.