Page 9 of The All-Inclusive

“How?”

I was afraid he might ask that. “Sara was raised a certain way.” Same way I was, more or less. “We’ve talked about our dreams since we were fucking teenagers. I know what she wants, and I can’t give it to her.”

Please let it drop.

Please let it drop.

Please let it?—

“Dumbshit.” Beck shakes his head, disgusted with me. “Women fucking love it when you decide for them what they want without giving them a chance to weigh in.”

Anger rolls through me, but not at my cousin. Beck isn’t wrong. It’s a damn lucky guess, since I’ve shared almost zilch about how I wound up crashing on his couch instead of counting pew bows.

I still don’t know what a fucking pew bow is.

But if Beck isn’t wrong, that means I might be. I’m not ready to face that.

To faceanyof my demons.

“Like you know what women want,” I mutter instead.

“I know relationships,” he claps back, waving to the bartender for another round. “Been married to Cam since before you even proposed to Sara.”

Like hearing his name was a cue, Cam strides in through the side door. He’s decked out in body armor under his shirt and there’s a Glock 22 strapped to the holster on his chest. He spots Beck on his barstool and grins like it’s fucking Christmas.

My chest squeezes tight as he makes his way toward us. “Hey.” He greets Beck with a fist bump, and me with a friendly nod. “You guys ordering another round?”

Beck nods and signals the barkeep. “How’d the job go?”

I tune out my cousin and his husband as they talk about private security shit. Most of their work involves government contracts and they speak in code words that mostly go over my head.

Grabbing my phone, I flip to my texts in case Sara decided to reach out. She didn’t.

But there’s a text from her mother that turns my blood to tar.

We’re signing the honeymoon package over to Sara. I know it was a gift for you both, but if you’re not getting married, we want her to be able to trade it for a trip of her own.

Fuck me.

What her mom doesn’t know—and I’ll never tell her—is that Holyfield Properties lets jilted brides trade in their honeymoon credits to visit their private, erotic resort. I know this, since Sara’s good friends both went there.

According to Sara, they enjoyed their time a lot.

Awhole lot.

Shit.

Sara wouldn’t do that, right?

I fire off a text to Camille.

Please tell me you’re not letting Sara go to the sex resort.

I’m not expecting a reply right away, so I’m surprised by the speed of her response.

Sara is a grown-ass woman, Trent. I don’t LET her do anything.

That’s not a no, and my blood starts to simmer. I text Camille’s boyfriend instead. I’ve developed an odd sort of friendship with the reclusive billionaire in the months since Sara introduced me to Ashton Holyfield. This seems like a valid reason to call in a favor.

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