Page 70 of The Route to You

“Then yes. I swear, you’re as bad as my sisters.” He pushed off the stool and stood in the warm, shallow water of the pool.

“I just think we should take advantage of our last day. Who knows when we’ll go on holiday again this year? It’s the end of an era.”

Tomas said it like he was talking about a canceled show or a hotel bar closing early. Like it was something fixable with a shrug, another drink—or an audition in London like Tomas was heading to in a couple of days. Kyle let out a short breath that sounded as close to a chuckle as he could manage. The pool water slid off his torso as he waded toward the steps, cool for half a second before the heat closed in again.

He climbed out and stood there longer than necessary, water running down his calves, his skin prickling as the sun shone down on him. Here he was, in the middle of paradise, feeling like absolute dogshit, and the only thing he could think about was Sloan’s words about people thinking pain had a price tag.

Trouble was, memories of that conversation took his mind places it didn’t want to go. To lying in a bed with her, barely touching, yet somehow connected in a way that had been unexpected, intense, and—he’d believed— real.

Fool me twice.

His phone was under the blue-and-white-striped resort towel he’d left on the lounge chair to claim his spot. He hadn’t checked it in a while. Not since the last time he’d told himself he wasn’t going to and then did anyway.

Tomas flicked his gaze toward Kyle as he pulled the phone out and took a cursory glance.

Still nothing. Of course there was nothing.

He tried not to let Tomas see the press of his own lips, but from the concerned expression, Tomas must have read his expression anyway.

“Maybe she’s not ready⁠—”

Kyle silenced him with a look, and Tomas held his hands up. “All right, all right. Mum’s the word.”

They started away from the pool area, heading for the sand. “You know, we could always try to revamp Pathways on our own. We’d lack the funding and the camera crew, but we could see about getting some equipment—making content that’s a bit more every day .”

“And come up with our own unique name that’s not trademarked, find out how far the noncompete stretches, figure out how to go to champagne taste locations on a beer budget. Yeah. Sounds doable.” He didn’t mean the words as tersely as they sounded. Or maybe he did. Who knows.

“Not with that attitude,” Tomas said with a loose grin. “But I’m serious. And I bet Davy has some connections that would come through. She feels horrible about all this, you know.”

Kyle didn’t answer as his flip-flops slapped against the stone path, the sound loud in his ears. The resort looked the same as it had every day since they’d gotten here—too bright, too arranged, like it existed mostly to be photographed. Palm trees in careful rows. White walls that threw the sun back at him instead of keeping any of it. Laughter drifting from people who were actually happy to be here.

People unlike Sloan and her ilk, who probably looked at places like this and thought about how unfortunate it must be to have to fight for a chair around the pool with the towel method.

God. If he could go three fucking seconds without thinking about Sloan, it would help.

The interaction had been so brief. Forty-eight hours.

And yet . . .

He knew deep down this had much more to do with her stirring up embers he thought he’d extinguished years ago. He’d mostly put that fire out once, though. He could do it again.

All he needed was time.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Tomas asked, glancing back.

“Yeah, sure.” He rolled his shoulders, then pushed his sunglasses down from his head and over his eyes. “I’m actually thinking I might call up Isla—see if she’ll make space for me at La Hacienda. Costa Rica sounds nice right now. Don’t think I’m ready to leave the beach.”

“That sounds like a good plan. And if you get bored with that, you could always go to Isla and Aiden’s new rental place in Provence. I took my girl there after Christmas. It was spectacular.”

Kyle nodded distractedly, once again thinking about how he felt compelled to declare he needed the world’s smallest violin every time he complained.

They turned onto the path that led toward the beach. The air here was heavier with salt and fuel. Ahead, he could see the Jet Skis lined up by the rental shack, bright and blunt and waiting, their hulls rocking gently against the dock. As he watched them, his lips turned up in a smile, the familiar pull of speed and noise and not thinking calling to him as they approached.

This would be a good outlet, come to think of it.

The rental shack looked like every other beachside operation he’d ever seen—sun-bleached wood, a chalkboard menu listing prices that were negotiable with enough charm, a local behind the counter who looked like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. The Jet Skis bobbed against the dock, their bright shells glinting in the sun.

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to set up a guided tour,” Kyle muttered as Tomas stepped up. Tomas was always first in line for all the tourist traps, no matter how many times Kyle had tried to take him off the beaten path.