Page 14

Nine

A s Julia plotted their logistics for tomorrow and outlined the key points she’d cover in her maid-of-honor speech, she tracked Carson. He circulated through the lobby, chatting with the staff posted at various service points. Now he was at the concierge’s desk.

What was he up to?

Never mind. She shook her head and returned her focus to her tablet. She had plenty of tasks to accomplish. Paying undue attention to Carson Miller was not one of them.

Five minutes later, he was still at the desk. The attractive concierge wore impeccably tailored clothing, waves of dark hair caught in a conservative low ponytail, and a friendly—but not flirty—smile. The poor woman was trying to do her job, and Carson was keeping her from it.

Julia should intervene. Not because she wanted to interrupt any bantering that might be happening. Not at all. She merely wanted to do a fellow hospitality worker a favor.

An unnecessary favor, actually, since he was headed back here, all smiles and loose-limbed enthusiasm. His predictable optimism both irritated her and made her laugh. This was actually golden-retriever energy, not frat bro.

“I have good news.” He dropped onto the couch next to her.

Hope bloomed in her chest as she tidied her jostled notebooks. “You got another room?”

He knit his brows. “I thought we’d settled that. If you want, though, I’ll go ask again.”

“No. Tell me the good news.” She caught his arm, then yanked her hand away like he’d shocked her. His thick muscle under her grip intrigued this future stepsister more than it should’ve.

“The hotel has a preferred vendor list for florists, photographers, DJs…basically everything we need for a wedding. The concierge emailed it to us.”

Oh. He hadn’t been flirting with her. Though their conversation might’ve been both an info mission and a flirtation. She had firsthand experience with his adept conversational skills. Not that his intentions toward the concierge were her business.

Get a fucking grip, Julia Stone.

“That’s good. We have those covered, but alternatives are useful.”

“Are you done for tonight?” Carson leaned closer. “Because the concierge—”

Did he have to sit so close? “What’s her name?”

“Gayonne. She said the reggae café next door is fun. She’s headed there when her shift ends. Want to go?”

Third-wheeling Carson’s meet-cute with the concierge and her Disney Princess–size brown eyes and neatly bound brown curls was her idea of hell.

“I’ll pass, thanks.” Julia rose, then shoved her tablet into her bag, which she let slide to the crook of her arm. As she rolled toward the elevators, she called behind her, “Don’t stay out too late. We’ve got an early morning.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” he boomed from the couch.

He didn’t follow.

She wouldn’t let that bother her. Not while she was on the elevator, not when she unpacked her clothes and sprayed them with wrinkle release or when she showered in piping-hot water strong enough to scrub travel grime from her skin.

She was still definitely not bothered when, an hour later, she sat cross-legged in an old concert T-shirt, loose PJ pants, and a towel wrapped around her head with her tablet in her lap. Still alone.

Noise from the hallway snagged her attention from the concierge’s vendor list.

Earlier, the room next door had been blasting a blend of punta and Caribbean soul music.

She enjoyed it, but wow, the walls in this hotel were thin.

Unlike their future resort. Nope. At Stone Adventures & Resort, people could expect privacy, like they were in a bubble, and free to do whatever they wanted—parties, meetings, wall-shaking orgasmic sex—without worrying about unintentional spies.

The door’s lock clunked, and the door slowly swung open.

“Hello?” she called.

Carson’s ear-to-ear grin when he locked eyes with her made Julia’s heart skip a beat. Most people emerged from night clubs a sweaty mess, but he glowed, glistened, effervesced.

Even more enviable? He was carrying a paper sack with telltale oil spots.

“I was hoping you’d be up,” he said. “Guess what?”

There went that darn heart skippage again. The sleep deprivation and stress was fucking with her judgment. She yanked the towel from her head and tossed her tablet aside. “What?”

“I booked a reggae band for the reception.” He handed the paper bag to her. “Here. You didn’t eat much at dinner, and Gayonne said this was the best sandwich on the island. You eat chicken, right?”

“I eat everything.” Warm air puffed in her face as she uncurled the crinkling bag. Oh, bless him. He’d gotten fries, too. “ Why did you hire a band for thirtyish people?”

He withdrew two Belikin beers from the mini fridge.

“Because it’s a destination wedding.”

She ignored his forearm’s sexy sinews as he held both bottles in one hand and uncapped them with the bottle opener, then handed her one. The effortless move sent a shimmer through her. Competency, attentiveness, and generosity was a surprisingly hot combination.

The beer bottle was perfectly frigid. “And?”

Carson parked his ass against the bureau. “The point of a destination wedding is to experience a different place and culture. Otherwise, why not host it in a hotel ballroom in Culver City?”

His frustratingly correct opinion would have chapped her ass if she weren’t scarfing the world’s most perfect chicken sandwich.

“Okay, fine, I agree. But can you check in with me before making big decisions? I’ll want to talk before you book a clown or a petting zoo.”

He pointed his beer at her. “You have my solemn vow that I’ll never book a petting zoo. Goats scare me with their weird rectangle pupils. Aliens.”

“Does that mean clowns are on the table?” The frothy beer bubbles scrubbed her throat, the perfect complement to the sandwich’s mild spicy heat.

He lifted a shoulder. “Never say never .”

“I’m saying never right now. Never book a clown for our parents’ wedding.”

“Feeling better?” His lips kicked up. “You were quiet after dinner.”

Julia was too tired to deny it or be embarrassed.

“Sorry.” She popped the last morsel into her mouth. After chewing, she said, “I know better than to splash my bad moods on other people.”

“You didn’t splash. In fact, I’d say you kept it tightly corked up. Which, in my experience, leads to explosions at inappropriate times. What’s the deal with your sister? Friend? Foe? Frenemy?”

“There is no deal.” She flipped her palms to the ceiling. “ That’s the problem. We used to be close, which meant our snarky opinions about each other’s lives were well-informed and valid. But I don’t know enough to have an opinion these days.”

He lifted a shoulder. “You seemed pretty close to me. The way you’re describing it sounds like you treat each other like adults now.”

Julia sighed. “I wish. She still sees me as a kid who gets whipped up by gossip and doesn’t do her chores.”

Carson was weirdly easy to talk to. He projected a nonjudgmental air, like he understood any less-than-perfect thoughts or feelings she burped out weren’t who she was at her core. When did he start to understand her so well? And why wasn’t that making her lose her shit?

Speaking of being nonjudgmental…

“Should I clear out?” she asked.

* * *

One day, Julia’s questions would cause him whiplash.

The last thing Carson wanted on God’s green earth was for Julia Stone to leave.

She gave good conversation, but also? Her tissue-thin shirt did nothing to hide her perky nipples.

Wonder what color they were? Cherry, like her favorite lip gloss?

Coral pink, like one of the dresses she’d hung up while he was gone?

Or more of a rose, something that matched her cheeks when he caught her staring at his chest. Any other woman and he’d be shooting his shot, angling for a way to peel that Blondie T-shirt from her and find out.

Not his dad’s wife’s daughter, though.

“Clear out?” He wrinkled his forehead. “Why?”

She lifted a shoulder. “You chatted up the concierge and then met her at the bar, so… I’m not Sherlock Holmes or anything, but I can read signals.”

Julia was terrible at reading signals. Because when she fiddled with her T-shirt’s hem and tugged the material tighter against her breasts, he nearly groaned. In a perfect world, he’d show her exactly how much he didn’t want her to leave this room.

Impossible. That was so far off the table, it was on the moon.

Julia would be his stepsister. Fuck this up, and he’d fuck up their blended family and his relationship with Dad.

“She’s an informed source, Sherlock, not a vacation hookup.”

“Oh, phew, okay, so you aren’t about to kick me out. I’d understand.” She knuckled her eye. “But I’m sleepy.”

Affection washed over him. She was a perfect blend of sexy and cute.

The few women he’d dated didn’t admit they got tired or hungry or that they had any other basic human need.

Might’ve been the fact that he’d met them in LA clubs and Las Vegas conferences, but they were sharks who didn’t shed a tear when he ended things.

Which had been mutually convenient, but he wasn’t sure he wanted that for himself anymore.

“Your eight hours of sleep is safe,” he said.

His, though, was shot to hell.

“Then I’ll brush my teeth again.”

As the bathroom door closed behind her, he popped open his suitcase.

He traded his clothes for a fresh T-shirt and basketball shorts.

Normally he slept shirtless and in boxers, but that didn’t seem appropriate.

Not when his dick would give his horny ass away.

What was the etiquette for hosting your almost-stepsister, whom you’d fantasized about kissing since you were eighteen years old?

Ah hell, the fantasies involved way more than kissing. Home runs.

Grand slams, actually.