“Is it just us now?” Brooke asks.
“I think so. That was weird though. I know smart houses are popular, but the last thing I want is some AI device listening and recording everything I say.”
“Exactly. It’s creepy.”
“Let’s rinse the sand off our feet and change clothes. Then I’ll be ready for some food, won’t you?”
“Definitely. I can’t wait to get out of these wet, sandy clothes. I’m a mess,” Brooke says as we both reenter the bathroom.
She picks up two towels, one in each hand and turns, bumping into me. I was about to reach for my own towel, not realizing she was getting one for me as well.
Without a second thought, my arms wrap around her, pulling her against me. I tuck her hair behind her ear and cup her cheek in my hand. As I lean in to kiss her, I murmur, “No. You’re not a mess at all. You’re perfect.”
Our lips meet in a soft kiss that sends a tremble of heat down my body. My hand moves to the back of her neck, and our heads tilt in opposite directions. We fit so well, it’s as if we were made for each other.
As we kiss, we melt into each other. We can’t seem to get enough. My pulse quickens, and our breathing turns to quiet moans of pleasure as her lips part, and my tongue slips in to find hers. Without separating, I walk her backward toward the nearest wall and reach down to pull her blouse up over her shoulders.
Breaking our kiss for just a moment, I marvel at her perky round breasts that are covered in lavender lace. “Love, you are so beautiful.” Leaning down, I slide the lace aside and take her hardened nipple between my lips, letting my teeth gently graze the surface.
“Oh my god, that feels sooo good,” she murmurs as she weaves her fingers through my hair, holding my head in place.
We’re interrupted by a loud Knock. Knock. Knock, followed by Sean’s voice. “Stuart, if you don’t want to miss dinner, put your clothes back on and get out here,” he yells through the door.
Bloody cock blocker. Could his timing be any worse?
“How does he know we’re not dressed? How can he see in here? Did Genie tell him?” Brooke asks in a shaky voice.
“He doesn’t know anything. He’s just being a cheeky bastard. But if we don’t go out to the party soon, hewillknow what’s up.”
“I can change fast,” she says, clutching a towel to her partially bare chest while rushing to the closet. She grabs clothes from the collection of varying sizes and styles, uses the shower to rinse her feet, and scurries into the bedroom to dress.
If I follow her, it will only delay us further. Instead, I remain in the bathroom, trading my wet, sandy suit pants and dress shirt for khaki shorts and a light green polo.
When I join Brooke in the bedroom, she’s a breath of fresh air in a white linen shirt and navy shorts. Her posture is more relaxed than normal. Her cheeks are even glowing.
“You look amazing. Give me a minute to put shoes on. Then we can go,” I say.
“No problem. How’s your foot feeling?”
“Much better. As much as it hurt earlier, I’d almost forgotten about it,” I chuckle, slipping on the sandals.
This beach excursion confirmed my suspicions about Brooke. Not only is she considerate, but she can also be fun and spontaneous behind her conservative mask. She’s hiding that part of herself to pursue her dream job. It’s not unlike the way my family expects me to temper my adventurous side to better suit my noble title.
Ironically, Brooke and I are both playing roles at the expense of our true selves. The question is whether it’s worth it. Clearly, she’s having second thoughts.
At least she has the option to do something else if she wants. I don’t. Even if I wanted to take a different path, it wouldn’t be a real choice for me. And it’s not as if I’ll truly mind being the Earl of Sandridge. It’s that I dread the version of the role my parents have outlined for me—particularly the part where I’m tied toLady Whitfield. She’s nothing if not proper and utterly boring. Ugh.
It would be quite different to be married to someone like Brooke. Life would be much more interesting. Unfortunately, I can’t go there. She has very specific career goals, all of which involve staying in LA. She wouldn’t give it up and move to London to take the role planned for Lady Whitfield. It’s also doubtful my parents would be pleased if I announced a replacement for the woman they’ve selected for me.
Once my shoes are on, I stand, saying, “Let’s join the party,” as I motion for Brooke to exit the guesthouse first.
We navigate around the pool to join the other guests near the barbecue grill that’s part of an extravagant outdoor kitchen and bar area. As we walk, my hand remains glued to the small of Brooke’s back, not wanting to lose the physical contact to her.
Along the way, we encounter two servers carrying trays with appetizers. One has fresh figs wrapped in prosciutto, and the other offers Gruyère and crab palmiers. I’d love a plateful of these, but adhering to proper manners, I take one of each and savor every mouth-watering bite.
A guy in a chef’s hat is manning the oversized grill. He’s cooking veggie, seafood, and beef tenderloin skewers along with grilled pineapple, watermelon, and peaches. I watch as he slathers them with marinade while two nearby bartenders toss drink shakers, entertaining the growing crowd.
“He’s making some interesting cocktails. What would you like to try?” I ask.
