Page 50 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)

Gemma

Cadiz, Spain

The Spanish sun was intense, and I pushed my sunglasses down the moment we stepped off the gangway, understanding why Brian had spent twenty minutes lecturing us about UV protection. After two days of the ship's gentle rocking, solid ground felt wrong beneath my feet, like the earth itself was somehow unstable.

"Sea legs,"

Enzo said with a grin, catching my elbow as I stumbled down on the dock.

"Takes a little time to readjust."

The beach at Cádiz spread before us like something from a travel magazine, all golden sand and impossibly blue water, edged by a patchwork of beautiful historic buildings and more modern hotels. Brightly colored umbrellas dotted the sand, and in the distance, I could see a grand cathedral on the other side of the curving landmass. I could smell salt air mixed with sunscreen and the faint aroma of grilled seafood from nearby beach bars. The contrast to Bath's grey stones and proper gardens was so stark it felt like stepping into another world entirely.

I'd rented us what the concierge had called .

"deluxe beach experience"

— a cushiony shaded lounger with billowing curtains, that could be pulled closed for privacy, and a dedicated server who appeared every twenty minutes to refill our water glasses and offer fresh towels. It was ridiculous and excessive and exactly what I needed.

"Fantastic,"

I muttered, settling onto the big, wide cushion, looking out at the water with a smile.

"This is what people mean when they talk about relaxation."

Enzo flopped down beside me with considerably less grace, his canvas beach bag spilling its contents across the pristine white fabric.

"This is what I was trying to tell you. Sometimes the best thing you can do is absolutely nothing."

Brian, however, was already pacing the perimeter of our little paradise like a caged animal. He'd kept his rash guard on despite the heat, the navy fabric clinging to his chest in ways that made my mouth go dry. Every few seconds, he'd check his fitness tracker, then scan the beach like he was looking for something specific.

"I'm going for a run,"

he announced suddenly.

"The UV index is manageable for the next hour, and I need to maintain my training schedule."

The words were barely out of his mouth before I heard myself saying.

"I'll come with you."

Brian's expression shifted from surprise to something that looked suspiciously like concern.

"Gemma,"

Brian said carefully.

"when's the last time you went running?"

“Are you saying I’m not fit?” I asked.

Enzo eyed me from head to toe.

“Looking very fit to me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Sure, maybe my exercise routine consisted mainly of yoga classes squeezed between meetings and the occasional Pilates session. But something about his assumption that I couldn't keep up made my spine straighten with determination.

“I think I can manage a light jog on the beach."

"Fuck it,"

Enzo said, bouncing to his feet.

"If Gemma's going, I'm going. Can't let you two have all the fun."

Brian sighed — the long-suffering sound of a man who specialized in cleaning up other people's messes.

"You can come if you want to, but I'm not adjusting my pace. And I'm not carrying anyone back when they collapse from heat exhaustion."

The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and I felt something competitive and decidedly unprofessional unfurl in my chest. When was the last time someone had dared me to do something physical?

"Wouldn't dream of slowing you down,"

I said, stripping off my cover-up to reveal the navy bikini underneath. The way both men's eyes tracked the movement sent heat pooling low in my stomach. Maybe that reaction that should have embarrassed me, but instead it felt like power.

"Right,"

Brian said.

"Let's go then."

He took off down the beach with the fluid grace of someone who'd been running seriously for years, his stride eating up distance with mechanical efficiency. The rash guard clung to his back as he moved, revealing the play of muscles beneath the fabric, the powerful drive of his legs as they carried him across the sand.

"Holy shit,"

Enzo breathed beside me, both of us momentarily transfixed by the sight.

"When did accountants start looking like that? And when did I develop a thing for thick thighs?"

“It’s the power, I think. Shit, we’re supposed to be running, not imagining how hard Brian can fuck.”

My brain-mouth filter had vanished under the mesmerizing influence of Brian’s magnificent body.

Enzo hooted with laughter, and we stumbled into motion, scrambling to catch up. The sand shifted treacherously beneath my feet, each step requiring more energy than it should have, and within minutes I could feel sweat beading along my hairline despite the ocean breeze.

The sun was relentless, beating down on my shoulders and back with an intensity that made me grateful for Brian's earlier sunscreen lecture. I could taste salt in the air with every gulp of oxygen.

"Jesus,"

Enzo panted beside me, already falling behind despite his longer stride.

"It’s like chasing some kind of fitness android."

I tried to laugh, but the sound came out as more of a wheeze. My lungs were burning, my legs felt like they were made of lead, and Brian was still pulling away from us with the inexorable certainty of a tide.

"Maybe he's a cyborg,"

Enzo continued, his usual humor intact despite his obvious distress.

"Secret government experiment gone wrong. Mild-mannered accountant by day, superhuman running machine when it’s time to get his steps in."

This time I did manage a laugh, though it cost me precious oxygen I couldn't afford to spare. Brian had become a distant figure now, his navy rash guard a small splash of color against the endless stretch of golden sand. He moved like running was as natural as breathing, his form never wavering despite the heat and the challenging terrain.

Meanwhile, between our laughter and our wheezing, Enzo and I were barely managing to stay upright. My competitive streak, so fierce just minutes ago, was rapidly being overwhelmed by the reality of how spectacularly bad at running I actually was.

"Fuck this,"

Enzo gasped, slowing to a walk.

"I'm calling it. He wins."

We collapsed onto the sand like marionettes whose strings had been cut, both of us gasping and laughing in equal measure. The hot granules stuck to my sweat-slicked skin, gritty and uncomfortable, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Enzo landed beside me with considerably less grace, his chest heaving as he stared up at the cloudless Spanish sky.

"That was humiliating,"

I wheezed, pushing damp hair back from my forehead.

"Speak for yourself, Gem. I lasted at least thirty seconds longer than you did."

"You did not."

"Did too. I saw you slow down first."

"Do you think we could spend the rest of the cruise training, then redeem ourselves?”

Enzo snorted.

“I thought you were catching a flight to Valencia tomorrow?”

“Perhaps I’ll stay a tiny bit longer, to recover my dignity.”

I turned my head to glare at him, which was a mistake because it gave me a clear view of how the run had affected him. His dark curls were damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to brush them back. The exertion had flushed his light brown skin, and his chest rose and fell in a rhythm that drew my attention to muscles I'd been trying very hard not to notice.

Enzo's laugh was rich and warm, the kind of sound that made me want to say funny things so I could hear it again.

"You know what we're going to do? We're going to walk back to that fancy beach chair thingy you rented, and when Brian comes jogging back all smug and super fit, we're going to pretend we beat him there. Act like we were so fast we had time for a leisurely drink and a nap."

The absurdity of it made me giggle, like I was sixteen instead of thirty-two.

"He'll never believe that."

"Won't he, though?"

Enzo pushed himself up on his elbows, his grin wicked.

"Brian's polite. He won't call us liars to our faces, even if he knows we're full of shit."

We helped each other to our feet, brushing sand from places it had no business being, and started the slow walk back toward our cabana. The sun felt less brutal now that we weren't trying to run through it, and the ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and something tropical that made me think of expensive resorts and carefully curated relaxation.

"You know,"

I said as we found a spot to sit near the water's edge, close enough that the waves could lap at our feet.

"I'm starting to think there's more to you than the charming drifter act."

Enzo settled beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed when the breeze shifted his curls.

"What gave it away? My devastating wit or my incredible athletic prowess?"

"Your complete inability to let me feel sorry for myself," I said.

“I know you said this was all Imogen’s idea, but I know that’s not true. You have a good heart, Enzo.”

Something shifted in his expression, the easy confidence faltering enough to reveal the man underneath. He picked up a shell from the sand beside us — a small, spiral thing the color of sunrise — and turned it over in his hands.

"My mom used to collect these," he said.

"Conch shells, when we'd go to the Jersey shore every summer. She'd line them up on the windowsill in our kitchen, said they brought the ocean home with us."

His thumb traced the shell's ridges.

"She died when I was eight. Cancer."

The simple words hit me with unexpected force. I'd known he'd lost his mother young - it had been mentioned in passing during some conversation with Jake - but hearing him talk about her, seeing the way his features softened with memory, made it real in a way that statistics never could.

"That must have been devastating.”

"Yeah, well."

He shrugged, but I caught the way his jaw tightened.

"Life happens, right? Dad did his best, but running a small business and raising a kid by yourself, that’s a lot for anyone, especially someone dealing with grief."

"Is that when the problems started? The bullying you mentioned?"

Enzo was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its usual playful edge.

"No, it was a few years later. Puberty hit me hard, and I realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t just girls that got me going. Between that and my mom… well, my teen years sucked.”

I lifted up onto an elbow, looking down at him.

“I’m so sorry.”

“His name was Marcus Li.”

He was still staring at the shell, turning it over in his hands.

"God, I had such a crush on him. He was smart, funny, played guitar in this terrible garage band that I thought was the coolest thing ever. And I was stupid enough to think... I don't know what I thought. That maybe he looked at me the same way."

I watched his profile as he talked, noting the way vulnerability transformed his features. Without the cocky grin and easy charm, he looked younger, more uncertain. It made my chest tighten with an emotion I couldn't quite name.

"Did you tell him?"

I prompted gently.

"I wrote him a note. Pathetic teenage poetry. Something about how I couldn't stop thinking about him, how maybe we could go to the movies or hang out, just the two of us. I thought I was being romantic. Turns out I was giving his friends ammunition."

"They shared it?"

"Photocopied it. Posted copies around school. Made sure everyone knew that Enzo Santori wrote love letters to straight boys."

His hand tightened around the shell until I was afraid it might crack.

"The worst part wasn't even the name-calling or the shit they'd say in the hallways. It was the way Marcus looked at me afterward. Like I'd contaminated him just by wanting him."

The raw pain in his voice made me want to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort, but I wasn't sure he'd welcome the gesture. Instead, I shifted closer, letting our thighs touch in what I hoped was a gesture of solidarity.

"High school boys are particularly vicious creatures," I said.

"I'm sure it had more to do with their own insecurities than anything actually wrong with you."

"Maybe."

He looked at me, and I was struck by how different he seemed without his usual armor of humor and bravado.

"But it fucked me up for years. Still does, if I'm being honest. How are you supposed to know if a guy is interested? With women, I’m confident, I know how to flirt. But men..."

He trailed off, shaking his head.

"I’d imagine it's terrifying. Never knowing if you're reading the situation correctly, if you're about to make a fool of yourself or worse."

"Exactly."

His smile was grateful, if a little sad.

"So I stick to women. Safer that way, even if it means missing out on half of what I want."

The confession hung between us, intimate and honest in a way that made my pulse quicken. This was the real Enzo, the one who existed beneath the charming facade: vulnerable, thoughtful, carrying wounds that hadn't quite healed.

I found myself studying his face with new eyes, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. He really was beautiful, in that effortless way.

"What about you?"

he asked, jarring me from my inappropriate cataloging of his features.

"Any deep, dark secrets you're carrying around?"

I felt heat rise in my cheeks, thinking of all the things I could say. The college boyfriend who'd left me feeling broken and inadequate. The years of faking orgasms, of pretending that quick, efficient encounters were enough.

"Growing up Bancroft wasn't always easy."

I picked a safer truth.

"The expectations, the constant pressure to be perfect, to represent the family name properly. Sometimes I think my parents loved the idea of me more than they actually loved me."

Enzo's expression softened with understanding.

"That's why you work so hard. Why you can't seem to let yourself just... be."

"Probably."

I picked up my own shell, smoothing my thumb over it.

"My first serious boyfriend, I thought he loved me for who I was, not what I represented. But when things got difficult, when I couldn't be the girlfriend he wanted..."

I stopped, realizing I was dangerously close to spilling all my secrets.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m sharing this.”

"It’s okay, if you want to share. What happened?"

"He left. Said I was too cold, too controlled. That being with me was like dating a beautiful statue; lovely to look at, but ultimately unsatisfying."

The words still stung, even after all these years. Andrew's frustration, his accusations that I was holding back, that I wasn't giving him what he needed. If only he'd known how desperately I'd wanted to, how much I'd tried and failed and tried again.

"That's bullshit,"

Enzo said with quiet vehemence.

"You're not cold. Controlled, maybe, but that's not the same thing. And any man who can't see the fire underneath that composed exterior doesn't deserve to get burned by it."

"You don't know me well enough to make that assessment."

Before he could respond, before I could process the way his words were rearranging something fundamental in my brain, the sound of approaching footsteps made us both turn. Brian was jogging back toward us. He didn’t look winded despite what had to have been miles of running, and his rash guard was still clinging to his torso in ways that made my mouth go dry all over again.

"There's our cyborg."

Enzo’s easy humor slid back into place like armor, as if we’d never had such a deep conversation. But when he looked at me, when our eyes met for a moment before Brian reached us, I caught something raw and honest in his gaze that made my pulse skip.