Loaded Summer - Part 20 (Patreon)

All characters appearing in this work are entirely fictional and were created by Blake Hart. All characters depicted in the written content or in AI-generated visuals are 18 years of age or older.

Lara takes one look at my face and starts laughing, which is particularly annoying because I'm still trying to figure out whether I'm more pissed off about Brandon or embarrassed about Felix.

“You totally set that up,” I tell her, leaning against the desk.

“Yeah, and no regrets.” She doesn't even attempt to look innocent, instead swiveling her chair toward me with a grin. “Figured you needed a change of scenery, and did you see him? So handsome!”

I open my mouth to argue, but the trouble is that I did see him, and I can't honestly disagree with her. Peter has the kind of face that makes you look twice without necessarily meaning to, with that dark, slightly messy hair, those blue-green eyes, and a jaw that looks good from pretty much every angle. He's in great shape, too, though the fitted white polo and those white trousers do a pretty good job of making that obvious without looking like he's trying to show off. The silver watch on his wrist probably costs more than my entire summer wardrobe, and somehow even that suits him.

“Yeah, he's handsome,” I admit, trying to sound as though this is an entirely unremarkable observation. “Congratulations on having functioning eyesight.”

Lara laughs. “Oh, don't get defensive. I didn't say you had to marry him.”

“I'm not defensive.”

“Of course not.”

I give her a look, and she grins wider, clearly enjoying herself. Ordinarily, I'd give her a hard time right back, but I'm not in the mood to provide entertainment, especially when she's already managed to arrange a front-row seat to my humiliation without even having to leave the front desk.

Besides, she has a point about the change of scenery, even if I'm not about to tell her that. I could use something to take my mind off Brandon, and Peter seems like a perfectly good distraction, provided he doesn't turn out to be another complication I don't need. He's a guest, I'm working, and there's no reason for me to make anything of a guy checking into a villa.

The phone on the desk crackles before Lara can find another way to annoy me.

“Front desk, Will speaking.”

“Hey, Will, it's Marco.” His voice comes through the little speaker, sounding slightly muffled. “Mr. Quince wanted some extra pillows for his room. Do you know where we keep them?”

“Top shelf in the linen cupboard, I think. I'll bring them over.”

“Oh, great. Thanks, man. Sorry to bother you.”

“No worries. I'll be there in a minute.”

I hang up and turn toward the cupboard, only to catch Lara watching me with an expression that suggests she's got something else to say.

“What now?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just thinking you seem awfully interested in Mr. Quince for someone who insists he's only a guest.”

“I'm interested in doing my job, which apparently involves carrying pillows around the resort.”

“Right. Very professional of you.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself, and head into the linen cupboard before she can drag the conversation any further. The shelves are packed with fresh towels and pillowcases, and I have to reach over a stack of folded blankets to get at the pillows on the top shelf. I pull out two, tuck them under my arm, and grab a pair of clean cases on my way out, already thinking about how much easier the afternoon might be if I could just get through a few hours without someone making a mess of my personal life.

The corridor leading to the service entrance is quiet, with the faint hum of the ventilation system and the distant sound of people talking outside. I'm halfway toward the back door when Marco comes around the corner, walking slowly enough that he nearly bumps into me before noticing what he's doing.

“Hey,” he says, then looks at the pillows in my arms. “You're taking those up?”

“Yeah. Peter asked for them.”

Marco nods, but he doesn't move right away. Up close, he looks like he's been having a rough time of it, his eyes a little red and his expression strained in a way that makes me suspect he's been trying not to cry. I don't know whether it's about Brandon, about me walking in on them, or something else entirely, but the sight of him makes the irritation I've been carrying around all morning feel a little less straightforward.

“Will, can we talk for a second?” he asks.

I shift the pillows against my chest, trying to find a comfortable way to hold them without dropping the pillowcases. Part of me wants to hear what he has to say, because whatever happened in the dorm wasn't exactly a great way for any of us to start the day. Another part of me is sick of having to deal with Brandon's games and the fallout that comes afterward, especially when I'm not even sure what Marco thinks I have to do with any of it.

“Not right now, Marco. We can talk later, okay? I have to deliver these to Mr. Quince.”

His expression falls, and for a moment I think he's going to argue, but instead he looks down at the floor and nods.

“Yeah, sure. Later.”

There's something in the way he says it that makes me feel like an asshole, though I can't quite decide whether that's because I've actually been one or because I'm so used to smoothing things over with people that I feel guilty whenever I don't. Marco is my friend, or at least I thought we were getting there, and I don't particularly like seeing him upset. But I'm not ready to drop everything and sort out his feelings about Brandon when I haven't even sorted out my own.

“I'll find you later,” I tell him, because it's the best compromise I can manage at the moment.

He gives me a small nod and steps aside to let me pass, and I continue down the corridor with the pillows tucked awkwardly under my arm, wondering whether I'll actually follow through on that promise or find some excuse to put the conversation off again. I don't want to be cruel to Marco, but I also don't want to keep being the guy who makes himself available whenever somebody else needs something, regardless of what it costs him.

For once, I'd like to decide what I want to do with my afternoon without having to account for Brandon's ego, Marco's feelings, or my own spectacular inability to leave handsome men alone.

And now I've got a villa to deliver pillows to, which seems like a reasonable place to start.

I make my way to the villa and knock twice, balancing the pillows against my chest, and hear Peter call from inside.

“Come in.”

He's standing near the back of the room, pulling a fresh T-shirt over his head. I catch a glimpse of his bare abs before the fabric drops into place, enough to register the lean definition of his stomach and the broadness of his shoulders. He looks like someone who keeps himself in shape without making a whole personality out of it, which, frankly, seems unfair. Some guys have to work for everything.

“Extra pillows,” I say, lifting the stack slightly.

“Perfect. You can leave those upstairs, please. Anywhere in the bedroom is fine.”

I take the stairs, set the pillows on the bed, and return to find him standing by the windows at the back of the villa. Beyond the glass, the afternoon sun catches the water, turning the surface into a scattered sheet of silver. The trees along the edge of the property move gently in the breeze, and the whole view looks like something you'd find on a postcard that costs six dollars because it's been printed on fancy paper.

“Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Quince?”

He doesn't answer. He's looking out at the water, his attention fixed somewhere beyond the distant point where the sea meets the sky. There's something strangely absent about his expression, as if he's forgotten where he is for a moment.

I wait, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Maybe he's expecting me to disappear on my own. Rich guests can be weird about that sort of thing, although Peter hasn't struck me as particularly precious so far.

“Mr. Quince?”

He blinks and turns his head.

“Oh, sorry.” He gives me an apologetic smile. “I got distracted. It's just so beautiful here.”

I glance toward the windows again. “Yeah, it really is, isn't it? I feel pretty lucky working here. Sometimes you almost forget how beautiful it actually is, especially when you're running around all day dealing with guests and their various emergencies.”

“Emergencies?”

“You'd be amazed. Yesterday, someone called the front desk because a bird had stolen a piece of toast off their breakfast tray. Apparently, this was a serious security concern.”

Peter laughs, looking genuinely amused. “Did you manage to resolve the situation?”

“Unfortunately, the suspect fled the scene before we could question him. We're still investigating.”

“Shame. I hope management is taking this seriously.”

“There's talk of setting up a task force.”

“Good. I'd hate to see standards slipping.”

I grin before I can help it.

“I've always liked the coast, anyway,” I add. “The ocean, the beaches, all that stuff. I grew up a little farther inland, so coming here for the summer feels like a pretty good deal. I also love to swim.”

“I could tell you appreciated the place when you checked me in.” He turns back toward the view, though this time he seems more present. “It's something else. I love the ocean, too. I row back home, and I swim a lot too.”

“You swim?”

He looks over at me. “Is that surprising?”

“No, I just didn't expect you to say rowing. You have a very specific rich-guy hobby list going on.”

His eyebrows rise. “Rowing is a rich-guy hobby?”

“Come on. You can't tell me it isn't. What's next, polo? Sailing? Do you have a collection of sweaters you tie around your shoulders?”

“I don't tie sweaters around my shoulders.”

“That's exactly what someone with a collection of shoulder sweaters would say.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “I'll have you know I do plenty of ordinary things.”

“Like what?”

He considers this, apparently taking the question more seriously than I intended. “I do my own laundry.”

“Wow. Should I get you a medal?”

“Only if it's gold.”

“Of course.”

I like that he doesn't seem offended by the teasing. Some people who stay in places like this expect you to play along with whatever image they've built of themselves, but Peter seems perfectly happy to let me take the piss out of him. Maybe he's just good at pretending.

“And you swim, too?” he asks.

“Yeah. I'm on the swim team at college. Been swimming since high school.”

“Really?” His expression brightens with genuine interest. “What events?”

“Mostly freestyle. Some backstroke. Depends on what the coach needs.”

“How often do you train?”

“During the season? A lot. Enough that I sometimes dream about the sound of the starting buzzer, which is probably not a healthy thing to admit to another person.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is. But I like it.” I shrug. “It's one of the few things I'm pretty good at, so I try not to screw it up.”

The words come out more honestly than I'd intended. I don't know why I add that last part. Maybe because swimming is one of those things I can talk about without feeling like I'm trying to impress someone. I'm not the best guy on the team, but I've put in the hours, and nobody can take that away from me.

Peter nods, taking the answer at face value rather than offering some big motivational speech. “You should join me for a swim, then. How about tomorrow?”

I hesitate. “Sorry, I can't. Staff aren't supposed to hang out with guests like that.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “You don't really strike me as someone who always follows the rules.”

I give him a look. “You've known me for about ten minutes.”

“And yet I'm already forming a very strong impression.”

“That's a dangerous habit.”

“Probably.” His smile lingers. “Come on. I'll take a swim later tonight, around eight. If your shift's over, you should join me.”

I should tell him no. It's the sensible answer, and I'm already doing a decent job of collecting reasons to keep my personal life separate from my job. Besides, the last thing I need is another situation where I end up making things complicated for myself because a good-looking guy asks me to do something.

On the other hand, it's just swimming. Two people in the ocean, doing something they both enjoy. It's hardly a scandal.

Still, I'm not about to commit to anything while I'm standing in his villa with a stack of fresh towels on the nearby dresser and a name badge clipped to my shirt.

“I'll think about it,” I say.

“Fair enough.”

He doesn't push, which I appreciate more than I expect to. He simply turns back toward the window, letting the invitation sit between us without making it into a challenge.

I glance around the room, checking that I've left the pillows where he wanted them. “So, anything else you need?”

“No, sorry. I didn't mean to keep you.”

“You're fine. Just call the desk if you need anything.”

I start toward the door, already mentally working through the rest of my shift, when I hear him behind me.

“Will?”

I turn.

“Thanks for everything.”

It's a simple thing to say, and he says it without the exaggerated politeness some guests use when they want you to know they're being generous. For a second, I can't think of anything clever to answer.

“No problem,” I say, then add, “Try to keep the birds under control while I'm gone.”

“I'll do my best.”

I leave him smiling by the window and head back down the path toward the main building, the sea breeze pushing against my shirt. I've met plenty of attractive guys, and I've met plenty of people who know how to make a conversation enjoyable. It's less common to find someone who can do both without making me feel like I'm auditioning for something.

I tell myself the invitation doesn't mean anything. Peter's on vacation, I'm working, and an evening swim is just an evening swim.

Besides, I haven't even decided whether I like him yet.

But as I make my way back toward the desk, I catch myself wondering what the water will be like around eight.

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