Free The Reality of You by Jean Haus Page A

the minibar and
snagged a mini rum bottle. Explaining my week to Kara felt depressing. Plus, I
was on vacation . “I’m going need a
vacation from this crap vacation,” I said miserably, smashing the phone between
my shoulder and chin while twisting the cap off the little bottle of rum.  
    “The money you make
off this vacation could pay for a real one. Where do you want to go? Miami?
Canc ú n? Both have lots of
hotties.”
    “Ugh,” I said,
snagging a Coke. “Nowhere tropical. How about skiing?” I sucked down half of
the rum and took a swig of Coke.
    “At the rate you’re
going, you might break a leg.”
    “You’re probably
right.”
    Kara kept talking
about possible vacation spots, trying to cheer me up as I sipped on rum and
pop. Then she promised to be with Jules to pick me up at the airport and we
said goodbye.
    Sinking onto the
floor, I tried not to notice the room. Paper piles littered almost each inch of
the bed, chair, and dresser. Strewn among the piles were wrappers and empty
Coke cans. A mound of dirty clothes escaped from the bottom of the open closet.
The small table next to the chair was covered with dirty room service dishes.
Stale-food smell mixed with the lingering burnt-paper smell.
    As I stared at the
mess, my nose wrinkled. I wasn’t the neatest person, but the disaster of my
hotel room was rather disgusting. The curtains waved as a breeze blew in from
the open balcony doors. Beyond the balcony rail, the sun was setting amid a row
of palm trees.
    I imagined wearing a
gauzy robe and lying on the beach in a wicker lounge chair. A waiter who looked
like Reese brought me a glass of champagne. He was dressed in all
leather—pants, an open vest, and large, heavy boots. I added a hefty chain-like
necklace around his neck for good measure and enjoyed watching the sweat roll
off of him and his muscles. Smiling slyly, I ordered another glass of champagne
and watched him trudge with his heavy boots in the sand back to the beach bar,
sipping the bubbly drink. When he got back, I requested a foot massage and
relished observing him work on the arch of my foot while the chain around his
neck clanked against his sweaty, slick chest.
    My lips curled into
a smile at the short daydream, and though I had a boatload of stuff to do, I
went back to the mini fridge, jerked out a small bottle of champagne, went to
the balcony, kicked off my shoes, and crawled over the rail. Good thing I was
on the first floor.
    After treading
through the cool grass, my feet sank into the warm sand as I passed under the
row of palm trees lining the edge of the beach. There weren’t any beach chairs
open—several people were out on the beach to watch nature’s show too—so I sank
into the sand a few feet from the tide rolling in. Once settled on the soft
sand, I popped the little cork on the bottle and took a hefty swig.
    The waves rolled in,
the setting sun reflected bright orange in the water, palm leaves fluttered
above, and pale purple streaked the darkening blue sky. Live island music from
the band at the side of the pool floated toward me. The lively tune and the
sight of the setting sun paired with sips of the bubbly improved my mood
immensely.
    Until I heard behind
me, “Done with all your charts, Ms. Porter?” in a dry, unbelieving tone.
    Really? He’d have to be out on the beach too.
Beyond irritated and wishing I could toss my champagne in his face, I took a
long sip before I twisted around and cranked my head up.
    “Just taking a
break,” I said, lifting the little bottle in my hand toward him.
    Holding a glass of
wine in one hand, he was dressed casually swank again, perfectly pressed, and
totally hot—and not in the sweaty way of my daydream.
    My irritation waned
into insensible as I smirked at him sardonically. “First one of the day,” I
added and took a swig. He studied me with his usual air of indifference. My jaw
clenched. “What brings you out here?”
    He gestured toward
the setting sun. “The same