Morgan “H ello , B rother .” Conrad’s greeting the moment I answer the phone is giving Salvatore energy; Damon, season one. And that said, I don’t trust him. “What do you want?” I ask. “Is that any way to talk to family?” Conrad presses. “When your family is trying to sue you, yes. I think it’s perfectly acc eptable,” I tell him. “Ouch. I see how it is,” he says, and I bite my lip in frustration. We just landed in Cabo San Lucas and, if I am being honest, this is the last thing I feel like doing right now. Because if I had to guess, this resort is going to have issues that need to be tended to, just like the other resorts have. I’d like to focus on that and then focus on the other half of the job–spending time with Scarlett. “What do you want?” I ask again. Honestly, I am getting really tired of r epeating myself. “Nothing,” he lies with fake indifference. “I just wanted to say congratulations.” There it is. It’s only been a few days since the proposal went viral from every angle imaginable, and if I had to guess, he’s not happy. Obviously. “How sweet of you,” I say with literally no emotion in my voice. “Now, what do you really want?” “You know, I find it interesting that in just the last couple of weeks you have started taking an interest in the hotels, visiting them, flying around the world, getting your perfectly manicured hands dirty. And falling in love to boot? How... convenient considering the state of things.” Conrad’s voice is dripping in sarcasm, and it’s thick as molasses. There are so many things about this jab that get under my skin. The tone. The manicure comment. I don’t, by the way. “Listen. You’ve always said that I need to live a little. Loosen the tie. That’s what I’m doing. So, really, I have you to thank for that. For the success, the image change, the progress, my fiancée...” I rattle off because sometimes when you play chess with a jester, you have to have a sense of humor. “Right. Because you listen to me so well,” Conrad says, and I can tell by the shift in his voice that his grin is slipping. “I just wanted to tell you good luck,” he says. “And to let you know that whatever you think your plans are, it’s not going to work. St ephen Galinski will see to that. I will see to that. You can’t walk around like a fucking dictator for 20 some years and then one day just show up thinking you still run the place. You may be the older brother but I am a Bale too. And while you sat in your air-conditioned offices paying other people to deal with your problems, I have been the one plane-hopping and managing the daily grind in person. All things considered, I think you’re playing a losing game, brother.” “And the quality has slipped to an unacc eptable degree,” I cut in calmly. “And Jason seems to think I have a pretty good case, all things considered. Especially considering I will be married soon. Also, don’t think I haven’t noticed certain ironies on my side as well. Obstacles if you will...” “You think I’m fucking with your travel to make myself look better?” he scoffs. “That. Or you really have just let things slide since they died,” I say. And I know it’s a low blow. But I don’t really care at this point. I also don’t think that the negative comments, photos, articles and conditions at some of these places can be chalked up to irony. “I’ll see you in court,” Conrad growls, and the line goes dead. I shove my phone in my pocket. I know how devious Conrad can be when he wants to be. He used to slash the tires on my car when he was a kid, mad because I had a car and he didn’t. He was 6. I’m also choosing to let Jason handle it. I have more pressing matters right now. Those matters being Scarlettt, who is headed my way through the lobby. Though she doesn’t have her usual charisma about her right now. “Alright,” I say, clapping my hands together. “What’s first?” Scarlett sighs, scrolling through her phone. “They want pool photos,” she says. “Bathing suit footage.” “We can do that.” I nod. “The pool here is second to none. And it was just cleaned last night so it should be pretty–” “Why do they always insist on seeing me in a bathing
suit?” she blurts out, cutting me off. “I mean, I don’t want to sound vain, but like I swear there are trolls lurking in the shadows just waiting to say something about my body or–” “Why?” I ask. “Did someone say something?” “No,” she mutters. “Actually, I can’t find a single negative comment about the last time we were in the water. The beach photos have gone viral. But no negative comments.” “That’s good, right?” I ask, not understanding the problem. But also, I’ve been checking the comments regularly, blocking everyone who so much as made a sideways comment. I’ve even had Donovan on troll patrol to cover more ground. “It’s suspicious,” she says. “And if I had to guess, the assholes are lurking in the shadows. They’re probably the ones behind the requests for pool footage.” “And here I thought people genuinely wanted to see Bale Resorts from the point of view of the owner and the world’s greatest travel blogger. Silly me,” I joke in an attempt to get her to smile. Because it’s not like Scarlett not to smile. And yet, she’s still not smiling. Not even a little bit. My brow furrows at that. Whatever insecurity she is suddenly feeling is not okay with me. And honestly, it’s a little surprising. This woman’s entire existence is on camera. But I guess that camera is usually hers. Leaving her at the mercy of paparazzi and fans, and other random people has to be nerve-wracking. It takes away the control aspect of her image. And thanks to Conrad, I know firsthand how that feels. Which means we just have to take control of the narrative. “Change of plans,” I tell her, taking her by the hand. Meanwhile, I use my free hand to call Sebastian to bring the car around. “We’re going shopping.” “Shopping?” she asks. And despite the fact that she is holding my hand, I have to tug her along. “Y ep,” I say as we approach the Escalade. “For what?” she asks. “You’ll see,” I tell her. And I don’t give her any more explanation than that. When we get to the store, a little boutique in a local shopping district, Scarlett’s eyes light up. Like any other girl on the planet, it’s obvious she loves to shop. But this place, I specifically chose with her style in mind, isn’t high-end or name brand or monopolized. That wouldn’t be her. This place is filled with colorful fabrics, skirts and dresses, hats, and handmade jewelry. And it’s obvious within seconds of walking inside that I hit the jackpot. “This is what I’m talking about,” Scarlett says as she rummages through the racks. “I usually shop on my trips, as part of the experience. And honestly, most of my wardrobe comes from the places I visit,” she says, pulling out a pair of linen pants. I’m starting to think they are her go-to, which makes sense for tropical travel. They also look great on her. But pants are not the reason we are here. “Try them on,” I tell her. “And this while you’re at it,” I add, handing her a strappy teal dress. “Oh, that is cute. I will. A little retail therapy just might be exactly what I need to get out of my pity party funk,” she says, taking the dress from me. “And this,” I say, grabbing a two-piece swimsuit off the rack as well and shoving it in her direction. “And that will send me spiraling back into it,” she says with a giggle. “No, thank you.” “Why not? What’s wrong with it?” I ask. “What’s wrong with it is that there are two pieces to it. Which means that all of this,” she circles her hand around her midsection. “Will be visible. Yeah, I’m going to have to pass.” With that, she ke eps sifting through the racks. A scowl tugs at my lips. “What’s wrong with showing a little skin?” I ask. Scarlett giggles again, this time a little higher pitched, insinuating that my question is audacious. “I’m sorry, have you seen me?” Okay. Now that pisses me off. I reach out and grab Scarlett’s hand as she is reaching for another pair of pants, and she looks up at me. Then I tug her close, close enough that I can lower my voice. I’m not mad or angry. Not at her anyways. At the media. And the trolls. And the brainwashing perfectly beautiful women put up with every single day of their lives that has them questioning their bodies in the mirror and hiding underneath baggy clothing. “Yes,” I tell her, my voice low. “I have seen you. All of you. And I think it’s criminal that you’ve looked in the
mirror and don’t feel confident.” “I have confidence,” she says with a little sass and a little indifference. “I don’t think I could do my job if I didn’t.” “You have confidence in your job, yes, because you’re fucking phenomenal at what you do. But that’s different from having confidence in your own skin,” I state. And when she doesn’t say anything, I take her hand (which I am still holding onto) and the swimsuit and guide her to the dressing room. “Try it on,” I tell her, and she blinks stubbornly. “I’ll try on the dress,” she says. “But I haven’t worn a two-piece swimsuit since I was like seven years old, and I’m sure as hell not going to start right now. Now, if you don’t mind–” Scarlett starts walking through the door of the dressing room, but before she can close the door in my face, I barge in with her, locking it behind me. “See, that’s the thing, sweetheart,” I tell her as she stares wide-eyed back up at me. “I do mind. I mind because I think you are gorgeous. Fucking stunning. And we’re not leaving here until you think that too.” For a moment she just stares at me with challenging eyes. But after a moment of neither of us blinking, she gets the memo that I am very much not kidding right now. She snorts and shakes her head. “Seriously. You seriously think that there’s anything you can do in the next five minutes that will re-wire twenty years of concrete feelings about my less than perfect body. And in that swimsuit? Good luck, Chuck. It’s not going to happen.” And that sounds like a challenge to me. A challenge I am very willing to attempt. Five-minute timeframe. As Scarlett strips down to her panties and bra, reaching for the dress, I take it from her and hold up the swimsuit. “No,” she says. “Yes,” I demand. She stares at me, and I stare back. Then she rolls her eyes and yanks it from my hand. “Fine. You want to see what all of this looks like crammed into this itty-bitty thing? Fine. But I’m pretty sure you’ll agree with me that suits like this are not made for bodies like mine.” Scarlett tugs the red bottoms over her hips, and they glide with ease. I guessed the size, but it’s obvious I guessed right. They are high-waisted, dipping slightly at her navel, high-cut on the thighs so they don’t constrict any of her hip shape but instead showcase her curves for what they are. Not to mention, the ass is cheeky as fuck, which is just a bonus for me and makes my slacks tighter by the second. Of course, being blind like every other woman on the planet, Scarlett doesn’t see it. She just mutters and shakes her head and lets out a persecuted sigh as she takes off her bra and r eplaces it with the top. It’s triangle cut but also made to fit her curves, covering them enough not to look forced but leaving enough skin to be sexy as hell. “There,” she says, lifting her arms then slapping her sides. “I tried it on. Happy?” I grab her by the hips and pull her back against my body, holding her in front of the mirror. “What are you doing?” she whisper-yells. I ignore her. Because I’m done. The only thing that makes me more furious than the comments I’ve deleted on the beach post is the same comments coming from her own mouth. “Look at yourself,” I tell her, my lips brushing against her ear as I hold her against me. “I want you to look at every inch of your body.” “Morgan,” she whispers with urgency as my hands run over every curve of her. “Morgan, we can’t do this in here.” I ignore her. “This is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen on you,” I tell her as I run my hands over the fabric of the top. I grip her breasts in my hands, showing off the fullness of her cleavage. “I just... I’m not–” she stutters because while she is still dead set on her thinking, she also can’t control herself when I touch her like this, a fact that makes me even harder in my pants. “Not what?” I ask. “Things like this aren’t made for bodies like mine,” she says. “Bodies like yours?” I echo. “I’m sorry, but what part of your body?” I ask. “Your breasts? Because they look phenomenal, don’t you think?” As I ask the question, I run my thumbs over her nipples, making them hard through the material. It makes her squirm, her ass dancing against my hips, accentuating her hips even more. And speaking of that...
After teasing her nipples enough to make her bite down on her bottom lip and bring color to her cheeks, I glide my hands down her torso, running them over her hips and down between her thighs, then back up again. Scarlett arches her back, her head falling against my chest, and my hands come closer and closer to her pussy with each pass. “Morgan...” she whispers. “We can’t... you can’t...” “Look at yourself,” I cut her off, sliding one hand over her pussy and cupping it through the fabric. My other arm is still holding her against me, my hand on her breast, thumb caressing her nipple. “I want you to see what I see. Feel what I feel.” I rub my palm over her firmly, and she gasps, then covers her mouth with her hand. “You want me to stop?” I ask, slipping my middle finger inside the swimsuit bottoms and finding her opening. Scarlett shakes her head, her hand still on her mouth. “If you don’t want me to stop, then I want you to stop,” I tell her, grinding my hand against her pussy while my finger swirls inside of her. “Stop putting yourself down. Stop being afraid to look in the mirror. Stop seeing your curves as a bad thing.” I rub my palm against her hard and fast, all while driving my finger de eper and harder inside her. As Scarlett moans into her hand, her body shakes against mine, every curve of her moving with the pleasure of desire. As she dances in place against me, I groan at the sight. At the feeling of her watching me pleasure her. At the feeling of her body grinding in voluntarily against mine. Her moans become higher, louder despite her attempt to stifle them, and I can feel her losing control in my arms. Then I feel the orgasm tearing through her, wave after wave. Scarlett whimpers and her hips convulse against me, nearly getting me off as well as her body goes soft in my arms. I steady her and let go. Then, as she removes her hand, panting and bracing her hand on the wall, I snag the tag off the swimsuit and open the door. “We will be buying this, thank you,” I say before leaving her to collect herself. I pay for the suit and wait for her to get dressed again, knowing it’s going to take a moment. In the meantime, I think back to the bucket list and make a mental note to cross off a few. 1. Become a full-time, financially stable travel journalist/blogger 2. Visit ALL the beaches. Beaches are officially my love language. 3. Forget tourist trap 5-star dining. Cook with the locals. Eat what they eat. Make friends! 4. Go swimming in the wild! No crowded beaches or fancy pools. 5. Help baby sea turtles into the ocean. 6. Wear a bikini. Not hate it. 7. Have sex under the stars. 8. Go to the House of Blues 9. Fall in love in New York City. 10. Become a mom. 11. Show my family the world. I can’t help but smirk at the thought of it all. As much as I have an aversion to bucket lists (my parents have made the idea of it a bit of a sore spot for me), I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t having fun with it. I can’t give it back to her, not just yet, but that doesn’t mean we can’t cross things off.