“What?” I take a drink of my Long Island iced tea as she bites her lip.
Greer is on drink number three, so it’s no surprise that she’s giggling when she says, “I’d let you rip my panties—if I were wearing any.”
She winks at me, poorly, with both eyes closed, and that’s when I get a clue that Greer and Belizean rum aren’t to be mixed too heavily.
I drop my gaze instantly to the sandy floor beneath our feet and lock onto the short purple skirt she raided from the walk-in closet.
“You’re a naughty little thing, aren’t you?”
“It’s you and the rum. And because I wasn’t about to wear someone else’s panties.” She shivers in disgust.
“Fair enough.” I’m commando under my shorts, so I get it. “So that means no panties the entire time we’re here. I think I’m going to have fun with that little piece of information.”
She leans in closer. “Oh yeah?”
I nod slowly, ideas already springing to life in my head—along with my cock in my shorts. I need to turn this conversation to another topic.
“I think it’s time we get some food in you, baby.”
I lift my chin in the direction of the waitress lounging behind the bar, playing on her phone. She’s working on island time, but she must get the sense she’s going to get a decent tip because she tears off the ticket and crosses to the table more quickly than I’ve seen her move yet this afternoon.
I pay the tab and pull Greer from her seat.
“I’m not done with my Panty Ripper yet,” she protests.
“Food, woman. Or you’ll be passing out on me before we get home.”
“I’m not that drunk. Seriously. I can handle a few rum punch drinks.”
I watch her, expecting her to sway on her feet, but she’s steady. “Maybe you can.”
“You don’t know everything about me, Hollywood. I’ve got a few secrets.” Her sassy smile is followed by the press of her finger to my chest.
I wish she were the only one with secrets. And fuck, I want to know what her secrets are. I want to know everything.
“Is that right?”
She nods. “Damn right. A few more drinks and you can get me to spill them all.”
That makes one of us.
“So, what are you feeding me?”
I lead her out to the street and laugh. “Either lobster, conch, shrimp, or snapper.”
Every menu on this island is practically the same from what I can tell as we cruise down the rutted sand street in our golf cart, slowing for the speed bumps, which are nothing more than thick ropes lying across the road. Whatever gets the job done.
I spy one restaurant that looks like it has been recently remodeled. The benches are covered in mismatched pillows, and fans blow from every angle.
The chalkboard proclaims they have fresh conch ceviche, which isn’t a surprise, but I think Greer will be comfortable eating here. If there’s such a thing as an upscale Caye Caulker eatery, I think we’ve found it.
We settle at a table and put in an order for another round of drinks. It’s time to get Greer to spill those secrets.
Island time isn’t a totally new thing for me, but here on this tiny island, it’s a little extreme. We’ve waited twenty minutes for our drinks and the waitress hasn’t returned, so Cav makes his way to the bar to see what’s up.
What started out as a quiet afternoon in the village has turned into a busy evening. Backpackers staying in the hostels have ventured out with their dreads in tie-dyed head scarves and reggae music blares from the basketball court that sits right on the ocean.
Business is hopping in this little restaurant, but Cav makes a place for himself at the bar. Several women about my age or maybe younger, wearing shorts bordering on daisy dukes and semi-backless tops, take notice as he lifts his chin at the bartender to ask about our drinks and our waitress.
The bartender nods vigorously and turns to grab liquor bottles off the shelf lining the mirrored bar. Like any man at a bar, Cav gets sucked into small talk. My hands are empty and my buzz is wearing off, so I’ve got nothing to do but watch him—and the women.
A brunette in white shorts and a pale turquoise midriff-baring halter takes a second look at Cav. Not surprising because the man is looking fine as hell in his borrowed cargo shorts and the T-shirt that fits him snugly across the shoulders and chest.
Shit. Did she recognize him? Is our cover blown? Hell, maybe we should have stayed in the compound for dinner.
But that wouldn’t have made this little trip feel like we were something real. Then again, maybe this is the reality of a life we’d have. Always hiding behind walls to stay out of the eye of the paparazzi and fans.
From the way she wobbles on her stool, I’m guessing she might be too wasted to place him. His gray baseball cap covers his hair, and his head is turned in profile. Maybe she’s European and won’t recognize him? I’m not sure how big Cav is over there, but I’m desperately clinging to the hope that we’re not going to be outed. On an island this small, we really have nowhere else to hide besides the house. Gossip would spread in hours to every resident of this place.
I watch for a few more moments, nervousness twisting a knot into my stomach as she talks and laughs. Her blond friend joins the conversation, practically falling off her bar stool to get closer to him.
The knot in my stomach soon morphs into something other than nervousness. They’re surrounding him, each with a hand on his arm and one offering up her drink to him. Cav waves it away but the brunette insists, nearly impaling him with the straw. He relents and grabs the glass, sips from the side, and nods in approval.