Hot 4 (Multiple Love)

They can have normal lives where people won’t stare at them, imagining the ten-armed, ten-legged creature we resemble in bed. Sex wouldn’t be the first thing people think about when they walk into a room.

They might be enjoying this situation that I engineered, but it’s very unlikely that they’d want it to become anything more.

“Greedy,” I echo. “Only on vacation.”

“It’s good let hair down on vacation,” she says. “Your men good-looking?”

I make an appreciative noise. “So good-looking.”

“From America too?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think you take these good-looking American boys home, yes? Why only vacation? With four husband you be very rich lady.”

“Very tired lady,” I chuckle.

“But tired from sex is good tired.”

My masseuse is definitely a very wise woman. “Yes. Good tired.”

“So maybe you need rest now. I stop talking.”

She continues to knead my muscles before moving on to twist my fingers and toes in their sockets until they crack. That has to be my least favorite part of the experience, especially when her hands are on my feet, but by the time the hour is done, I feel boneless and loose-limbed.

“Thank you,” I say, as she covers me with a hot towel.

“You rest few minutes. I get water.”

She disappears, and I exhale deeply, letting the warmth seep into my bones and trying not to think about how little time I have left in this amazing country. The boys will be leaving the day after me, so my departure will be the point of goodbye. I have two options. I can make it hard and stay with them until the end, or I can leave them a note and disappear so that this experience can end on a high. As much as I crave their kisses and hugs, I know that the emotion won’t be good for any of us. I want them to remember me as the woman that I’ve been: confident, demanding, sassy and fun, not a pathetic, blubbering, emotional mess.

I sit up on the bed, wrapping myself in my towel, and drink the water that my masseuse brings me. It’s flavored with fresh lemon and is deliciously refreshing.

“Thank you so much,” I say.

“No, thank you. I like your story, Connie. You woman who get what you want.” She gives me a wink, and I take a note of her name so that I can leave her a tip.

In the changing rooms, I pull on my swimsuit and pale blue summer dress. I leave cash at the desk on my way out, and the receptionists giggle to themselves when I turn my back. I guess they’re imagining the sex, just like I predicted.

The sun is still shining as I make my way back to the main hotel, crossing the outdoor restaurant and rounding the swimming pool. Children splash around as their parents keep a watchful eye. A sweet little girl in a swimsuit covered in strawberries trots with an inflatable ring around her middle. She has the cutest ringlet curls and a sweet cherub face. For the first time ever, I get a pang for a child of my own, and it’s so strong that it hits me in the chest.

Where the hell has that come from?

Maybe it’s thinking about the boys becoming husbands and fathers. They’d make pretty children, just like this little girl.

I gaze back at her as she scrambles to sit on the edge of the pool and splash her legs in the water. When I turn, I run into the chest of a man coming in the opposite direction. He grabs me by the shoulders, easing me away from him.

“Sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” When I glance up at his face, the blue of his eyes and his strong, straight nose take me by surprise. It’s like looking at an older version of Holden and Harris, and Karter and Kane amalgamated into one man.

“Connie, isn’t it?” He cocks his head to one side, his eyes drifting over my scantily-clad form.

“Yes. You’re Blake. Conrad’s brother.”

“I am.” He slides his hands into his pockets, and something about the way he’s standing screams defensiveness. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

“Really?” I have no idea why he might want to seek me out for a conversation. I barely conversed with Conrad at the wedding, and he’s the father of the men who married my best friend.

“I know what’s going on between you and my boys.”

Blood races to my cheeks, hot and mortifying. “What?” I blurt.

“Conrad might have permitted his sons to make a huge and disgraceful mistake, but I’m not going to do the same.”

I take hold of the strap of my purse, fumbling for something to do with my hands, while inside, I die of embarrassment.

Disgraceful mistake.

Is that what he thinks of me?

The same crushing feeling I get when I’m talking to my own father spills through me. I’m tongue-tied, the shock of his awful words stealing any kind of response from my throat.