Chapter 12
Colt
“Well, well what do we have here?” We’re at the hotel gift shop—the only place safe to venture to in this weather—and I’ve been hoping to come across another one of these. The look of sheer annoyance on her face is perfect.
“We’re looking for gifts. Put that down.” Her voice is rough and raspy. Her face is hot and stiff.
“And it looks like I just found myself one. Fa la la and ho ho ho.”
“Don’t call me that.” She crosses her arms and gives me a death glare. It’s really hard to not laugh. Gloating though…that’s easy.
I open the magazine to the middle and good lord in heaven, it’s even better than I thought it would be. She’s on both knees in front of the ocean, both hands in her hair, wet sand covering her legs and clinging to the ends of the strands. And her body. Tan. Toned. Oiled. In shape and well-endowed and…let’s just say, who knew so little could cover so much? I don’t want to stop staring, but I force myself to. I think there’s something written in the rulebook of life that you shouldn’t ogle your friends when they’re standing right in front of you.
“Remember what I said about getting on your knees to thank God for making you the way He did?” I turn the magazine around to show her. “Looks like that’s what you’re doing right here.”
Okay, too far. She lunges for the magazine and rips it out of my hands, taking half the cover with her. A shame too, since that particular half showcased the best parts. Rory wads the paper up into a ball and aims to throw it at me.
“They’re going to make you pay for that, you know. And if you throw it at me, I’ll stuff it in my back pocket to save for later.” She studies the paper like she might eat it. Instead she keeps it in her fist, out of my reach.
“I can’t believe they have that here. We’re in the Dominican Republic, not New York.” It’s almost as if she’s embarrassed by her own photos, but that makes no sense. Aren’t supermodels supposed to be all confident about their bodies? Don’t they want people looking at them? Fantasizing about them, even?
“You’re on the cover of Sports Illustrated, of course they would have it here. Men like this issue no matter where they live. Generally they take a very real interest in spor—um, women in bikinis.” I nod toward the magazine. “Although in your case, bikini is a strong word. Belt? Dental floss?”
She tucks the magazine under her arm. “It’s a bikini. Shut up.” She eyes the stack of magazines in the rack as though contemplating tossing them as well, but give up on a sigh. “And now I have to pay for it, which is going to cut into my budget for buying you a gift.”
“Give me that magazine and we’ll call it good.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not on your life. I do have a question, though. How did giving me a better Christmas experience,” she puts those last two words in quotes, “turn into you practically salivating over perfectly respectable photos of me in a convenience store? If this is your idea of a perfect Christmas, it sucks.”
Two things: now she actually looks hurt, and I sorta of feel bad. Time to repair the damage I’ve done.
“First of all, you’re right. These are perfectly respectable. You’re gorgeous. Really beautiful. So incredibly hot that—”
I stop talking at the crestfallen look on her face. Okay, time to repair better.
“But you’re right, this isn’t about you in a G-string…”
“I’m not wearing a G-string!”
“…but about your need for a better Christmas experience.” Geez, this lady is hostile. Someone needs the coal taken out of her backside. Or maybe a little overhead mistletoe would do the trick. I scan the room, desperate to find some fake stuff hanging from a doorway. It’s Christmastime, people. Ever hear of decorating better? There’s no mistletoe, at least not here. Starting now, I’ll make it my mission to find some. I say as much.
“We don’t need mistletoe,” Rory practically growls.
“Then how am I going to kiss you?”
She rolls her eyes, “You’re not.”
“You’re supposed to kiss someone at midnight on Christmas Eve, everyone knows this.”
“That’s New Year’s Eve, loser. But nice try.”
“Someone’s awfully hostile. Sounds like you need a good hard kiss on the—”
“Just look around for Christmas cheer, Colt,” she says.
But I hear the laughter in her voice.
I bite back a smile, feeling more than a little victorious.
We can troll the store in search of Christmas, but here’s the problem. Since we’re now relegated to the sad products inside this twelve by twelve space, we’re limited. The only restaurants we can go to are inside this hotel, and the only store open is this one. Anything else will be due to dumb luck as we stumble upon it. So…
“Feel up for a challenge?” I say.
When I look at her and see the gleam in her eye, I know. Big or small, Rory Gray is always up for a challenge.
I like this girl. I like this girl a lot.
* * *
For the last fifteen minutes I’ve combed the aisle of the gift shop, but I’m still empty-handed. We decided on ten dollars each. We also decided that whoever comes closest to spending ten dollars without going over has to reveal another secret. We’re ten years old and desperate for ways to entertain ourselves while living through this hellish situation. Whatever. As for me, if I win I want to see something else from Rory’s bag, and I want some history to go along with it. As for Rory…she’s still hung up on how we met. Problem is, once she finds out, I’m worried she’ll want nothing to do with me.
So I have to win. Problem solved.
Except.
“Now, what if some items are free? Does that count toward the ten-dollar total or not. Because I don’t think it should.”
I stare at her over a rack of Snickers bars. Good lord, she’s a thief.
“You’re not stealing things, Rory.”
“You’re the one who asked if I was up for a challenge! Besides, it isn’t stealing if I find it on the floor.”
She’s looking at the floor. I quickly walk around to see what she’s staring at, but she kicks it under the display before I have the chance.
“I don’t want my Christmas gift to be someone’s leftover trash.”
She shrugs. “What someone considers trash can be someone else’s treasure.”
“Nice try. If it doesn’t cost money, I don’t want it.”
“Spoken like a true male diva.”
“We’re relegated to ten dollars. That’s hardly diva material.”
“It is when you’re throwing a Kardashian-sized fit.”
“Do you know them?”
She makes an unflattering noise. “No. And I don’t know Gisele either, so don’t ask.”
What she doesn’t know is I’ve already met them.
I close my mouth to avoid saying so when the bell rings over the front door. It’s the couple we’re sharing a room with—turns out his name is Chris and her name is Stacy. Not that I asked. It was evident from all the calm down, Stacy’s and the stop patronizing me, Chris comments I’ve heard in the past twenty-four hours. Life is fun like that, especially when you’re trying to sleep with a supermodel who kicks you in uncomfortable places.
“What are they doing here?” Rory whispers as she slides closer to me. I return the Payday bar to the shelf and shove a hand in my pocket, wondering if we can flee without being noticed. Since there is only one entrance and exit to this place, it isn’t likely. “Also, I’m allergic to peanuts, so no Payday’s,” she says.
I sigh and run a hand over my face. “Seriously? There’s nothing easy about you, is there?”
She smirks around a sidelong glance. “No, and don’t you forget it.”
“Hey, is this you?” Chris calls out from a few feet away. “I knew you looked familiar.” He holds up a magazine and gapes at Rory, and I swear I see the red color of lust in his eyes. Two things about this: one, Rory’s face is on fire. Two, so is his wife’s.
“Put that down!” Stacy barks, glaring in Rory’s direction and practically yanking the magazine out of her husband’s hand. “That’s great. First a hurricane, and now I’m sharing a room with a porn star.”
“Hey!” I say. “Rory is a model, hardly—”
I stop talking when she tugs on my arm.
“Can we go? Please?”
Maybe it’s the timid tone in her voice. Maybe it’s the way it cracks like heartbreak on the last word.
I put my arm around her and lead her outside. The weather is brutal, but we’ll only stay a minute.
Sometimes being pelted by rain is better than being pelted by words.