A Flighty Fake Boyfriend (Men of St. Nachos #2) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,52

all this grout though.” He sat on the lip of the tub. “Where would you even start?”

“No clue. At home, I use a cleaning service,” I said. “I spend so little time at my apartment, if I didn’t, the dust bunnies would take over.”

“You need to take better care of yourself.”

I swiped my face with a towel. “I will consider your advice.”

“And you need to eat better.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“And drink less. Quit smoking.”

“Holy cow. My fake boyfriend is a closet life coach. Speaking of which, let me get a last smoke in on that beach.”

“Okay.” He snorted. “Because having a smoke where the air is fresh and delightful isn’t cognitively dissonant or anything.”

“Are we having a big word day?”

“Just saying.”

We stacked our things by the door and strolled through the grounds one last time. Memories of our stay were everywhere. The bench where we sat and talked by the plumeria. The pool where we swam and relaxed. The tropical garden where William propositioned me.

On this very walkway, Luis and I met for the first time in six years.

I had yet to wrap my head around them wanting me to be the cream in their sandwich cookie. How could Luis think I’d go along with something like that? Perhaps he knew I wouldn’t but had let William test me for his own reasons.

I would probably never know.

Epic didn't say anything as we ambled along. I wondered if he was playing our stay over in his imagination and what his thoughts would be. Whether we had a “spot” or if there was a moment that was particularly memorable for him.

When we got to my clandestine smoking spot, I withdrew my cigarettes and lighter and simply looked at them. They felt like a relic now. Like something from a time capsule that belonged to someone else.

I must have hesitated for a long time because Epic tapped my shoulder.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“It’s nothing. Just…I’ve only had two cigarettes a day for the last few days. First thing in the morning and last thing at night.”

His eyes twinkled. “Is that so?”

He was going to make me work for this. “It seems like I don’t actually need to smoke.”

“How odd. Why might that be?”

“Don’t laugh, you fucking brat.” Deliberately, I lit one to take that first drag of the day. My head swam pleasantly for a second. I lifted my hand and stared at the lit end. “Maybe I’m past it.”

Epic slipped behind me, close enough to put his arms around me. One hand went over my heart and the other smoothed over my hip where the slight ache of pleasure-pain told me I’d bruised the night before.

“You know what I think?” he asked.

“Tell me.” I took another drag.

“I think that for the last six years, every time you opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, you thought about Luis. Every time you pulled the foil, you saw his hands. Every time you flicked your lighter, you saw his face. Every time your lips touched the filter, you pictured his lips touching the filter of his cigarette, and that was how you kissed him.”

My throat closed over some instinctive denial, but it wasn’t for Epic. I’d stopped lying to him a day or two before.

“So maybe I don’t need them anymore?”

“Maybe you don’t.”

There were other reasons to smoke besides metaphorically kissing Luis, for God’s sake. I’d probably have to slap on a nicotine patch for a few days. Taper off. I stubbed the cigarette out and threw the butt—and the rest of the pack—into the trash.

We stood there for the longest time watching the waves roll in one after another. The tide had gone out. Seaweed and other detritus lay on the beach where a half dozen men in green groundskeeper’s uniforms combed the sand for trash. A pricy private beach must always appear pristine to guests—paradise untouched as long as one didn’t bother looking beneath the layers of carefully cultivated plants and behind the scenes maintenance.

I much preferred St. Nacho’s—what little I’d seen of it—with its coarse sand and weathered wooden fishing pier.

For six years, I’d been numb. I’d barely noticed my surroundings, whether I was in an office, an airport, a swanky hotel, or a packed clothing factory in a country where I didn’t speak the language.

Now I noticed everything—every cloud, every change in the light, every seabird, every breeze that lifted Epic’s dark hair.

And Epic. I noticed every single Epic, from bratty Epic, to happy Epic, to surprised Epic, to sad Epic, to the