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“Well, Steve and I are going parasailing today, wanna come?”

I scoff. “Are you crazy? I will be here at the bar if you need me.”

“You can’t stay at the bar all day. At least go out and beach-bum so one of those cute cabana boys can come serve you.”

I promise her I will as she trots off to a waiting Steve. They can defy the laws of gravity at their own peril, I have a good book and tonight’s tweet contest to get ready for. I hate that I don’t get to judge the winner tonight but I was ousted in the name of vacay. Bebe thinks I have a hard time letting work go. But that’s ridic. Everyone knows judging a dirty tweet contest is not work.

I have a good chuckle with myself and sip on my drink. It is delicious and when I’m done I order another. I watch Dewain add the ingredients and shake it up like a pro. I notice the bar is almost empty now that I’m not so self-absorbed in dirty tweeting.

“Where are all the people?” I call over to Dewain as he adds a slice of lime to my martini. “Why’s it so empty?”

“Private party this weekend,” he answers as he puts my drink down in front of me. “The entire west end of the resort has been rented out for it.”

“Wow,” I say as I take the first sip. Yum. “That’s pretty fancy. Must be moneybags, huh?” I reach into my purse to pull out some cash, but Dewain puts a hand over mine.

“It’s paid for. Mr. Buttinski left an open tab for you.” Dewain gives me another one of those winks and I flash him back some suspicion.

“What’s that mean?”

“Well,” Dewain says, throwing up his hands in an I-surrender gesture. “He wants to make a good impression, maybe?”

“Hmmm, I dunno. Did you see his face? Was he cute? I only saw his backside and while that was very nice, I’m a face girl first.” I shrug when he wags his finger at me. So I’m shallow? Sue me.

“I think many women think he’s cute.” And then Dewain laughs. “I’m not gay but
I
think he’s cute.”

I gulp the rest of my drink down. These damn things really are good. “I think I’m gonna head to the beach. Thanks for the drink. And if you see key lime shorts, tell him I said thanks!”

I scoot off my barstool and make for the door and it only takes me a few steps to remember that I forgot the thing that goes on the top of every packing list. Underwear. I’ve got my bathing bottoms on today, but I figure I should pick up a few pairs as I stroll by a lingerie store.

“Good afternoon!” the sales lady calls out in a sing-songy voice from across the shop. “Can I help you find anything?”

“I’m good!” I call back. That’s something I would never get used to if I was rich. I’m not rich and since my job as an event planner doesn’t pay much before I got my new promotion, and pays only two grand more a year with that, I’m not even close to worrying about this. But having people bend over because you’re about to spend money makes me uncomfortable.

I peruse the rack of fancy underwear, check the price tag, and then promptly move over to another rack that says sale. I don’t know who spends hundreds of dollars on underwear, but it’s not me. I flip through everything, getting more and more desperate as the garments fly by. Nothing under fifty dollars? They call that a sale?

And then I spy some men’s tighty-whities in a basket on a shelf. I grab a pair and check the price. Fifteen dollars.

OK. Still ridiculous, but they are a size small, so they will have to do. I take them to the register and sign my name and room number on the charge slip as the sales lady folds my single pair of cheap men’s underwear and places them in a bag with real satin ribbon for handles.

I make a quick escape and head across the breezeway that leads to the private bungalows and I’m just looking up to see why it’s so quiet when I see key lime shorts talking to a security person. The security guy looks over lime shorts’ shoulder at me and I stop walking for a second.

Did I do something wrong? I’m staring at them when Mr. Buttinski walks off again.

Whatever. I have no idea what they are talking about, but I’m gonna go drop my stuff off and hit the beach so I can get back to work on my tweets. My flipflops smack my heels loudly in the stillness as I walk past the security guy, and I’m half expecting him to say something to me, but he just turns away and walks off.

Our bungalow is deep in the bungalow village as I like to call it. There are about twenty of them in a common area on this part of the resort and they have cute little winding paths surrounded by the most fragrant flowers and wispy palm trees. It almost takes my breath away. And the birds. Don’t even get me started on the birds.

When I get to our room I drop my stuff off and shimmy out of my shorts so I can exchange them for a gauzy white wrap. I study myself in the mirror. This is my favorite bathing suit. It’s peach so it makes my skin look a little more golden than it really is. I tie my hair up in a ponytail, grab my beach bag and stuff my tablet in there along with my phone, and then pull my shades down over my eyes and head out.

Just as I’m twisting the door handle I look down at my feet and stop in my tracks. An envelope has been slipped under the door.

Was that there when I came in?

I bend down and pick it up. The thick pink paper is clearly of the handmade variety and the fancy script writing on the front leaves no mystery as to what it is.

An invitation.

Chapter Five

#TheInvisibleGod

I
STARE
at the envelope and read.

Apologies
, is what the actual word on the front is. Not
You’re invited
. But it’s written in a
You’re invited
script, so it’s easy to assume.

I take the card out and read the same fancy lettering:

All facility pools and beaches are closed for a private function. Sorry for the inconvenience. Please accept a full-access pass to the lazy river for the day.

Hmmm. The lazy river is not something that came in our package. Our free trip included the Spa Experience, so we have access to the Wellness Center and that’s about it.

Which is bullshit. If you’re on a honeymoon then you want to do the fun stuff before you fuck each other’s brains out. Not let other people pound on you and stick you in a steam room.

I stuff the invitation in my bag and leave the bungalow. The lazy river is all the way on the other side of the village, so I take every winding path imaginable and by the time I finally make it over there I’m ready for another martini.

There is no one at the entrance except some kid with a resort polo shirt on. “We’re closed,” he says in his friendly fuck-you voice.

“I have a full-access pass for the day,” I say as I hand him my invitation. “Someone just slipped it under my door a few minutes ago, so—”

His eyes get big as he stares at the paper in my hand.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry,” he says as he swings the entrance gate open for me. “Yes, you are an invited guest. Please, come this way.”

The place is empty. Like not a single other person here. Just me and the lazy river. How weird is it to have an entire river to yourself on an island that should be bustling with people but is somehow strangely vacant?

Weird.

The lazy river guy sets me up with a floating cabana. I’m not kidding. It comes with a cooler and a boarding platform. All inflatable. “Is this really necessary?” I ask him as he fills the cooler with ice and a variety of drinks. “I only need one for a single person. This… thing looks like it’s built for a party.”

He points to the invitation I’m still clutching in my hand. “The cabana raft comes with that invitation. VIP.” He winks at me the same way that Dewain did back at the bar.

Hmmm. “Who’s rented the resort anyway? Where did this invitation come from?”

He smiles at me and waves me towards the cabana. “You get in and I’ll give you a push out into the current. Holler if you need anything.”

Obviously they have been told not to talk about the event, whatever it may be. Hint taken. I throw my bag into the floating house and crawl in after it. There’s a mesh sunshade that stretches out over my head and a peek hole that lets you see the water underneath.

Lazy river guy pushes me out of the loading pool and the current floats me along at a nice relaxing clip.

My eyes close automatically and my whole body relaxes back into the inflatable cushions. I relish the hot sun beating down on my body and take off my wrap so I’m just in my bikini and before I know, I’m drifting off…

“You’re gonna burn,” a familiar husky voice whispers into my ear as the raft rocks to the side.

I flail my arms in surprise and end up clutching onto a pair of muscular broad shoulders. “What the hell!”

“Hold still,” the man laughs. “You’ll tip the raft and get all wet.”

I push off him and scoot away, my heart racing from the shock of having a strange man so close to me. “What the hell do you think—”

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

And I mean God. As in
the
god that is… “
Vaughn Asher
?”

His eyes crinkle a little at the corners when he smiles at me and the sunlight plays off his bright blue eyes and dark hair in a way that makes him look ethereal and brutish all at once. He hoists himself up onto the raft, dripping water all over, and then plops down next to me. His perfectly toned and tanned shoulders brush up against mine, making us cling together from the water. He flips a pair of sunglasses down over his eyes and stretches his arms out and clasps his hands behind his neck.

And then I look down. Not at his… package, which I also see because it’s in my line of sight. But at his swim shorts. Which are a limey shade of green.

“Oh my fucking God,” I say again. Only this time it’s out loud. “You’re the guy from the bar?”

“That drink was perfect and you know it.”

“The bar?”

“I know, because you bought another one. Already got the tab. So don’t bother fighting me on this.”

“And you read my—”

“Tweet?” His smile is devilishly wicked. “In my defense, it was hard to miss.”

My mind is racing as I watch his lips as he talks. I have no idea what he’s saying because I’m too preoccupied with mentally calculating how many filthy tweets I’ve written about him over the years. Hundreds? Thousands? It has to be in the thousands.

“—name?”

My attention snaps back to the movie-star god sitting so close to me my whole body is tingling. “What?”

“I said, what’s your Twitter name? I know that tweet was to me, but I didn’t see it online, so you didn’t post it.”

“Oh thank God!” I laugh with relief. “Whew, dodged a bullet there.” I pretend to swipe the sweat from my forehead and realize I’m really sweating. And so is he. Is it suddenly hot out? Or is my entire body blushing?

“So what’s your handle?” he asks as he leans over the side of the raft to reach into the floating cooler. I study his back and have to physically restrain myself from touching him. I’ve studied every part of his body in every public picture ever released. I feel like I know that back intimately.

My hand reaches out and my fingertips do a hover trace down the length of his spine. Jesus. I might not be able to control myself.

He finds what he wants and suddenly leans back, colliding with my outstretched hand.

“Were you trying to touch me?”

“Yes,” I say automatically. “I mean, no!”
Shit
. “No! Of course not. No!”

He leans all the way back again so that our shoulders are touching and then pops the cap off a beer and hands it to me. “I like that.”

“What?”

“Your automatic response was to tell the truth.” He flashes that movie-star smile again and I die a little inside from the cuteness of it. How old is he? Thirty-two, I remind myself. I know this. His birthday is two days after mine. But he looks boyishly young right now. Like he did back in his teens when he was doing Disney movies. He clinks his bottle to mine and takes a swig.

I’m still in shock so I just hold my beer out in front of me like an idiot.

“So what is it?”

“What?” I manage.

“Your Twitter handle?”