Son of a Beach Read online

  Son of a Beach

  Insta Love Island Book 8

  Kate Hunt

  Copyright © 2020 by Kate Hunt

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  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Cover Design by Resplendent Media

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  Contents

  1. Bree

  2. Travis

  3. Bree

  4. Travis

  5. Bree

  6. Travis

  7. Bree

  8. Epilogue – Bree

  Up next: Boots at the Beach

  Insta Love Island

  About the Author

  1

  Bree

  “Champagne, miss?”

  I turn from the window and smile at the tray-carrying flight attendant. Thanking her, I lift a glass from the tray. I love flying to begin with—the airport, the plane, the journey itself, every aspect of it sends a tingle of excitement through me—but I love it even more when I get an upgrade. My magazine only paid for me to fly economy, but thanks to my frequent flier status, I indulge in upgrades every now and then.

  Today is one of those spectacular now-and-thens.

  It’s been my dream to become a travel writer ever since I learned the job existed. Now, at twenty-five years old, my dream has come true.

  Well, okay. I’m not exactly living the dream. My life is far from perfect. My love life, for one, is nonexistent. But when it comes to my career, I’ve achieved a lot already, and I’m eager to continue proving myself.

  Leaning back against the seat, I close my eyes and sip the champagne. The bubbles fizz against the roof of my mouth, and everything suddenly feels perfect. I’m so excited about this trip. I’m on my connecting flight to Pole Island, a gorgeous tropical island in the Caribbean; I’m heading there to write up a feature article about it. I don’t know my angle for the story yet, but I’m confident that I’ll be able to come up with a unique one and hit this assignment out of the park.

  Maybe, with this article, I might even be able to win that travel writing award I should have gotten last year.

  Eyes still closed, I inhale a deep breath, daydreaming about the possibility. As I breathe in, an unexpected fragrance fills my nose. It’s an incredible smell—a super masculine one. Fresh pine, oiled leather, and…bergamot, I think?

  What even is bergamot?

  My cheeks flush and I open my eyes, intrigued to see where it’s coming from. I expect to see an older man. Someone refined. Someone daydreamy.

  But when I look up the airplane aisle, my jaw tightens.

  Shit. It’s him.

  Travis Cox.

  The jerk who got my award.

  Thankfully, he hasn’t seen me yet. He’s holding his luggage over his head, shoving it forcefully into an overhead bin. As he crams his luggage in, the bottom of his white shirt lifts up to reveal an inch of toned, tanned stomach.

  My jaw tightens even harder and I pull my gaze away. I focus on my champagne, lifting the glass to my lips for another sip.

  It doesn’t taste nearly as good this time.

  When I set the glass down, I see that Travis is about to walk past the aisle I’m sitting in. What’s taking him so long?

  And then, annoyingly, he stops walking.

  “Bree, right?”

  I look up at him and force a smile. There’s an empty seat between us, but it doesn’t feel like nearly enough space.

  “Travis,” he says, holding out a hand, smiling his unfairly perfect smile.

  “I know who you are,” I say. Reluctantly, I shake his outstretched hand. As I pull out of the handshake, I notice a family is standing behind Travis, waiting for him to move. “There’s people trying to get by you, you know.”

  Smirking, he quickly sits down, almost falling into the seat beside me, his muscular thigh rubbing against mine for half a second. I pull my leg back sharply.

  “If you want to switch seats, let me know,” says Travis.

  Wait…what? Switch seats?

  Oh, God. We’re seatmates?

  Just then, a flight attendant walks by, and he calls out to stop her.

  “Any chance I could get a hand wipe?” Travis asks her.

  “Of course, sir,” the flight attendant says, smiling sweetly. She’s back mere seconds later, holding out the little square packet to him. He rips it open like it’s a condom he’s desperate to sheath himself with—gross, I can’t believe my mind just went there—pulls out the folded square, and starts vigorously rubbing it over his hands.

  Seriously? He shakes my hand and then feels the need to sanitize himself?

  “So,” says Travis, looking over at me again. “Pole Island, huh? You excited? Could be a big story.” His voice is deep and rich and makes me want to roll my eyes. He probably trained himself to speak like that. I know his reputation. The jet-setting playboy journalist, the woman-conquering travel writer.

  Well, it’s not going to work on me.

  Besides, the last thing I want to do right now is talk shop with him. I’m sure this is all part of his game.

  “Could be,” I say coolly. “For one of us.”

  “I have a feeling I know which one,” he says.

  Cocky, much?

  One of the flight attendants pauses by us and asks if she can take my empty glass. I smile and hold it out to her. As I’m passing it to her, Travis chucks his used hand wipe into it.

  God, he is so annoying.

  “I’m going to take a nap,” I mumble, turning away from him and resting the side of my face against the headrest. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing myself to relax. But there’s so much tension in my body that it feels futile.

  And it also doesn’t help that when I breathe in, that damn scent hits me again.

  Pine. Leather. And stupid bergamot.

  2

  Travis

  When I first stepped onto this plane and glimpsed a partial view of the beauty sitting in my row, I immediately thought to myself, Oh, you lucky son of a bitch. Usually I get business travelers, or families, or guys, or grandmothers. But not this time.

  This time, I’d hit the jackpot.

  Before heading to my seat, though, I had to wrestle my luggage into the overhead bin. And apparently I’d rolled it over something in the airport, because when I looked down at my hands after finally getting the damn thing up there, my left hand was grimy as fuck.

  A few seconds later, though, I realized I had a bigger problem than a filthy hand. That beauty I’d glimpsed? The one sitting in my row? It wasn’t just anyone.

  It was Bree Lyons, who’s written some of the best travel pieces I’ve read in my life.

  I’d seen Bree before, of course. I’d known she was attractive. After reading some of her articles and being blown away by them, I’d looked her up online. And last year, at the award ceremony, I saw her seated over at another table across the room.

  But I’ve never gotten the opportunity to be this physically close to her. And right now it feels like a tidal wave has slammed into me. She’s that fucking beautiful.

  Which is a problem. Because I can’t be falling for her. Getti
ng involved with someone from a rival travel magazine?

  Nope. Not going to go down that road.

  Not that it’s going to be a problem. Bree has been nothing but cold toward me from the moment I said hello. I don’t know what her deal is, but whatever. If she’d rather nap than have a conversation with me, that’s her prerogative.

  I take advantage of the idle hours on the plane to read up about our destination. Every article I read about Pole Island sounds exactly the same: it’s a tropical paradise with white sands, frozen daiquiris on tap, laid-back locals, and the occasional tropical storm. There’s nothing that truly gives me a sense of what makes the island unique.

  Bree wakes up just minutes before we land. I offer to get her bag for her out of the overhead bin, but she declines, looking annoyed that I even asked.

  Before I know it, I’m following her curvy figure down the aisle, telling myself to stop staring but unable to pull my gaze from those sumptuous hips. If she looks this good in loose pants and a t-shirt, just imagine how incredible she’d look in—

  “This way, sir.”

  I snap out of it and look up, realizing we’re inside the airport now, being directed toward immigration. While Bree steps into a line in front of us, I’m directed by an airport official to one further away. When I get in line and glance back over at Bree, she’s lost from sight.

  Not that I care where she is.

  “Sir? Your passport?”

  Christ. I really need to get my act together. I really need to stop thinking about Bree.

  I pull out my passport and hand it over. The immigration officer looks it over, then steadies his eyes on me.

  “Reason for your visit?” he asks.

  “Work,” I say.

  Don’t fucking forget that, I remind myself.

  The hotel is brand new, and luxurious as hell—the floors are polished marble, velvet furniture fills the lobby, and there’s a grand floral arrangement spilling out of a vase on the circular reception desk.

  “Welcome, sir,” one of the receptionists behind the desk says, looking up with a smile. “Checking in?”

  “I am.”

  “Last name?”

  “Cox. Travis.”

  I hear someone start coughing on the other side of the massive flower arrangement. It’s one of those swallowed-your-spit-wrong kind of coughs.

  “You okay over there?” I say, leaning to look around the flowers.

  My eyes meet Bree’s.

  Goddamn it.

  “Yes,” she chokes out, covering her mouth with both hands. She coughs another few times, then draws in a deep breath and collects herself. “I’m fine.”

  “Here’s your keycard, sir,” the receptionist who’s helping me says, sliding it across the counter. “You’re in Room 842.”

  “And you, ma’am,” a second receptionist says to Bree, “are in 843.”

  This is a joke, right?

  “Are you sure?” Bree asks, her voice raw from coughing.

  The receptionist gives her a funny look. “Yes. 843.”

  “Um…would it be possible to get a different room?”

  I’m glad Bree is asking the question. The idea of staying in the next room over from a hot woman who hates my guts isn’t exactly appealing.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the other receptionist says. “We’re completely booked this weekend.”

  Shit.

  “Enjoy your stay!” the two receptionists say to us at the same time.

  Bree and I both step away from the reception desk, avoiding each other’s eyes as we silently walk toward the elevator. At the last second, though, Bree turns, mumbling, “Actually, I’m going to grab a drink in the bar.”

  “All right,” I say, relieved that we won’t be sharing an elevator together. “See you later.”

  Upstairs, I find my hotel room. It’s classy and modern, all white and wood. The room is brilliantly lit by the Caribbean sunshine pouring through the wide sliding doors that lead out to a small balcony. I can already picture myself sitting out on the balcony later, a cold beer in hand, watching the sunset. It’ll be perfect.

  Sure, it’d be more perfect if I had someone to enjoy it with. Not Bree, of course. No, anyone other than her. She might be beautiful, but the ice queen thing? Nope. Not for me.

  I turn away from the balcony and walk back over to where I’d dropped my luggage on the bed. I’m not dressed well for the warm weather, but I brought plenty of tropical-paradise-appropriate clothes with me.

  I tug off my shirt and undo my belt buckle. I’m down to my boxers when I glance up and notice the reflection of the shower in the mirror. A quick shower does sound pretty refreshing. Grabbing the clothes I’ll throw on afterward, I head into the spacious bathroom.

  I turn on the shower, a strong stream of water instantly falling from the head. I pull off my boxers and step in. The temperature is perfect. The pressure is perfect.

  Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back and exhale a deep sigh.

  I know who you are.

  Bree’s voice comes into my mind as a whisper at first. The next time, it’s so loud in my head that it’s like she’s standing right next to me.

  I know who you are.

  I groan, opening my eyes. One glance down and I curse aloud. I’ve got a hard-on the size of…oh, I don’t even fucking know.

  Point is, it’s bad.

  I grab the shower knob, yank it the other way, turning the water cold. The violent change in temperature makes me curse again, but it doesn’t do jack shit to help me with my current state.

  Aggravated, I turn the water hot again and make the decision to get it over with.

  I wrap a hand around my cock, gripping it tightly as I begin to stroke. I try not to think about her, but it’s useless.

  The moment I give in, she appears vividly in my mind. She’s naked. She’s wet. She’s wrapping her legs around me. She’s moaning my name as I thrust into her. She’s—

  “Fuck,” I grit out, clenching my fist around my cock.

  The release is so intense, it almost brings me to my knees.

  When I finish washing myself off, I turn off the shower and step out. I’m pissed at myself for letting my mind go where it did. But it happened. It’s over with. There’s nothing I can do about it now.

  I change into my clothes and walk out of the bathroom. My open suitcase stares back at me from the bed. Guess I should probably hang up the rest of those clothes before the wrinkles really settle in. I grab a few shirts and walk over to open up the door to the closet.

  Except it’s not the door to the closet. It’s a door to another door.

  What the hell?

  A second later, I realize that Bree and I are in adjoining rooms.

  Spectacular.

  3

  Bree

  One incredibly good daiquiri later—an island specialty called a Slippery Pole—I’ve pretty much gotten over my annoyance about this whole hotel room situation. And when I step into my hotel room, I feel even less annoyed, because it’s such a beautiful room.

  Then my eyes land on the door in the middle of the wall, and my stomach tightens.

  That can’t be what I think it is, can it?

  I drop my luggage, walk straight over to the door, unlock it, and pull it open.

  Shit. It is.

  Travis and I are in adjoining rooms.

  Sighing, I close the door and lock it. Turning my back to the door, I tell myself to focus on more positive things. This beautiful room, for one. The beautiful view, for another. And there’s a whole island out there for me to explore.

  Not to mention a ton of food I’m dying to try.

  I’ve done my research already and I know exactly where I want to go first. The Island Café is the island’s oldest eatery, and it’s apparently been run by the same family for generations. I’ve read that its food reflects the melting pot of cultures that have settled on the island over the years, and I can’t wait to taste it for myself.

  I quickl
y change, putting my swimsuit on under my dress, then head downstairs and grab a taxi.

  When I get to the café, I immediately fall in love with the unassuming charm of the place—it feels like I’ve stepped back in time. Everything is original, from the rattan chairs to the lazily-spinning ceiling fan to the pale floral wallpaper. But though it all might be old, nothing feels outdated or dilapidated.

  It just feels well-loved.

  A woman calls out a friendly greeting, then ushers me over to a little table for two. I’m used to eating alone, and I honestly enjoy it—weirdly, though, I do feel the slightest glimmer of loneliness as I sit down across from the empty chair.

  I’m sure it’s just the charm of this place that’s getting to me, though.

  Brushing away the thought, I order a selection of dishes off the small menu. The first one that comes out from the kitchen is spicy jerk chicken, which is served with a refreshing cucumber-yogurt sauce and a little side salad.

  When I take my first bite, I moan, it’s that good. The chicken is succulent and seasoned with a magical concoction of spices. The first few bites leave my mouth tingling, but when I try the cucumber sauce, the lingering heat immediately vanishes from my taste buds.

  If this dish is any indication of how amazing the island’s food is, I’m in for a treat.

  When I’m done eating, I ask the owner if she has a few minutes to chat for a feature I’m writing about the island. She beams and tells me she’ll be right with me. A minute later, she’s getting comfy across the table from me and telling me all about the history of the café.