“Good. I’ll call you next week to check in, but until then—”
I cut him off, “I know. Relax.”
He gives a short laugh, and then we hang up. I kick back on the lounger and wonder where I can get a drink made around this place.
I shake my head at myself and tuck an arm behind my head, trying not to think about the picture.
About people sharing it with captions like, “WTF?” and “Good for him,” as well as “Why are all the hot ones gay?” That’s not offensive at all.
I sigh, hating my personal life being out there.
All my life, all I ever wanted was a little privacy. I never got it.
And now, it seems to be at an all-time low.
CHAPTER THREE
Atlas
I walk into the on-site bar once my shift ends and plop down on a barstool. Holden, the bartender and my best friend on the island, walks over with a grin on his face. “Long day?”
“Same ole. But I’m off now.”
“You see the fresh meat on the island?”
He starts mixing my usual drink, rum and Coke, as I look around the bar, which is pretty empty. Though that’s not unusual for this time of day. It’ll pick up in a couple of hours. “Nah. Another spoiled rich boy?”
“Of course.” He slides my drink to me, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “But a hottie, nonetheless.”
I take a sip of my drink, my body tired from cleaning the villas on the resort side of the island, as well as a few of the common areas. But it’s only a few hours of work a day in exchange for living in paradise. I can’t complain. “And what is it this time? A politician who got caught with a prostitute? A rockstar caught with his pants down?”
Honestly, in the six years I’ve lived on the island, I’ve seen it all. It’s where the richest of the rich escape the press and the rest of the world. Their agents and publicists put out a statement that they were overworked or dehydrated or whatever the fuck, and they disappear for a few months.
Only the super-rich are allowed to be tired, let me tell you. I grew up with a single mother who worked three jobs and barely kept us afloat. There were no days off for her. Not a single one until the day she died. There certainly wasn’t a luxurious island waiting for her when she had a breakdown.
“Child actor caught in an adorable lip-lock with an unknown.”
I quirk a brow, taking another sip. “That doesn’t sound so scandalous.”
Holden pretends to clutch at imaginary pearls around his neck. “But . . . it was posted on his Instagram out of nowhere. And up until then . . .” He drops his hand with a sly grin, though he’s still playing it up pretty dramatically with a fake gasp. “Everyone thought he was straight.”
“Jesus Christ. That’s some coming out. Still not scandalous.”
“You’ve been on the island too long, my friend,” he says with a laugh and a shake of his head. “This is huge news. The former child actor turned alpha action movie star, who everyone thought was a womanizing bachelor, is kissing a dude on his Instagram. Then, radio silence.”
That’s strange. If he posted it, why would he need to hide? “What was it, a drunk post or something?”
He shrugs. “No one knows. No one has said a word. It’s been radio silence since he posted it.”
“Well, to each their own.” I toss back the rest of my rum and Coke, bored with the topic of yet another spoiled celebrity. “We still on for nude night on Friday?”
He tosses his head back with a hearty laugh and then winks. “You know it.”
I climb off the barstool and head for the door. “You’re one crazy fucker.”
Holden hosts nude night most Fridays for the staff. Not too many show up, but more do than you’d think. Just lying on the beach with a fire and our dicks hanging out for all to see. Nothing wrong with that, if you ask me.
There’s also booze and coconut bongs to let loose before we all go back to serving the rich and famous.
God knows, we need to blow off steam every once in a while.
I leave the bar and head to my place. It’s not too far away and happens to be a great apartment with a killer view of the ocean. Again, I can’t complain.
When I moved here, I needed a change. I’d just finished college and was about to go to work in the corporate world of Kansas City. Then, as I was trying on my tie for my first day of work, I just couldn’t do it.
My mom worked her ass off to send me to college, and I graduated, but it still wasn’t the life I wanted. I couldn’t stand the idea of fighting traffic to go to a boring office job every day and do the whole nine-to-five thing.
A friend told me about this elite, private island resort desperately needing staff. I applied, got hired right away, and never looked back. I keep the place clean and party as hard as I want when I’m not on duty. I follow all the rules. Don’t post about the guests. I barely even check social media. With the land, the ocean, and the few friends I’ve made, there’s really no need to.
Everything here is simple and beautiful.
My mother passed away right before I finished college. She worked every day to give me a better life, and we still barely scraped by. And for what? A degree? So I could maybe get a little bit ahead? That’s not always the way the world works. Yeah, I could have had a decent career. But happiness? I don’t think so. My mother wasn’t happy. She tried. She really did. But she was one of the unfortunate ones who was born poor. And she died poor with nothing to really show for it, other than a son with a college degree and no will to work in corporate life. She was an amazing woman, but I didn’t want that life. So when she died, it was an unbelievably easy decision for me to move here. To live my life to the fullest. To go on hikes and adventures and not be bogged down with bills and worries.
She always said she wanted me to be happy. I think, to her, that meant having money so I didn’t have to worry. But I found another way to be happy.
I won’t live my life stressed-out and worrying. There’s nothing left for me in Kansas City.
Nothing at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
Elijah
Oh my God, what the hell is that?
I swear, can’t a guy just get a good night’s sleep? For once? I had a vengeful ex out me to the entire world. I think I’m entitled to a little self-pity.
A little sulking and hiding under the covers in the king-sized bed in my villa.
I grumble when the knocking doesn’t stop and practically roll out of the bed. I’m only wearing a pair of black boxer briefs, and I’m sure my hair is in total disarray, but honestly, how much worse can it get?
My privacy has already been shot to hell.
I move to the front door, grumbling all the way, and tear it open—finding myself face-to-face with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. And I’m an actor. I work with beautiful people all the time.
But this guy . . .
Jesus Christ. He’s something else.
He’s massive. Both in height and build. The kind of build you don’t get from diets and daily workouts designed to whip you into on-camera shape.
No. This man is just large. His sandy-blond hair is shorter on the sides but unruly with wild waves on top. He has a dusting of facial hair in a neatly trimmed beard, which seems to be the result of not wanting to shave rather than wanting a sexy look.