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I pick up the phone slowly, bring up her number, and navigate to the block button. I hover. I don’t know why I haven’t done it yet. Maybe I was hoping she would change. That she would call and apologize for the years of emotional abuse and degrading behavior.
I should have known better. I hit the button and confirm.
Done. It has to be finally done.
I leave the phone on the bed, reluctantly put my feet on the floor, dig through my suitcase, and grab my bikini. I go into the bathroom and pee, sighing. I have to move on. I came here to do just that.
I wash my hands and stare at my face in the mirror. I did the right thing. I genuinely believe that. She is a toxic woman. Fortunately, I don’t look like her. Her hair is brown, but I got my long dark red hair and green eyes from my grandmother.
I pull my thick hair up in a bun and step out of my cute pajamas, a silky black shorts and tank combo with little flowers on them. I put on my bikini and study myself, turning back and forth. I may not have the perfect body according to some people's standards, with my too-round hips, poochy tummy, round ass, and plump thighs. But my thighs have muscle, and my boobs are large (which no one has complained about) and are still pretty much where they should be.
I love my body. I like to eat and hate working out. I feel good in my skin and am healthy, so who gives a shit. I will wear whatever I want to, eat whatever I want, and if I don’t find joy in stepping inside a gym, mind your business.
I inherited my hair, eyes, body, and money from my grandmother.
This is the problem.
I loved her desperately, so when she died fifteen years ago, and she left everything she had to me, life with my family became worse than it already was. Suddenly, I was the one that was supposed to support my family. They came to me with every problem and want. They still treated me like shit, but they made me believe that I owed it to them. What was supposed to be something that my grandmother wanted to do for me—to set me up for a future—was tainted by them.
She was the only one, until Stephanie, who loved me without judgment. She gave me everything I desired from my mom, dad, and brother. She knew I had the dream of opening a bakery one day to be my own boss. My mom was about as good of a daughter as she was a mother. My grandmother put up with it. She used to say that sometimes, even if a child gets all the love in the world, they could still turn sour.
Well, my mom turned sour.
My grandmother’s name was Alice, and she was my idol. She was very elegant in appearance and mannerisms, but she cursed every other word and said what she thought regardless of the consequences. She lived boldly and fully. She lost her husband when she was twenty-five and never remarried. She believed he was her soul mate and refused to find another man who would never live up to him. Of course, that didn’t stop her sex life. There were many stories of her fun in and out of the bedroom. When I was young, it grossed me out, but as I got older, I thought it was beautiful. She always told me to find the person who feeds my soul, treats me like a princess, values my opinion, but tells me what to do in the bedroom.
I’m still looking.
My ex was definitely not the one. I was hoping for the one and got someone like my dad. He was the life of the party. I woke up and got out. It only took three months.
I slather on sunscreen, spray my back, and grab my cover-up.
It’s time to zone out by the pool.
I didn’t burn my skin—much. I fell asleep too long and woke up to an attendant shaking my shoulder. He was worried I was going to bake. I stayed too long and had to rush through getting ready.
And it is a process.
I took a bath and shaved everything. My preferred method of cleaning myself is in a bath. I hate standing in the shower trying to balance with one foot on the side of the tub while shaving the areas that are hard to reach. All I can picture is falling, hitting my head, and having to have the sexy fireman pick up my naked body with the half-shaved vagina.
So baths it is. I rinsed off in the shower after and contemplated my clothes. I settled on the jeans that fit tight but were stretchy and a long, flowy blue tank that draped in all the right places. My grandmother lectured me on never leaving the house without a full face of makeup. While I didn’t live by that rule, I did like makeup and used it to every advantage. I left my hair down and flowing down my back.
I made it before the appointed time.
I am crouched over the hole my foot was stuck in, putting a little stool over it so I don’t forget and do it again, when the door opens.
“You made it, Hand…” I trail off as I stand and see the sexy man inside the door. “Handsome,” I continue, staring. What miracle water do they pass out here? He’s very tall, very built, and very much a man. His hair is dark blonde and shaved close to the scalp, making me want to run my palm over the stubble as he goes down on me. He’s wearing worn jeans that sit low on the hips, giving women the urge to pray that they fall, and a thin white t-shirt. The shirt is no longer as white as it should be and shows off his very muscled chest. Tattoos are scattered across his skin. My eyes catch on the one on his forearm that continues under his shirt.
I want to lick them.
I slowly take a few steps and lean back on the counter before falling from his presence's impact. I have never felt this immediate attraction.
He has stayed frozen through my words and my inspection. But when I moved, he quickly stepped toward me but stopped.
“Breeane?” he asks.
Holy shit-balls. His voice is even better in person. “Yes,” I confirm. “Logan?” I ask, even though the voice confirms it.
He nods. He stares. “Fuck,” he whispers, making me frown. He slowly places the papers in his hand on the counter, takes out his phone, and makes a call. “Are you both almost here?” He pauses, his eyes still locked on mine. “Well, we are about to see if your prediction is true.” He says mysteriously and doesn’t wait for a response before hanging up.
