Page 11 of Second Chance Vacation

Not that I ever had the chance to tell her that.

I stopped seeing Gen after we ended things, or rather aftersheended things. Until I left for college, I couldn’t think of a single-family function at which she wasn’t present. Gen and Hannah were inseparable as kids, even more so when they got into high school. That stopped being the case when we broke up. Once upon a time, our relationship seemed to transcend romantic interest.

Apparently, not for her.

Genevieve’s long brown waves fan over the collar of my T-shirt. A faint scent of jasmine hits my nose. How she went from lashing out at Savannah to snoring and passed out on my shoulder in the span of twenty minutes, I will never know.

Or maybe I will—vodka could do that when you are as short as she is.

The corner of my mouth quirks upward. As the shock of seeing her for the first time in nearly a decade begins to wear off, I find solace in her being around again.

Sun cascades through the window, painting her face in hues only reserved for the heavens. A faint yellow glow settles along her nose, pulling a grin from my lips. I know she is going to be an image of complete insufferable rage when she wakes up. Until then, I allow myself to enjoy the moment.

I am just me, and she is just Viv.

“So—how did you guys fuck this one up?” I say in a hushed tone, my brow raised as I force my gaze from Gen, staring directly at Savannah and Wes. The world is small, but I am not convinced it is so small that this isn’t by design.

“I honestly didn’t know,” Wes whispers. He rings his fingers tightly around each other before placing them in his lap. “You always called your sister’s friend Vivi. I never would’ve connected that person was Gen.”

My eyes move to Savannah lazily but irritated. Her blue eyes are already boring into my face. “Don’t look at me like that, Jax. Believe it or not, I am not some evil mastermind. I wouldn’t have dreamed of orchestrating this. I like my hair attached to my head, and inviting you may just be the thing that causes her to burn my hair off.”

At least Savannah has a complete understanding of how mad Gen is. My stomach drops at the reminder that she’s just as mad at me.

If the eleven-hour flight to France teaches me anything, it is that some things really don’t change. Gen sleeps like the dead when she drinks. Once she falls asleep on my shoulder, I leave her there because, frankly, I don’t want to wake her. No other reason. A faint yip fades into a snore, but I don’t have the heart to stir her. I know the moment she wakes that she’ll be filled with the same level of rage she left Georgia with, even more so if she realizes she slept on me for hours. Luckily, she shifts in her seat somewhere over the Atlantic.

As we begin to descend toward the airport, my eyes fix on the window. We push through the clouds, revealing a quaint beachside town with pastel buildings all lined up in a row next to the shore. I’ve been to France before, but never to Saint-Tropez. My sister prefers to stay around Paris, she says it is for the rich history, but we both know it is for the shopping. The densely packed architecture assaults my senses with gorgeous hues you don’t see on buildings in the United States. At my core, I’m a history buff, and I look forward to learning about this small coastal town’s rich history.

The tires screech as the plane breaks away with the concrete. Gen jolts out of her slumber. My arm instinctively shoots out to prevent her from falling forward. Hair sticks to Gen’s forehead, and her eyes are glazed over. She wipes her chin of what appears to be residual drool, which by the way, my shirt can attest to. Gen looks around hazily before making eye contact with me.

Man, I’ve missed those big brown eyes.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t look angry; she doesn’t look like she is about to swing at me. She looks almost…defeated?

I think I prefer her being angry.

At least when she is angry, I can justify not caring, but if she genuinely feels hurt? I am not sure I can stomach that.

Whether we like it, we are stuck together for the next three weeks and in each other’s lives again, more than likely, for a while. I sure as hell won’t give my friendship with Wes up to appease her grudge, even more so because I don’t entirely understand why she has one.

Grasping my suitcase from the attendant, I decide one thing—if we are stuck in another country together for three weeks, I won’t be fighting with her. If she wants to fight, she can fight Savannah, but me? I am not giving in to her delusions. The car approaches us on the tarmac, and we all pile in. I grab the door, allowing Gen to slide in. Her hair skates over my arm as she passes, causing the dusting of hair on my arm to stand.

I scoot in next to Wes, leveling my voice down to a whisper, “You seriously had no idea?”

“Not a damn clue.” His voice somehow comes out even more hush than mine. Wes, just like me, wants no part in awakening the wolf that is Genevieve Bennett, even if she is adorable when angry.

The view that is Saint-Tropez really is exactly as it is described in the books. People often romanticize most of France, but Saint-Tropez somehow manages to live up to the beauty described. The water crashes against the shore in such distinct intervals that you would think that it is a record, but no, it truly is just that perfect.

As I look over at Gen, I instantly find myself entranced by her awe, looking out the window. Her lips are parted as she takes in a silent gasp, which causes a faint smile to fall along my lips. I have become well acquainted with the beauty of France over the years, but to my understanding, Gen has never been. Whether this trip goes sideways, I am glad I can experience it with her. There is something magical about watching anything in life through the lens it is intended to be experienced.

The car creeps over the centuries-old brick road, and a small house comes into view. Although it appears smaller than the ones that neighbor it on both sides, the greenery that pokes through the most perfect landscaping I have ever seen quickly makes up for it. Savannah, to my understanding, isn’t the type to spare any expense, so it is safe to say that despite the house being smaller than the neighboring houses implies, it is sure to cost a pretty penny.

“Does your family own this place?” I inquire, watching the town car come to a slow stop in the drive up in front of the house.

“Unfortunately, Saint-Tropez is not the home of one of Daddy’s many properties.”

She sounds almost disappointed by this? My family has money for sure, but not Newmont-level money. Some life experiences are reserved for the extra rich, apparently.

I grip the weathered cognac leather handle in my palm as I throw the smaller of my two bags over my shoulder as we approach the extravagant entryway to the home. As the door flies free, it breaks way to a house that, despite the rich history of the area we are in, is nothing shy of modern amenities. The marbling tile shines to a sparkle and looks as if even the dust from the wind outside could scuff it away from its perfection. It looks as if the old home was recently remodeled. The entryway blends effortlessly into an open floor plan with a living area with furnishings just as pristine as the rest of the house on one side and a kitchen and dining room combination on the other. French doors cover the entire back wall of the house, stepping out over what looks like an infinity pool blending seamlessly into the sea.

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