Son of a Beach Read online

  “The café was founded by my great-great-grandparents,” she tells me. “I’ve been told they were quite the pair. I don’t know if all the stories are true, but I sure get a kick out of them.”

  She goes on to tell me about the history of the island—the kind of wonderful stuff that you can only find out from talking with a local like this. She tells me about how much the businesses on the main road, King George Road, have changed through the years, and how everyone who lives here seems to have their own story about how the island got its name.

  “My favorite theory, though,” she says, leaning across the table, “is the one about it being named Pole Island after all the men who have such long…you know.”

  I laugh. “That’s fantastic. God, I wish I could use that in my piece.”

  I can just picture my editor’s horrified face if she read something like that in my article.

  Still, even without that amusing little tidbit, I already have a full page of notes to use for my article, and I have a feeling that I’m going to fill up a lot more of my notebook before the day’s end.

  I thank the owner for her time. After paying my bill, I flag down a taxi and ask him to drive me around for a while so I can get a better feel for the area. He takes me through some side streets, then turns onto King George Road and points out a bunch of places as he drives.

  “You into dancing, miss?” he asks, glancing at me in the rear view mirror. “If you are, Temptation Night Club’s the hot place to go. Or so the kids say.”

  I laugh. “Okay. Thanks for the tip.”

  After getting a tour of the area from my driver, I ask him to bring me over to a place I’ve read about: Hog Heaven. Twenty minutes later, he’s dropping me off in a dusty parking lot. The only signage is a weathered board with the words HOG HEAVEN carved into it and an arrow that points through a narrow band of trees.

  After I make my way through the trees, I literally freeze in my tracks.

  I knew Hog Heaven was going to be beautiful based on everything I read about the place, but in person, it’s truly exquisite.

  Hog Heaven is a small, crescent beach with the most brilliant white sand you’ve ever seen in your life and azure blue water gently lapping the shore. As pretty as the scenery is, though, that’s not the main draw.

  It’s the pigs.

  There are a dozen adorable piglets—at least—frolicking around in the shallows of the water. A mama pig is at the water’s edge, sunken down in the sand, watching the little ones play. Several more fully grown pigs are wandering around the beach.

  I swear, it looks like they’re smiling.

  From what I’ve read about the place, this beach has been home to wild pigs for at least two centuries. And they’re cute pigs. Cute, sweet-tempered island pigs that love swimming in the sea and snuffling in the trees that line the beach.

  It’s my lucky day, too; there’s almost no one else around, just one couple down at the far end of the beach. I find a spot to hang out at near the pigs and get settled in. I’m going to enjoy this for as long as I can. I kick off my sandals and pull my white summer dress over my head.

  I snap several photos of the pigs, then lay back for a while on the soft, warm sand, soaking up my surroundings. Before long, though, the heat starts to feel oppressive. I pull myself up, eyeing the water.

  “Mind if I join you, cuties?” I say to the little piggies as I step into the shallow waves.

  They don’t seem to mind a bit. In fact, a couple of the smaller ones splash their way over to me and gaze up at me with curious, intelligent eyes.

  “Oh my gosh,” I say, squatting down and extending a gentle hand. “You are the most adorable little things.”

  As the piglets nuzzle my hand, I laugh, my heart full of joy. This really is one of those once-in-a-lifetime kind of moments.

  I’m so caught up in the moment, in fact, that I don’t realize that someone is approaching me until I hear the voice.

  “Jesus, this place is for real,” the voice says.

  I swivel my neck, seeing the pair of toned, bare legs first. As my eyes travel upward, my gaze passes over a pair of dark swim trunks, and then over a six-pack that’s so perfect it makes me salivate. Then a muscular chest, and then his—

  Oh, fuck.

  I really should have looked up at his face first.

  “Hi, Travis,” I say, my voice flat.

  “Hey, Bree,” he says.

  “Are you following me?”

  He laughs a single laugh, like it’s an insane suggestion. “Nope. Not following you.”

  “Right…” I say, not convinced. Why should I trust anything this playboy says? “Well, I think we should compare schedules. That way—”

  Suddenly, a couple of larger pigs that are playfully roughhousing with each other crash into me. At the exact same time, the water around my feet draws back out into the ocean, and the combination of the two things completely unbalances me.

  I swing my arms out to steady myself, but it’s too late.

  “Oh!” I cry out, mortified as I tumble onto the wet sand.

  “Whoa, hey,” Travis says, stepping forward, grabbing my hand. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s pulling me up to my feet. “You okay?”

  I’m stunned at Travis’s quick reaction—and stunned, too, at the genuine look of concern on his face. He’s still holding my hand, gripping it tightly—protectively—and as we stand there like that, I feel a wave of heat again from the sun.

  “Thanks,” I say quickly, pulling my hand from his. “I’m fine.”

  The pigs are still roughhousing near us. Travis takes a step toward them and raises his voice. “Hey! Get!”

  “Don’t be mean!” I protest. “They’re just playing around.”

  “They pushed you over,” Travis says, his voice low and serious. “You could have drowned.”

  I scoff. “The water is barely up to my ankles. And I know how to swim.”

  Travis exhales a sigh. “Okay. Whatever.”

  I start to walk back over to where I left my stuff. “Look, can we just compare our schedules? Then we won’t have to run into each other anymore.”

  “Yep. Fine with me.”

  As we go over our plans for our time here on the island, I’m relieved to learn that the rest of our schedules are drastically different after all. Trying to be professional as possible, I wish him good luck with his article and hold out a hand. He stares at it for a second, frowning, before shaking it.

  “Good luck to you, too, Bree,” he says.

  He turns and starts walking away from me. Instantly, I feel my shoulders relax. But I also catch myself staring at him for longer than I should, my eyes lingering on his muscular back.

  He might be a bastard, but he’s a hot bastard, and I can’t help it.

  4

  Travis

  “This is as close as I can get you, buddy,” my taxi driver says. It’s the following morning, and I’ve hired a taxi for the day. When it comes to being an unofficial tour guide, my driver hasn’t disappointed.

  “Thanks, man,” I say. “See you in half an hour.”

  “Have fun.”

  I get out of the taxi and start to walk down the twisting, unpaved path that leads through a forest to King’s Cloak Falls. As I emerge from the trees, the secluded hideaway greets me.

  Sweet. Looks like I have the place to myself.

  I approach the edge of the water. It’s almost a perfect circle. At the far end of the pool, water rushes down from a high cliff, sparkling in the morning light.

  I snap a couple pictures, scribble down a few notes. Soak in the feel of the place. Then, setting my stuff aside, I strip down to my swim trunks and jump into the water. It’s cool and fresh and beautiful. With strong strokes, I swim across the pool, approaching the roaring waterfall. Treading the water, I stare up at the magnificent sight.

  That’s when I realize I’m not alone.

  Bree is standing behind the waterfall, her head tilted back, her eyes clo
sed.

  Shit. Did she change her schedule? She wasn’t supposed to be here right now. Now she’s going to think I’m following her again. She probably did this on purpose…

  “Hey!” I yell out, annoyed.

  But the roar of the water is too loud, and she doesn’t hear me. I swim up closer to the waterfall and pull myself up onto the rocks. When I step behind the falls, she finally notices me, her eyes opening wide in surprise as she looks over at me.

  It’s not Bree.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Thought you were someone else.”

  The girl’s expression softens. She smiles. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  She bites down on her bottom lip. “Are you looking for your girlfriend?”

  I sigh. “No.”

  She starts to say something else, but I cut her off, telling her I have someplace to be. Don’t get me wrong. The girl’s pretty. But I’m not interested.

  I can’t believe I’m saying this, considering how cold she’s been to me, but I’m disappointed that it wasn’t Bree.

  Stepping back through the falls, I dive into the pool and swim back over to the other edge. After drying off in the sun, I get dressed and head back up the path. The taxi driver is leaning against the car, smoking, looking up into the trees.

  “Oh, hey,” he says, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. “You done already?”

  “Yep,” I say. “Got what I needed.”

  From there, I visit a maritime museum, a small café that serves the best jerk chicken I’ve ever had in my life, then two of the island’s beaches. Later in the afternoon, I relax with a cold beer at an old colonial building that’s been converted into a charming hotel.

  My driver’s good. He chats with me, and he’s funny as hell, telling me all kinds of stories from his life. I should be feeling great—I’m in paradise, and I’ve got a ton of great material for my article. But I just can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing out on something.

  About an hour before sunset, my driver drops me off at the hotel. I’m staring at my phone as I walk over to the elevator, and I almost bump into someone.

  My head jerks up just in time for Bree to turn around and shoot me an irritated look.

  “You should watch where you’re going,” she says.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. I slide my phone into my pocket and look up at the display above the elevator. It’s coming down, but it still has a ways to go.

  Neither of us says anything while we wait for the elevator to arrive. When the doors finally open, I wait for Bree to step inside, then follow her in. The doors close, but we don’t move.

  “Hit the button, please,” she says tightly.

  I look at the panel and see that no floor has been selected. She could have easily pushed it, too. But I’m not going to start an argument with her. What’s the point?

  “Have a good day?” I ask as the elevator begins to rise.

  “Mmhmm. I did.” A beat passes. “Did you?”

  “Yep. Fantastic.”

  Back to silence.

  The elevator finally dings and the doors open. I follow Bree out into the hall. I don’t allow myself to eye those damn curves of hers, but I can’t do anything about the sunkissed coconut scent that fills my nose.

  We reach our side-by-side rooms and both pull out our keycards. As if we’re trying to synchronize it, our card readers beep at exactly the same time.

  “See you,” I say.

  “Have a nice evening,” she says, no warmth in her voice.

  A few minutes later, I’m staring at my phone again as I find what I was looking for before Bree distracted me: the phone number for Lumière. I’ve heard that Lumière is the best fine dining restaurant on the island. Word is that they’re aiming for Michelin stars—two, at least. I know my article won’t be complete without a meal there.

  When I call the restaurant, though, a wrench is thrown in my plans.

  “I’m sorry sir,” the voice on the line says. “We’re fully booked.”

  Shit.

  Scrambling, I say, “But it’s our wedding anniversary. Our first.”

  There’s a pause on the line. “Oh. I see, sir. Can you hold a moment, please?”

  “Of course.”

  A long silence follows. During the wait, I realize what a fucking idiot I just was. Why didn’t I just tell them I’m writing an article? Or mention the magazine’s name? Surely the restaurant would be happy for the press. But no, I had to go and tell a lie…

  The line clicks as he comes back on the line.

  “Good news, sir. The manager is willing to make a special table available for you. What time can we expect you?”

  5

  Bree

  The fucking audacity.

  I can’t believe Travis is dragging me into this. And I can’t believe he got a table. I tried to get a reservation at Lumière last night, but had been told they didn’t have any openings for weeks.

  But Travis, typical Travis, he just lies and gets what he wants.

  When he called my room fifteen minutes ago to tell me he had a reservation and needed me to go with him—needed me to pretend to be his goddamn wife—I was speechless. I wanted to hang up on him. I wanted to tell him off.

  Problem was, I wanted to go to Lumière, too.

  So I swallowed my pride. I agreed to go with him. And now I’m getting all dolled up for our fake anniversary dinner. I’d brought a nice dress with me, so I would be prepared for an outing like this, but I expected to be doing something like this on my own.

  Never in a million years did I think I’d be going with him.

  Even more annoyingly, Travis made our reservation for half an hour from now, which means I barely have any time to get ready. I’ve taken a quick shower and fixed my hair already, but now I’m scrambling to put on some makeup that looks halfway decent.

  I’m applying lipstick when Travis knocks on my door. I lean away from the bathroom mirror and look myself over. I look nice enough, I guess. Anyway, it’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.

  I grab my stuff and head to the door. When I open it, Travis’s fist is raised in the air, about to knock again; he looks impatient.

  He also looks…fucking hot.

  He’s just wearing slacks and a dark short sleeve button up shirt, but it’s like the outfit is tailored to his frame. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone and I can see just a glimpse of that toned body I saw on the beach.

  “Hey, wifey,” he says, smirking.

  I roll my eyes. “Save it for the restaurant.”

  As I step out of the room, I notice his eyes running down my body, sending unexpected tingles down my spine.

  “Wow, you…” Travis starts, then clears his throat. “You look nice.”

  The compliment actually sounds sincere.

  “Oh,” I say. “Thanks.” I feel knocked off-kilter. What am I supposed to do with Travis being nice for once? “Sure would have been nice to have more warning, though.”

  “Why? You obviously didn’t need any more time.”

  “Um…right.” I don’t know why he’s trying to butter me up, but whatever. I glance at my phone. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

  On the taxi ride over to the restaurant, we make vague small talk, both of us being as civil as we can. I think we both know that we need to make tonight as convincing as possible, or we’re going to make fools out of ourselves.

  And I’ve gotta admit it—as much as I dislike Travis, he actually isn’t all that unpleasant to be around when he’s putting effort into being nice. If he was like this all the time, maybe I’d—

  No. There’s no point in thinking like that.

  When we get to the restaurant, Travis gets out of the taxi first and holds the door for me. When I step out, he extends his arm, waiting for me to take it. I hesitate, but I slip my arm through his. As our bare skin comes into contact, I can feel how muscular his arm is in the crook of my elbow, and a weird feeling ripples through me.
/>   But I’m sure it’s just because of this whole fake-marriage thing.

  The restaurant is in a wide, wooden building several yards above the beach. The interior is modern granite, metal, and distressed wood. I thought it was stunning from the outside, but inside, it’s even more breathtaking. Travis and I both spend a moment taking it all in as the maître d’ makes his way over to us.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cox,” the maître d’ says, greeting us with a smile. “Welcome. Happy Anniversary.”

  “Thank you,” Travis says, and glances over at me with a smile—one that sends another one of those weird ripples through me. “We’re thrilled to celebrate the occasion here.”

  We follow the maître d’ as he leads us across the elegant restaurant. All the tables are filled, and the other diners are engaged in warm conversation as they eat. I scan the room, looking for our table. But to my surprise, the maître d’ leads us all the way through the dining area and out a wide glass door.

  “Here we are,” the maître d’ says, gesturing toward our table.

  “Oh, wow,” I say, taking in the sight.

  The table they’ve set up for us is all on its own—it’s just outside the restaurant, under the stars, at the edge of the top of the beach. It’s gorgeous and private and romantic.

  Too bad I’m not here on a real date.

  I glance over at Travis to see his reaction. There’s something different about his expression. Something a little softer.

  “Is the table all right, sir?” the maître d’ asks.

  “Yes,” Travis says, his voice strong and clear. “Absolutely.”

  “Wonderful,” the maître d’ says. “Please make yourself comfortable. Your waiter will be right with you.”

  When our waiter comes by, we’re not offered menus. Instead, we’re simply told that we’ll be treated to an eleven-course tasting menu.

  “Do either of you have any allergies that the chef should know about?” our waiter asks.

  I almost make a joke about being allergic to each other before biting my tongue.

  After the waiter leaves, Travis and I are alone again. Neither of us says anything for a few minutes; the only noises are the muted sounds from the restaurant and the dull roar of waves lapping against the shore.