Page 33 of Roaming Holiday

I glance around, but no men catch my eyes. None I’d fuck, anyway. I want to tease Beck, ask if he’s jealous, ask how he’d know I wouldn’t want the attention of the men who’d been staring. After all, it’s not his job to fend off interested suitors. But it wouldn’t feel right because I want him beside me. Having him around flows so easily that it unsettles me, so I order another drink.

The bartender says something in Maldanian to Beck, who offers a polite expression—not quite a smile—and responds in turn. They speak so fast that I don’t get a chance to decipher much of the conversation.

“You’re kinder when you speak Maldanian,” I say, taking a sip of my second piña colada.

“How would you know?”

I scoff. Way to rub it in that I’m not fluent. “Language is more than just words. It’s tone, body movements, and general attitude. It’s called secondary linguistical personality. For example, I’m more laid-back when I speak Spanish.”

The bartender sets a wet glass of ice water in front of him, its condensation instantly creating a puddle.

“Interesting. Second language per?—”

“Secondary linguistical personality. So you’re cold in English and a gentleman in Maldanian.” I smirk and take a sip of my drink at his glare. “Let’s only speak Maldanian. I need to learn it.”

“I’m not your teacher.”

I scowl. “Don’t be a dick. It’s unbecoming.”

The corner of his mouth tilts in a smile. He leans back and crosses his arms. “You don’t need me to help you. It won’t be long until you’re fluent.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You already know both Spanish and Italian. Your knowledge of Greek will help, too.” His matter-of-fact tone is rattling.

I set my drink down. “How do you know all of that?”

“It was in your file.”

“I have a file?” A new wave of discomfort washes over me. “What else do you know about me?”

Beck shrugs. “Enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is. You just don’t like it.”

“What else is in that file?”

Any relaxation I gathered in the last few minutes vanishes entirely. How many people researched me? I imagine someone taking photos of me while on campus, at a volleyball game, on a date with James. My Instagram account shows very little of my life and I keep my posts private. That made no difference. A whole team excavated information about me.

“Information. I know that your ex cheated and that your best friend just moved in with her NFL player boyfriend.”

My stomach drops. “You… you know about James?”

Oh, god. I can only imagine what he thought the moment he learned I was cheated on. That someone didn’t think I was important enough to stay loyal to. He shouldn’t know about James and Raven and Zafir. They’re not secrets, but they are pieces of my life that I haven’t shared with him or anyone in Maldana.

What did those people think of my life? Did they think I should’ve done more? Were they judging me—thinking I’m nothing like Mom and can’t fill her shoes?

“You had no right,” I blurt.

“Excuse me?” He doesn’t speak as if offended.

“You had no right to dig through my life like that!” I slip out of the chair, bag in hand, and start to walk away. Beck shouldn’t know these things and I feel weirdly violated that he does.

He trails behind me. “I didn’t do any digging. They handed me a file and I read it. It was a required step to protect my client adequately.”

I whirl on him, not caring if I’m loud. “I’m a person! My life is not a—not a step you have to take for a job!” I move closer, angling to look up and challenge him and his bullshit vague answers. “How would you feel, huh? If every detail of your life was displayed for people you barely know to analyze and make judgments? Don’t act like I’m not justified. Would you want strangers reading about your worst mistakes, Wesley?”

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