Brothers of Paradise Series

“You travel a lot, don’t you?”

“Pretty much constantly,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Is the lifestyle growing on you?”

“It is,” I say, knotting my hands behind his neck. “I don’t know how I could sustain it, but it is.”

He cocks his head. “What is it you’re studying?”

I bend backwards in his arms so I’m floating. He keeps his arms around my waist and my legs around his.Text content © NôvelDrama.Org.

The sky is a deep, beautiful blue above. “Physical therapy,” I say. “I need something to do when I’m done modeling. I need… meaning.”

“Meaning?”

“Yes.” I look up at him, at his thick hair, at the unusual greenness of his eyes. They’re accentuated in this tropical place. “People need a purpose in life. They need to feel like their days matter. I used to, when I was dancing. As much as I find modeling fun, I don’t feel like that anymore.”

“But you will after you start working as a physical therapist?”

“I hope so,” I say. “I worked with plenty of physical therapists after I injured my knee, when I danced. And now I work regularly with personal trainers. There’s a magic, there, in the ability to hone a body… to ensure it works to the best of its ability. Easing pain and strengthening muscle.” I look away from him, running my hand through the water. “Exercise has been a gift in my life. I think I’d like helping others experience it as well.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Is anyone ever?”

He walks us out into deeper water. “You’re incredible,” he tells me.

“For wanting to be a physical therapist?”

“Yes,” he says, but he’s smiling, and it’s clear that’s not all he’s saying. His thumbs smooth down my hips and hook into the edge of my bikini bottoms. “Does your dad want you to get a degree?”

“Yes. He’s never liked the fact that I model. Was it that obvious when I spoke to him earlier?”

“A bit,” Rhys says, with that crooked smile. “I could recognize the tone.”

“You’ve heard it yourself?”

His smile shifts into something that is more mocking than amused. “Well, I used to. But I haven’t really spoken to my father in ten years.”

I grip his hands on my hips. “Ten years?”

“Yes,” he says. “Not one-on-one. At family dinners and events, where there’s a family conversation going? Yeah. But we haven’t had a conversation just the two of us in a little over a decade.”

I swallow. “That must be difficult.”

“You get used to it.”

“What does the rest of the family say?”

His crooked smile is back. “That’s the good thing about always having had a strained relationship with your father. It’s accepted as par for the course.”

“Wow,” I murmur, stretching back into the water. Something about this place, about his tone… it’s a place for secrets and for sharing, and for going carefully, lest you wreck something. “Do you miss talking to him?”

Rhys snorts. “Not particularly. We both know that if we did, it would be a shouting match of everything we’ve swept under the rug, so we don’t.”

I slide my hands over his, gripping them even as they grip me. “I’m sorry.”

He blinks. “Don’t be. It’s not painful.”

Sure it’s not.

“Okay,” I murmur. “But I’m sorry anyway.”

Our eyes meet, me looking up at him, him looking down at me. Him standing, me floating. I think I might break if he lets me go.

“Rhys?”

“I’m here.”

“Was the other night a one-time thing?”

Something flashes in his eyes. “That depends, Ives.”

“On what?”

“On you. Did you just want to grab your ticket?” His fingers curl around my bikini bottoms. “Or do you want to explore more?”

I wet my lips. Pull myself up, so I’m once again wrapped around him, both arms and legs. Droplets cling to his eyelashes. “I want to explore more,” I whisper.

His smile is a slash of white. “I might have died if you said you were done.”

“So dramatic.” I run a finger along the sharp line of his jaw and his hands tighten around my thighs.

“It’s what I do best.” He kisses me, in a jungle in Bali, standing in a swimming hole next to a waterfall. And I kiss him back, knowing that however this ends, I will never regret him.

Ivy

Our villa has a connected living room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms. It’s a miniature palace, one too sumptuous to really get used to. Which is good, because in less than a week I’ll be back in my shoebox of a studio in Manhattan.

But until then, I’m going to make the most of the water pressure in the shower, a place so big I can actually stretch out my arms and not touch the walls. I wrap a towel around myself when I’m done, looking myself over in the mirror. Hair, clean. Skin, clean. Mind? Not so clean, not as I emerge into the connected living room in just the towel.

Rhys is sitting on the couch, his own hair wet from his shower. His camera is in his hands, and he’s flipping through pictures.

He lowers it when he sees me. “This look,” he says, “I like.”

“You do? It’s the latest trend.” I turn so he can admire the fluffy towel from every angle.

“Come here.” Setting the camera down, he has an arm out. I settle against his side on the couch.

“What were you looking at?”