Page 8 of American Sweethearts

That shit was dangerous, because with me, Priscilla did not have to look very hard to see everything. When she finally spoke, we were so close that I felt the hem of her linen shorts brushing against my legs.

“So instead of mouthing off, you walked over here to cool off.” The incredulity in her voice almost pissed me off, but I took a deep breath and nodded. She was right—this was not my typical approach. I could let my stress or exhaustion turn me into an asshole sometimes, but I’d been working on not letting that shit get out of hand.

“I’ve learned to dial it back. Peoplecanchange, Priscilla.” As soon as I said it, I wondered if I’d made a mistake, but the sneer or dismissal I’d expected never came. Her eyes so focused on me I almost felt them burning my skin.

“Peoplecanchange, you’re right about that, Juan Pablo. The trick is wanting to.”

I could tell myself I got closer on instinct, without thinking, but I didn’t. I moved because I wanted to kiss her, and the way she pushed into me, I knew she felt the same way.

I could just let go, lean down to close the few inches between our lips and kiss her, remind her of how good it always was with us.

My hands trembled with the anticipation of touching her, and when I looked at her, I knew she was barely containing her own need to reach out. But I promised myself that if I ever got the chance, I’d do this differently. That I would not fall into the same patterns with Priscilla again. I’d promised myself, my friends, and her, even if she didn’t know.

So, I took a deep breath and stepped back. My shoulders tight with the tension of not going in for a kiss. “We should go back to the group—you know the parents must be about to send a search and rescue for us.”

She didn’t move, taking her time to assess me, like she was seeing me for the first time. “What’s up with you?” Her tone wasn’t so much hostile, just baffled. Like she really could not figure out what was going on with me.

“We’re good.” I tipped my chin in the direction of the group. “Let’s get going.”

I’d leave the question open, because I wasn’t sure either of us could answer it right now.

chapter six

priscilla

“I thought my folks were a little over the top, but Tom has them beat. Are those entire lobsters on that lunch buffet?”

I rolled my eyes at Easton’s delighted tone. You’d think a guy who was, for all intents and purposes, heir to a world-famous vineyard would not be fazed by free seafood. But this was just one of the reasons why Easton was forever invited to the cookout.

I laughed as I pointed at the dozen grilled prawns on his plate. “Damn, East, you really have been hanging out with my family too long. You won’t be able to eat all that.”

“For your information,” he said, haughtily pointing at the end of the pier that was part of the beachfront hotel restaurant. “I got some for my man, too. He went to grab us one of those lanais. These views are really spectacular.” We both turned to look at the white sandy beach and turquoise water. The lanais in question were lined along the pier. They looked like big four-poster beds covered on all sides with gauzy fabric that fluttered in the ocean breeze. I took a moment to appreciate the beauty of my parents’ homeland and wondered once again what it would’ve been like to grow up in a place like this. Where everything just beckoned you to slow down and play. To not be so focused on the next thing. Easton’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts and when I looked up, the smile on his face got me outof my fretting. “Come on, babe. Patrice is over there shirtless and horizontal.”

I had to laugh. “You’d think after a year, your thirsty ass would’ve calmed down about Patrice’s dick, but I guess that’s not happening anytime soon,” I teased, as we made our way down the wooden boardwalk.

He just shook his head, eyes trained on the man in question. “If anything, it’s worse.” He laughed and I marveled at the lightness in his voice. No reservation, no doubts.

“God, this place is pretty.” I grunted in agreement as Easton admired the view.

I’d been coming to the DR my whole life and had stayed in pretty gorgeous beaches and hotels, but this shit was next level. Dominican beaches were world-class, there was no question about that, and Juan Dolio was a stunner. You could walk until the water was up to your neck and still see your feet; that was how white the sand was and how clear the water. Except my dumb ass was not paying attention to any of it. My head was still stuck on Juan Pablo’s vibe at the cave.

I’d pushed and gotten close, half-expecting him to jump on it. Do something to give me an excuse to take things further, but he hadn’t. He’d kept his hands to himself. I needed to do the same. Was I a little taken aback by the fact that Juan Pablo didn’t even try to leer or say something ridiculous when it was just the two of us in that cave?

Of course.

But I wasn’t going to be the one to play games either. The last time we’d tried, things had gone up in flames and I swore I would not be the one to break. So far I wasn’t doing super great at it, but I wasn’t cracking either.

When we got to the lanai, we passed around plates of food and drinks. There were four huge chaises that could probably fit four people each, but of course the couples had alreadycommandeered three of them. Jude and Nesto were literally feeding each other ceviche in one, Easton dropped his ass on the one Patrice was clearly saving for him and no one else, and Camilo and Tom were on another one. That left the fourth one, where one Juan Pablo Campos was chilling, a cold Presidente in his hand.

For fuck’s sake, how was I supposed to get through this fucking week with that man looking like an entire fucking meal? He was wearing his usual tight swim trunks and Ray Ban aviators…with a Yankees fitted on his head. He’d been picking on a plate of tostones and fried fish, and his lips were just a tiny bit greasy. The way my stomach dipped just from the thought of leaning in and licking it off should’ve been the first sign that I was in real fucking trouble.

“Here.” I legit squealed and jumped about a foot in the air when he lifted a hand gesturing for my plate. “I’ll hold it for you, so you can get comfortable.” I passed him the glass of wine and plate then went around the to the other side of the chaise, trying hard not to look directly at the tattoo which just made the muscles on his smooth chest look that much more delicious. The man waxed and groomed more than any other person I’d ever met, and you’d think all the high maintenance bullshit would put me off his dick… Well, you’d be wrong. Because I was actively refraining from running a hand over all that brown skin.

As soon as I sat on the chaise, he placed my wine and food on the built-in wooden tray between us. As I worked on getting my top back in place, I kept my peripheral vision on him long enough to see him noiselessly suck on his teeth. My heart tripped inside my chest at the gesture—which was usually the precursor to him saying something filthy and extremely hot—and I fought the urge to push up to him. The electricity in the air that was ever present whenever Juanpa and I were within touching distance practically burning my skin.

And he was right there with me, close enough I could smell his citrusy aftershave and the shea butter and jojoba coconut oil he religiously rubbed on his skin each morning.

Fuck, drinking and this much contact with Juan Pablo was not going to end well.