Our Love Story

But eyeing Noah, Ethan, and Enzo, I know divulging these details will only cause tensions to mount.

Instead, I decide to call the conversation quits.

“I had an amazing day, Mason, and can’t wait to spend time with each of you guys in the next few days. I feel like I’ve found myself in a fairytale.”

The guys share a look, one I can’t quite identify yet, but I have a feeling that over the next few days I will be learning all about their body language.

“Well, a fairytale with four Prince Charmings, maybe,” Ethan says with a smile that surprises me. He comes off as so serious. I like seeing him more laid back.

Once I finish eating, I lean back and look out at the sunset. The crashing waves and long sandy beach take my breath away.

“I could sit here all night,” I tell them. “But I’m exhausted. I swear every single muscle of mine is on edge.”

“Why don’t you go take a long bath, get some rest,” Enzo suggests. “That way you’ll be all ready for our one-on-one time tomorrow.”

I take Enzo’s advice and draw a long, hot bath. I soak in it, admiring the candles Enzo lit for me all around the bathroom. The fragrant bubble bath surrounds me and I let my head rest back in the Jacuzzi tub.

Maybe fairy tales do come true.

And maybe I found one in Jamaica.Chapter NineEnzoTo say I’m a little excited about this morning’s adventure is an understatement. Ever since I laid eyes on Chloe, all I’ve wanted to do is wrap my arms around her naked body and make love to her until the sun comes up.

That’s the kind of beautiful she is: captivating.

And when we go skydiving today, we’ll be pressed against one another as we jump from the plane.

I’m not telling her exactly what we’re doing until we get to the airport. To be honest, I’m a little scared this is going to terrify her and that’s the last thing I want to happen, but another part of me thinks once she gets over the initial fear she’ll be really into this.

I think that is just how it is with Chloe. Some moments, she seems like such a brave woman, willing to play into this fantasy with us guys. Not just any woman would do that. Lots of women would be too uptight and insecure and afraid of what other people might think.

But for all the ways she is confident in who she is and what she wants, she is also shy, timid, on the verge of falling apart.

I think it’s because she spent so much time alone. More time alone than any woman should ever have to.

As we drive to the airport in my open top Jeep, I asked about where she grew up.

“All over the place, really,” she tells me. “I don’t know what happened with my birth mom exactly, she wasn’t able to take care of me for whatever reason. And when I was seven years old I was put in foster care.” She says it very matter-of-factly, no hint of emotion, almost too self-assuredly. Like she has to keep the story tight or she might lose control.

“And your dad?”

“Oh, I never knew my dad. He was never a part of the picture.”

“Damn, dolcezza. Have you wanted to meet your mom? See her again now that you’re an adult?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “The state told me she overdosed when I was fourteen. When I found out, I didn’t even cry. I don’t know if that’s a tragedy or shows personal growth, but she was never a really stable part of my life, even before I went to foster care. I was kind of just traded from one family member to the next, stayed with random babysitters for a few weeks at a time. She never felt like my mom. So, when I found out that she died, it didn’t break me. Truth is, I think I was already broken.”

Her words take the air out of my sails. Damn, it’s hard to accept that this woman who looks damn near perfect––with her cute, upturned nose and pink, pouty lips––feels so broken inside.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. I can’t even imagine.”

“Well, we all have a story, right? What’s yours?” She looks over at me, pushing up her sunglasses and looking right at me.

She reaches for my hand that rests on the gearshift. Just like that, she touches me and I feel powerful. Like a man. Like I’m alive. Like I can take care of her in ways no one has before.

It also makes me feel like shit, because compared to hers, my life has been a fucking cakewalk.

I twist my lips, not wanting to make her sad.

“What?” she asks. “Is your story more tragic than mine?”

I shake my head. “Hardly. My life was mostly pretty cookie-cutter. Mom and dad, white picket fence, all that shit. My mom took care of me and my little brother, Damien. It was kind of like one of those too-good-to-be-true scenarios.”