Dirty Girl (Page 26)
I wish she added something about figuring out what’s going on between us and how this relationship is going to work, but I’m getting the message loud and clear that Greer isn’t ready for that. She’s not going to admit we have a relationship or a future.
That’s too damn bad because when I came back into her life, I did it with the intention of making this a permanent change. She’s going to have to find a way to deal with it because I’m not letting her go. Not this time.
Instead of pushing the issue, I lean closer and press another kiss to her temple. It’s becoming a habit that will be impossible to break.
“Let’s take this one day at a time and see what happens. I’ve got nowhere else I need to be, and I can’t think of anything I’d like better than you in a bikini on the beach before we go back to our room and I strip you naked and make you scream my name.”
Greer turns her body into me and lays her head on my shoulder. “I think I can handle that.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
I’m not sure what to expect from the very minimal description of the place Greer gave me, but when we land on an airstrip I’m not even sure is paved, I’m even more intrigued. The billionaire badass big brother wouldn’t send his treasured and protected little sister anywhere less than the best, though.
Three years ago, I dreamed of being able to steal her away for some extravagant vacation to impress her, and now we’ve been handed this golden opportunity. Greer once told me she wanted to be wooed, and now I’ve got a secluded tropical paradise and no paparazzi.
Game on.
A man in a golf cart waits just beyond the runway and waves us over. He smiles and holds up a handwritten sign that reads GREER.
“Bags?” he asks, looking somewhat confused at our empty hands.
“Not this time,” I reply.
“Okay then. Let’s get you to the house.”
I wrap an arm around Greer as we climb onto the backseat of the golf cart. The headlights cut through the pitch-black darkness ahead of us as he drives us along a rutted and bumpy road that appears to be packed sand. Dozens of blue crabs skitter to the sides of the street as the light touches them.
Where the hell are we?
Less than five minutes later, he slows at a black metal gate connecting two white concrete walls. There’s a keypad, and he inputs a long combination before the gate slides to one side.
“I’m Juan, the caretaker here.” He gestures to a small cottage that sits close to the cement wall and gate. “I’ll be available if you need me. My wife, Rea, cooks and cleans. So if you have any special requests, just let her know.” He pats his belly. “She’s one of the best cooks on the island, so you’re in for a treat.”
“Island? I thought we were in Belize?” Greer asks.
Juan’s hearty laugh shakes his belly, and he’s probably putting us in the category of stupid American tourists. “You are in Belize. Welcome to Caye Caulker. We’re the second largest island in the country, but don’t be fooled, there’s not far to go. You’re at the south end now; the village is at the north end of this section, before the Split.”
“The Split?” I ask, wondering what the hell he’s talking about.
“A channel where Hurricane Hattie ripped the island in half back in ’61. You’ll see it. There are more houses on the other side, but you need a boat to get there. We have one, and I can take you wherever you want to go. I don’t recommend taking it yourself because navigating the reef is tricky unless you’ve been doing it for years. But anything you want—snorkel, scuba, fishing, exploring the cays, I’ll take you.”
Greer and I both thank him as he leads us toward the large white concrete house on concrete pilings. Ornate yellow tiled stairs lead us to a wide porch that looks like it wraps around the place. Juan removes keys from his pocket, unlocks the door, and hands them to me.
“I’ll leave you to explore. You’ll see Rea in the morning. What time would you like breakfast?”
I glance at Greer and raise an eyebrow, indicating it’s her call.
“Eight o’clock would be fine. Thank you, Juan. Have a good night.”
I shut and lock the white wood door behind us and watch Greer as she spins in a circle in the large entryway. High ceilings are lined in dark wood with exposed beams, and the walls are painted a vivid yellow that matches the blue, green, red, and yellow mosaic tiles patterned across the floor.
It’s everything you’d expect from a tropical beach house. A round wood table sits in the middle of the entryway with a huge vase of vibrant, fresh flowers. From this vantage, I can see a large sectional in the living room, a matching wood coffee table, and a flat-screen television mounted on the wall. Bright canvases line the walls, adding color beyond the yellow. Thin white curtains blow in the breeze along the entire wall of windows facing the ocean. Waves crash just outside in the darkness.
Greer completes her circle, and I wait for her reaction. She’s probably been on countless luxury vacations, making this place nothing special. Hell, maybe even quaint. By my standards, and from what I’ve seen so far, it’s a pretty sweet pad, one I’d be happy to call my own.
“I love it,” Greer says, her voice quiet. “It’s so perfect.”
“Let’s check it out.”
With a grin, I follow her from the entryway into the living room, and then the dining room and kitchen. The kitchen has dark wood cabinets, black-and-gray granite countertops, and stainless appliances. It’s just as nice as the setup at my place in LA, but the vibrant colors of the walls, art, and backsplash give it a strong island vibe.