Danica Williams
Hot Vacation
Chapter 1
The heat caressed his face as August Lang stepped out of his hotel room to the white sand. Waves crashed over the shore thirty feet away and a child was laughing further down the beach. There was no rush to do anything. It was a feeling he was slowly falling in love with.
He headed in the general direction of the little cantina he’d found the day before that served the best tacos and coldest beer in three miles. Ratty leather sandals, cargo shorts, and t-shirts were the only attire he’d allowed himself on this trip. It felt damn good not to be wearing a suit and tie.
It was clear, blue, and for once he didn’t have a fucking headache. He’d left his headache behind in Boston; otherwise known as his ex-wife Madeline. With a grimace, he pushed her from his mind. Violently. There was no room for her here, his first vacation in over a decade. His only vacation since he’d married her after college that wasn’t a miserable excuse for her to shop.
He was doing it again. He had to admit, at least to himself, that he wasn’t getting past the anger. Ten years of his life, nine as the lawful husband of a woman so self-absorbed, there were times she didn’t acknowledge other people in the same room with her. Like him. In their home. So much time wasted and he couldn’t figure out why.
Why had he signed his life over to her? He’d disconnected from everything he once knew about himself. Why had he allowed her the freedom to dictate whether or not they would be having children? They hadn’t. Whether they would spend Christmas with his parents, as their only son, or skiing in Switzerland? He’d spent upwards of fifteen grand on that little getaway and it had broken his mother’s heart.
And when he’d walked in on her having sex with her ex-boyfriend from college, why had he allowed her to be offended that he had invaded her privacy? He’d walked away, called his attorney, and packed a bag.
An hour later, she’d come from her bedroom on the other side of the house (another idea of hers that should have freaked him the fuck out) and calmly reminded him about a charity event they had to attend that evening.
Just as calmly, he’d told her to go fuck herself.
Six months followed of haggling over every dime, every stick of furniture, every knick-knack. His shark of an attorney hadn’t let her have anything easily. August had remained faithful. Madeline had not. It wasn’t even that he cared about any of it. It was baggage. Mostly shit she’d bought for far more than it was worth to show her friends how much money they (he) had.
He just didn’t want that bitch to get it. Had she been awarded the house, he feared he might have burned it down.
Instead, he’d escaped her cold claws for two million in cool cash and a fuck you very much. She’d walked with her personal clothes, jewelry, and the thirty pieces of tacky art her college boyfriend, the artist, had been giving her for six of the years they’d been married. A shit painting for each time they found to be together.
No wonder she’d completely cut him off years ago. He’d even considered having an affair more than once but just didn’t have it in him. His parents had been married for almost forty years and were still in love. It was a hard standard to live up to and he obviously hadn’t even tried with Madeline.
Taking a deep breath, he trudged up the narrow path lined with red clay pots overflowing with flowers to the patio entrance of Lagarto Loco. It meant the crazy lizard but was quiet inside the shaded space. He settled with a sense of relief at one of the tables looking out over the ocean. It calmed him, being here. He felt the tension draining away, the warm air seeming to fill up the empty space his marriage left behind.
Time moved differently here and it was several minutes before a voice at his elbow drew his attention from the waves. “Hola, senor.” He turned and found himself on eye level with a beautiful pair of breasts. Quickly raising his gaze, he didn’t miss the sparkle of amusement in the waitress’s eyes. They were dark chocolate with a hint of amber highlight. Calm eyes, like this place he’d become so fond of, but seemed far older than her twenty-something age.
“Hello,” he returned blankly. He felt a blush creeping up the back of his neck and wanted to kick himself. He hadn’t blushed since he’d stolen his first kiss in fourth grade.
“Ingles?” Her voice was sultry and warm like the air. He nodded and she smiled. Her teeth were very white and straight. It was dramatic against her toasted skin and pillowy-soft lips. Some would have called her chubby, Madeline would have insisted she was fat, but her curves seemed just right to August. Lush. Like a woman should be. Like no woman he’d ever allowed himself to have. Long, curling black hair was pulled back from her face. Her accent was strong but her English was perfect, “Very good, sir. What can I get you?”
What a loaded question.
He hated the hoarseness of his voice, knew his reaction to her was stupid and immature. “Spicy tacos. Beans and rice. Dos Equis,” the same thing he’d had yesterday.
“I will also bring you grilled vegetables for your tacos. You will like them. They are good for you, yes?” She smiled and turned away before he could answer, speaking rapid Spanish to the man leaning in the open window of the kitchen, watching them.
August’s eyes were drawn directly to her ass. She had a firm but well-rounded bubble butt in crisp khakis. The bottom edge of her bright white t-shirt flirted across the small of her back leaving a small gap showing caramel skin. Her hair fell just above it and the sway of it and her rear was hypnotic. When she glanced over her shoulder and caught him staring, her eyes widened in surprise and he felt heat slash across his cheekbones. Giving a slight shake of her head, she chuckled and murmured something about men that he couldn’t translate.
He was surprised at his body’s reaction to this woman. It had been years since he’d reacted so physically, so sexually. He had to get himself under control. This shit was embarrassing.
She brought his food a few minutes later and he heard himself ask her name. One side of her lush mouth kicked up and she murmured, “Emiliana Rojo, senor. My friends call me Lily.”
“I’m August. August Lang.” What the hell was he doing?
“A strong name, senor.” Her gaze slid purposefully over him.
He knew his dark blonde hair was shaggier than usual. He hadn’t cared enough to get it cut. A good face, his mother would say. Women often told him his dark green eyes surrounded by long lashes were his best feature but he knew his body always pleased them as well. He was six-one and corded from hours spent on the climbing machine he kept in his office. Since his initial confrontation with Madeline, he’d used it to work out his anger and mounting sexual frustration.
“How long have you been in Puerto Vallarta, senor?”
The melody of her voice flowed over him and it took a moment to answer. Clearing his throat, he said, “Three weeks.”
Nodding, she perched in the chair across from him. “You are running from something, yes?”
“Running? No. No, not at all.”
Resting her chin on her hand, she motioned to the food. “Eat, senor. Food is very healing. I have seen many like you come here. Many come to heal. You came to hide, I think.” She seemed to notice the tightening of his features and smiled again, “You misunderstand me, senor. I do not mean cowardly hiding. Often, we must step back from a bad time, a bad person, and settle down, yes? Before we can deal with what comes after.”
Strangely, her words struck something inside him. “What comes after, Lily?” He hardly recognized his own voice.
A light shrug of her gently rounded shoulders, then, “Only you know, August Lang. Maybe you start fresh or you fix what was broken. Or,” she paused as she stood, patting his hand that sat clenched on the scarred wood table, “you allow the bad, the anger or sadness, to hold you prisoner and it colors the rest of your life.”