The Relationtrip, page 11
We move toward each other at the same time, and there will never be anything as great, amazing, or phenomenal as kissing Logan Murphy in the jungle.
I moan as I sink into the hot water. I’ve sat in the jacuzzi on our balcony before, but Logan wouldn’t get in with me. Tonight, he’s only one step behind me, and the water sloshes around me as his body sinks into the water too.
He sighs too, and our eyes meet. “One of the best days of my life,” I say.
“Yeah?”
I nod, and he says, “I’m glad, Sloane.”
I’ve noticed that since we’ve broken down the friend zone and stepped out of it, neither of us have been using our nicknames much. He calls me Sloane and not Sloany, and I only use Murph when I’m trying to get him to relax and party up a little bit.
I slide over and sit immediately beside him. “Where should we go next year?”
“You’re already thinking ahead to next year?”
“We usually do.”
“Yeah.” Logan falls quiet, and I don’t like it.
“What?”
“Do you think we’ll keep doing our mid-winter trip?” he asks. “If I move to Pittsburgh?”
“If?” I don’t mean to screech the word, but I sort of do. “I thought you were moving to Pittsburgh.”
“I haven’t decided one-hundred percent yet,” he says, keeping his voice low to match the night. It’s a low-energy night, with the sun down already and the roar of the ocean in the background. We had an amazing afternoon of ziplining, and then a low-key dinner at the Japanese restaurant here at the resort.
I bat at a rose petal as it floats toward me. “What’s influencing your decision?”
“Kissing you.”
“That went well,” I point out.
“My parents.”
I nod and skim my hands along the water’s surface in front of me. “You haven’t told them anything yet.”
“I have not.”
“Your mom will love me,” I say as I look at him. I need him to say of course she will, because apparently, I’m that needy.
He grins at me. “I’m sure she will.” His arm comes around me, and I lean into his side.
“I could come to Superior.”
“You would suffocate in Superior, sweetheart.” He touches a kiss to my temple. “There’s no way I’d ask you to move there.”
“It would get me away from my mom.”
“Did you text her back yet?”
I shake my head. There’s so much that goes into my day, from managing several dozen moving pieces of buying and selling real estate in the city, to answering personal texts, to dreaming about owning a dog, to how I’m going to feed myself for another day.
Both of my sisters and my mom have texted me in the past couple of days, and I haven’t found the energy to respond to any of them. I should, because my mother will call the United States embassy here in Belize if I don’t, and I’m not even kidding.
Rose will know something major has happened, and she’ll demand to know what without even saying hello once she gets me on the phone. Kenna will just be annoyed I haven’t validated her frustration with her professor. I should be sure to text them all tonight before bed to avoid the bulk of the drama.
“Why not?” he asks.
“I don’t want to share you with anyone yet,” I whisper.
“You’ll tell your mom?”
“I’ll have to,” I say. “She’s always thought we were hooking up on these trips as it is. She asks way more questions about you after the mid-winter trip.”
“Does she?” He kneads me closer. “That’s…interesting.”
“She’ll be hurt,” I say. “She’s still in a delicate place with everything going on with my dad.”
“I know.” Logan touches his mouth lower on my neck, and I turn into him to kiss him properly. This kiss accelerates quickly, and he lifts me onto his lap a moment later. He groans, and I think it’s because of my weight and try to slip away.
“Stop it,” he growls, holding me in place.
“I’m crushing you.”
“Not even close.” He kisses me again, and it’s been so long since anyone has looked at me the way he does. Since anyone has wanted to kiss me the way he is.
I moan into his mouth, not even trying to make the noise I know he likes. It just happens. I want to whisper something sexy as he drops his mouth to my throat, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing I want to say to my best friend, at least.
I’m wearing a one-piece tonight, but it has thin straps over my shoulders and triangles for the bust, despite my breasts being very, very round. The V-neck goes all the way to my navel, and it’s high-cut on my thighs too.
His fingers brush my sides, and I twist around so I’m straddling him instead of sitting on his lap.
Logan breathes in hard, and I love the sound of it. Still, terror streams through me, because this is my best friend. The man who rescued me in Mexico five years ago, and the same one who’s booked our mid-winter trip every year since.
South Carolina, Oahu, Grand Cayman, and St. Lucia. This year, we’d decided to stay domestic again and go to Florida, until that flood landed us here.
Here.
Is this where I want to be?
Warring emotions split my attention, part of me screaming yes! Yes, this is where we want to be! while another, hissing, slithering part of me tells me not to ruin the only good relationship in my life with…well, me.
His eyes meet mine, and he’s breathing normally as he says, “Where are you?”
“My knees hurt,” I say, slipping away from him. It’s a hot tub on a balcony, so I don’t have much wiggle room. Even if I cross to the other side, my legs would be all tangled with his in a matter of seconds.
I’m sweating from the amazing kissing, and that’s only amplified by the hot water lapping against my stomach. Terrified out of my mind, but absolutely loving the way he looks at my body—at me; right at me—I can’t meet his gaze.
“I think this hot tub is too hot.” I lift myself out of it and sit on the edge, not wanting to kiss him so completely and then run.
“You could go shower,” he says. “I’ll stay out here.” He sounds casual, and I don’t detect any measure of forcedness behind it. All at once, a thought hits me like a metal baseball bat knocking a home run out of the park.
This is a fling. A mid-winter fling in a summery place.
I stand and walk away, actually hoping he’s not looking. Of course he is. I feel the weight of those eyes on my backside as I grab a towel and hurry to wrap it around myself. Inside, I suck in a breath as I slide the door closed. I have half a mind to lock it, but I don’t.
Logan isn’t going to come creeping into the bathroom while I’m in there. He’ll let me talk to the water and let it wash down the drain, and I force the idea of this being a fling for him—for either of us—into the pipes where it belongs.
I promise myself I won’t revisit it again until my irrational hour, and I whisper to the sudsy water as it flows down my body. “This is not a fling for me.”
I can only hope and pray it’s not for Logan either.
Chapter Fourteen
Sloane
“How dare he?” I say when Kenna answers the phone. Logan’s off running somewhere at the resort, and then he’ll shower in preparation for our shopping day. There are two ships in port today, and we’ve decided that’s the best time to head to the more touristy area of Belize and get a few souvenirs for our friends and family.
“He gave you a C on that paper? The one you had the tutor go over for you?”
“Yes,” Kenna chirps back at me. She’s twenty-two and in her senior year at Dartmouth. “A C!”
“Do you want me to email him?” I totally act like I will, though we both know I won’t. Kenna will never let me anyway.
“No,” she says in resignation. “And…the tutor didn’t really go over it as thoroughly as he probably could’ve.” She clears her throat, and that’s the equivalent to Logan’s throat-humming. She’s saying something without saying it, and I narrow my eyes out at the ocean. The view from my balcony is so stunning, with shades of blue, teal, turquoise, and green I’ve never seen before. The wind blows ashore harder this morning than other days, but I don’t mind it. It’s strong enough to push my thick hair off my face, and I get a little relief from the weight of it all.
“Kenna,” I say in a warning tone. “Explain that.”
“He’s really cute,” she says. “No, handsome. You’re always telling me to find a handsome man, Sloane. And—” She hits the D hard. “He’s handsome. And a good kisser.”
I grin to the waves. “So you paid him to read your essay—oh, I mean, kiss you while he’s at work.”
“He did both,” she says in a high-pitched tone. “Sort of.”
I laugh, and that gives Kenna permission to do so as well. “Plus, he asked me out afterward, and we’re semi-dating now.”
I sober, maybe a little too quickly. “But you’re not going to marry him, Ken. You’re twenty-two.”
“I’m aware.”
I don’t know why I’m so protective of my sisters. I don’t want them to go through the same heartache I had to, or anything like what our mother is dealing with. “What’s his name?” I ask.
“I don’t want to say.”
“It’s Ethan, isn’t it? You know you can’t even speak to an Ethan.” I’ve known quite a few Ethan’s in my life, and they’re all rowdy frat boys with loud laughs, bellies that will bulge by the time they hit thirty from how much beer they drink, and-or behavior problems.
“It’s not Ethan, calm down.”
“I’m perfectly calm.”
“It’s Chad.”
“Okay…” I pause, trying to find the words. A smile curves my lips. “That might actually be worse.” I giggle, but Kenna belly-laughs.
“Right?” She sighs. “Anyway, how’s Belize? Magical?”
“Tropical,” I say. “I’m currently standing on my balcony and watching the waves come ashore. It’s supposed to be eighty-four degrees today.”
“I hate you.”
I laugh again while she says it’s been snowing on and off for two days in Pennsylvania. “You just need a mid-winter trip,” I tell her.
“Yeah, well, we don’t all have someone like Logan,” she says.
I fall silent again, which isn’t a good thing. Kenna isn’t Rose, but she can pick up pieces when they’re as big as the one I just put down. I hear her intake of breath, and I cut her off before she can ask.
“Oh, we’re off,” I say brightly. Fakely. “He’s here. Talk later, Ken.”
“Sloany,” she screeches, and I pause in my attempt to hang up on her.
“What?” I ask, a hint of impatience in my voice. I really don’t want to talk about Logan. Not with Kenna. Not with Rose. Not with my mom. I’d spoken true when I’d told him last night I wanted to keep him to myself. It’s obvious Kenna has seen something special between us previously, and I want to ask her what it is. How she saw it. Why didn’t I?
“Have fun for me,” Kenna says. “Come home safe.”
“I will,” I say. “Now, go fix that paper—and this time, hire a really ugly tutor to help you go over it.” We laugh again, and the call ends without me running with my tail tucked between my legs.
Instead of calling Rose, I text her. Having so much fun! Sorry I didn’t call. There’s not great service here at the resort, and I’ve been in and out of cenotes, the jungle, and the ocean. Lunch when I get back?
That will appease her until I land in Pittsburgh on Sunday evening, and already I feel the weight of my real life descending on me. We have three more days here. Today, tomorrow, and Saturday. We travel all day Sunday, with another monster layover in Atlanta before we have to separate to fly to our respective cities.
I’ve never wanted my mid-winter trip to continue as badly as I do this year. I like the bubble Logan and I have created for ourselves here, and I love answering a few emails and calling that my day’s work before eating really good food, squeezing myself into another sexy swimming suit, and kissing Logan like this isn’t a fling at all.
Maybe if I kiss him with enough passion, if he’s thinking fling, he’ll change his mind. He kisses me like his life depends on having his mouth on mine, and that doesn’t read fling to me. But I’ve read men and situations wrong before. Very, very wrong.
“I’m jumping in the shower,” Logan says behind me, startling me. I spin toward him, my phone up and ready to throw with all my might. He sees me, and I’m not sure what shows on my face, but his dissolves into amusement and surprise at the same time.
“Are you going to throw that pearly pink phone at me?”
“If necessary.” I lower it, the adrenaline pumping through me slowing enough now that I know he’s not a threat.
He laughs as he bowls into me, wrapping me up in his arms and legs as I stumble backward. “Logan,” I chastise. “The railing is right there.”
“Oh, you’re not going to fall.” He steadies me and those intensely blue eyes gaze into mine. “I’ve got you.” He leans down and kisses me, and while it starts out sweet and slow, we both quickly accelerate it to something more.
I want to kiss him forever, and I want to stay in this room forever, and I want to live in Belize for forever.
He rests his forehead against mine, and I keep my eyes closed as I ask, “Do we have to go home?”
“Mm.” That one means, Yes, Sloane. We have to go home. He’s been working in the mornings, I know, though he hasn’t told me as much. He’s up before me, and he always closes his computer the moment I make any noise whatsoever.
“Maybe we can just find a little apartment here.”
A chuckle this time. That means, We aren’t moving here, Sloane.
I open my eyes and look up at him. “This is real, right?”
He blinks, shock registering in those dazzling eyes for a moment. Another blink: hurt. Another: anger. He steps away from me. “You think I’m…what, exactly, Sloane?”
Oh, I don’t like it when he says my name like that. The single syllable slaps me, and I press back into the railing. “It’s just…in my irrational hour, I had this thought like maybe this was a fling.”
I turn and face the ocean. “I know it’s stupid. It’s probably just me, because this is new, and…” I wait as he steps beside me, because my voice isn’t going to be able to overpower the wind. “Scary.”
He says nothing for probably a full minute. “What’s your irrational hour?” he asks.
I glance over to him. “That’s what you got out of what I said?”
“The thought started there,” he says. “I need to understand it.”
“It’s this hour in the middle of the night. Early morning.” I wave into the wind, indicating the enormity of the ocean. “I have to get up to go to the bathroom, so I’m awake, and in the time after I go back to bed and when I fall asleep again, I have all these irrational thoughts.”
“So you know they’re irrational.”
“They’re loud in the middle of the night.”
“Or early morning.” He nudges me with his elbow, clearly teasing me. “It lasts a whole hour?”
“The time when it happens doesn’t matter,” I snap at him. “Nor does how long it actually lasts. This is real, Logan. I’m freaking out.”
“I can see that.” He sighs and turns his back on the ocean. After running his hands through his hair, which has only gotten longer in the past week, he dares to peek at me. “This is new and scary,” he acknowledges.
I appreciate that so, so much. I don’t even realize how much until my eyes burn with tears. I press them closed and seize onto the heat there. Hopefully the wind will dry them before they can fall, before Logan notices them. “It’s so bright out here,” I say, but my nasally voice gives me away.
“This is not a fling.” He must need a few moments of silence to summon that power in his voice, because he wasn’t speaking like that until this sentence. I at once feel reassured and safe with him, and I nod.
“For me,” he adds. “Is it for you?”
I snap my eyes open and nearly get blinded, first by the sun and then by the sharpness in his eyes. “No.” I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
He bobs his head too, something burning in those eyes he doesn’t want me to see. His eyes fall almost closed as he drops his chin, then he steps past me, his hand lingering on my shoulder. “I’m going to go shower then.”
Logan leaves me to my idiotic thoughts, the whipping wind, and the sound of the ocean. My phone chimes, and it’s the snapple-beep I’ve assigned to Lucy. She’s only texted me a handful of times in the past week, so it has to be important. Logan will be another twenty minutes at least, and I return to the room only to grab my laptop so I can get a few things done at work while I wait.
Work.
The thought of returning to snowy Pittsburgh and stepping into a pencil skirt and a pair of heels in only a few days has my heart plummeting toward my ankles. It falls fast too, because I’ve always loved my job. Showing houses gives me life. Staging a space for the photographer is like oxygen to me. Writing up listings is like putting the can opener on a huge can of Dreams and starting to open it for someone.
If I don’t have my job, I literally have nothing.
“Logan,” I whisper. I’ve always had Logan, and just because we’re kissing and holding hands and talking about the future only means he’ll still be in my life.
A tremor of fear moves through my belly, because Logan doesn’t know the real me. He only knows After Work Sloane, as she complains about the twelve hours she’s put in that day while her microwavable lasagna rotates behind her. He knows Mid-Winter Trip Sloane, who barely works, always has a cute swimming suit and a quick jab at something he’s said.
But he doesn’t know me, and the thought of him coming to Pittsburgh and learning who I really am, what life with me would really be like, has a fresh set of tears pressing behind my eyelids.
