The Story of Us

Chapter 2

Cancun, Mexico

27 Months Ago

Finley has one of those bodies. You know, the kind that's perfect without ever having to work at it. Flat stomach; hourglass figure; long, toned legs; and a solid D cup. If I didn't love her so much, I'd probably hate her. She's wearing a bikini today that would fit a Barbie doll. Her one-hundred percent real boobs remain perky despite the tiny string holding them up. Mine is a halter tankini, solid black for slimming purposes, where only my back and a small strip of stomach shows. I feel like a whale.

"Stop picking at your suit and go get us margaritas," Finn says, nodding toward the hut bar farther down the beach.

"It's ten o'clock in the morning." I don't mention that our flight landed in Cancun not two hours ago. All I want to do is sleep. I don't mention that either because Finn's already glaring at me for my "it's too early to drink" comment.

"It's spring break, Miss I'm-too-tired-for-the-beach. We agreed to sleep on the plane so we wouldn't spend precious time sleeping here. That's why we booked a red-eye flight."

"That was before I got stuck in the center seat between Snore Beast and Extrovert Extraordinaire. Did you know the same bunion can be surgically removed twice? I do now, and in graphic, step-by-step detail. Sleep was impossible." Finn, on the other hand, landed a window seat next to a woman with indigestion who spent most of the flight in the bathroom. Utterly unfair.

"You got an education. Come on, girl. We get seven days in paradise. Why waste it on sleep?"

"Because sleep is necessary for survival."

"Bah." She hands me a few bills. "Margaritas will help."

There's no use arguing with her. I take the money and accept the fact that I'll be a half-asleep zombie by dinnertime.

"You're bossy," I say.

"You love me."

Barefoot, I stumble over the hot sand. I vaguely wonder how I'll get two filled-to-the-brim margaritas back to our spot unscathed. I also wonder if they even serve margaritas this early. As soon as I make it to the counter though, I see a bunch of other college students with colorful icy beverages. I guess that answers my question.

"Dos margaritas, por favor," I say to the bartender. I have now exhausted my Spanish vocabulary. Hopefully he doesn't ask me anything.

He grins at me, his dark eyes scaling my body as his hands maneuver over the bottles of liquor. I don't take his obvious onceover personally. I'm sure all of the bartenders at this hut check out anything with two legs and a set of boobs. I'm not here for a spring fling, and no amount of dark skin and long eyelashes will sway me.

I'm single, and I have no plans of changing that status, even for one night.

"Dos margaritas para la senorita bonita," he says, sliding the glasses to me.

I hold out the bills, trusting that Finley gave me enough, but he takes a step back and holds up a hand. "No, no. Cortesía de la casa."

I have no idea what he said, but he refused payment for the drinks. "Oh, um, okay. Thank you."

"On the house, beautiful." He smirks, gaze blazing as it works up my body again.

I smile back, taking the drinks. "Thanks again."

I can feel him watching me as I walk away. I might not be here for the guys, but if they want to check me out and give me free alcohol, who am I to say no? It doesn't have to mean anything on my end.