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Kirsty clicks her pen in quick succession, the way she always does when I frustrate her. “Tomorrow then.”
We say our goodbyes and I leave my phone on the cool countertop, drifting around to check out the seating area with four long, low, tan leather couches and a table that feels more like a solid wood art installation than a functional piece of furniture. The stairs are stark and made from the same light wood as the flooring. They stretch without a handrail into the upper part of the house which I explore, finding room after room of the same huge beds dressed with crisp white linens. On top, they are decorated with dark green pillows that contrast against the dark wood headboards and tie in with the prolific number of houseplants that bring life and vibrancy to the house.
I choose a room for myself that’s at the end of the hallway, wanting to be as far from the strangers that I’m being forced to live with as I can be. It’s not the largest room, but it has a corner view that sweeps across the full stretch of beach and overlooks the house next door a little. I perch on the edge of the bed and watch a family enjoying their pool. One pretty woman with a neat blonde bob plays with two little boys. Three men sit at the edge of the pool, joining in with the kids, splashing and tossing a ball back and forth. On two pool loungers, an older man and woman recline. The man is on the phone and the woman is reading a book. It’s a sweet scene of a multigenerational family spending time together, and I’m filled with a pang of emptiness that takes me by surprise.
Yes, I’ve been conscious of the fact that my friends are all rushing to settle down around me and I’m nowhere near even finding a date for a Saturday night. As an only child, family time has always felt a little one dimensional. My parents live hours from where I’ve had to settle to be close to my job. We speak on the phone each week, but the longer I’m away and not seeing them in person, the more disconnected I feel. This week will be filled with more social interaction than I’ve had since leaving college.
As anxious as I am about the task in front of me, I’m also intrigued. What kind of men would sign up for an assignment like this?
Arrogant men, probably. Cocky assholes who get a kick out of telling everyone about what a big cock they have. Maybe perverts who get off on the idea of talking about their cock with a woman. Ugh. I can’t stand arrogance, and perverts need to be tossed on an island somewhere where they can’t bother anyone else.
The chances of them being decent guys is slim.
I stand, smoothing my pants, and glance at my watch. Only ninety-minutes to go and then I need to become the hostess with themostest. If only there was an easy switch for that.
I hurry down the stairs and grab my suitcase and purse, lugging them back up to my room. I freshen up a little, powdering my nose and brushing my hair. At least it looks shiny and straight thanks to my new ‘perfect for brunettes’ shampoo and conditioner. Half the time, the claims made by beauty products turn out to be wild exaggerations but this one actually worked out for a change.
My sleeveless canary-yellow blouse is pretty but formal, and I want to make a serious impression to keep this week on the right track. I fold in my lips to moisten them and blow out a long breath. Who am I kidding? What I really need this week is some fun. I need to get this stupid article done and dusted and have a few days of rest and relaxation in the sun. I have all my fingers and toes crossed that there will be at least a couple of men in this group who won’t be terrible to hang out with. If Kirsty thinks it’s fine to disrupt my life at a moment's notice, I won't feel too guilty for having a mini vacation at her expense.
My traitorous brain flicks back through the images of the men like it’s referencing a hot-man Rolodex, and my even more traitorous pussy flutters with arousal. As well as fun, what I really, really need is some hot sex.
But that’s not going to happen. Not when my professional name is on the line.
I may not like my current job or the monotony of the subject matter I have to write about, but I do want to remain on the right side of journalistic integrity.
As I’m unzipping my suitcase to retrieve my clothes and hang them in the closet, an unfamiliar doorbell rings.
Whoever it is, is early and I’m still mentally unprepared.
The hallway is like an echo chamber and my feet thud against the flooring as I rush to the stairs. The bell rings again, telling me the new arrival is impatient as well as punctual. If I had to guess who it would be, I’d say one of the military guys, or maybe one of the advertising professionals.
As I reach the door, a giant wave of heat runs right through me, making sweat prickle beneath my arms and across my upper lip. Shit.
Flustered and sweaty isn’t the look de jour.
I grab the door handle, with no time to calm myself, and find six men gathered outside.
Six.
“Hey.” My eyes sweep across the real physical manifestations of the men I’ve only had the pleasure of seeing in photographs, and damn, those mugshots didn’t do any of them justice.
Even with the baseball caps and sunglasses some of them are wearing, I’m overwhelmed by how big and gorgeous they all are.
“Allie?” the one nearest me asks.
“Yes, sorry. I’m Allie. Come in.” Pulling the door wide open, I wait for each of them to pass, carrying or wheeling their luggage through before leaving it against the wall. Not only do they look good, but they also smell amazing.
Overwhelmed, I glance outside at the driveway, which has become a parking lot for a jumble of vehicles that look ridiculous next to each other. A huge pickup truck dwarfs a sleek silver sports car. There’s a Prius, a Mini, and an estate with a dog cage in the back.
As I close the door, I can already feel my palm is sweaty, so I quickly wipe it on my pants, worried they’re going to want to shake my hand.
“Wow…this place is more beautiful in reality and I didn’t think that would be possible.” The man speaking drifts towards the view in the same way I did, removing his sunglasses and hooking them into the neck of his gray shirt. His arms are covered in a lattice of tattoos which look ominous from a distance, and his body is solid and bulky, but it’s his shaved hair that I recognize the most from his pictures. Putting all the puzzle pieces together, I think he’s Carson, the tattoo artist.
“It really is, isn’t it?” Before I have a chance to follow, another man thrusts his hand out.
“I’m Russell,” he says.
His handshake is firm but not uncomfortable, as though he’s taken in my smaller frame and adapted his grip, a kindness I’m grateful for. I was right about his rough hands, too. Russell also has short, cropped hair but seems stockier and more solidly built than Carson. His piercing green eyes hold mine without wavering, intense and determined.
