Into You Series: The Complete Collection

5. Ian

CHAPTER 5

IAN

W e arrive at the resort late that afternoon. I had to expend most of my energy trying to melt Nia’s ice-cold exterior. The snide comments were like a game of chess, each of us attempting to stay moves ahead of the other. I love the game. I love her sass. Even when we stopped for tacos and all of us made it through the line ordering burrito after burrito, Nia ordered a salad, probably just to spite me.

I’m more offended on behalf of the burritos.

Now listen up: I have spent weeks, months, and years pining after Nia. She was the bright, unmoving, stubborn sun that lit up my days before I left Treasuries Inc. to open my own practice. I appreciate her tenacity, but if that girl gets her mind set on something, she sticks to it, even if that dedication is focused on hating me and burritos. Those poor things.

You would think my time away from Treasuries would have eased some of the animosity between us. I was hoping maybe she would forget how much I annoyed her—in particular, those last couple years in which her hatred really turned on full blast for reasons I, quite frankly, don’t understand.

We always butted heads to a degree, but we maintained a semblance of friendship, or maybe more of an understanding. The sarcasm, the witty exchanges…it kept the days interesting and fueled some unspoken spark, but she really laid into me during those last two years. She gave me my first and second write-up when she had never given me any before. She even made me sign the updated employee handbook. She hadn’t made me sign any of the updated editions since the day I started, even though I know for a fact she hounded the rest of the company to do so. In that last year, though? You bet your ass I signed each and every amendment.

But I’m done with that and ready to move on. Nia needs to know how I feel. I need to try one last time. I waited months to approach her, to have us in an environment that wasn’t constrained by stupid workplace policies. I could have tried my luck during the past few months since we weren’t co-workers anymore, but she would have probably been more willing to jump into the ocean and let the tide take her rather than meet me for lunch or dinner. No point in wasting my efforts then when I can put my all into it now.

I can’t live life with regrets. I learned that lesson before, and I don’t need to learn it again.

Buckle up, Nia Smith.

We’re greeted in the resort’s lobby by a very loud, earsplitting squeal followed by the fwip-slap-fwip-slap of sandals running toward Grace. The poor bride is almost barreled over by a bundle of curly hair. It’s my sister, and she’s wearing a questionably short crop top and cut-off jean shorts. Her black hair is pulled up into a haphazard ponytail and strands are sticking out every which way in what is most likely a reaction to the intense Florida humidity. Judging by the state of my own hair, I’m not surprised to see the same effect on her.

“You’re getting married! You’re getting married!” she yells as various vacationers turn to stare. “Girl, I am going to matron of honor this place UP!” She finally pulls out of the hug, and I notice her shirt also has vinyl lettering: #HonorThisBitch .

Grace and my little sister, Ramona, have been best friends from elementary school all the way through college. I’ve seen them through everything: the awkward teenage years and their loud sleepovers spent gossiping about boys (which they inevitably kicked me out of with a scream), Grace’s rebellion stage where she came to our house to vent about her completely unreasonable parents, and Ramona’s passionate love affair with her now husband Wes. That last one almost split up their friendship, but, as usual, they persevere—a joint force to be reckoned with.

“I want penis popsicles, and I will settle for no less,” Grace demands with her hands on her hips.

Ramona nods in agreement, and I spot a quick glance to me with a hint of I knew it plastered on her massive grin. “Penis pops it is, Grace.” Her arms outstretch toward me and I do the same, Frankenstein’s-monster-walking my way over to her until we hug.

“Big brother,” she says.

“Little sister.”

She pulls back with a cordial pat and then rubs her palms together, scheming—always scheming. “Now where is that other bridesmaid?”

I glance over to see Nia already making her way to check in and completely ignoring the scene behind her. Her head tilts slightly as if she’s heard her name being called, but she stays the course of waiting in line and pretending the loud girl behind her doesn’t exist.

“She’s hiding from you,” I whisper to Ramona, throwing my thumb over my shoulder to direct her toward Nia. Ramona’s face contorts into dissatisfaction, but I hold out my finger, telling her to wait a moment as I turn on my heel to walk toward Nia.

“Hey Polly, I can take your bags,” I offer, extending my hand.

She finally looks over her shoulder to see both Ramona and Grace staring with their lips pursed in mock duck faces and their butts sticking out as if they were mannequins.

“I’m fun, I swear,” Ramona calls over, winking. Grace is grinning back with two thumbs up. Nia’s eyes widen and she suddenly looks like a child tourist seeing Mickey Mouse for the first time and realizing, Holy shit that’s an actual, real-life, giant rat. Except Ramona is an actual, real-life, massive extrovert.

I smile. “I’ll check in for you. Got your ID?”

Nia slowly lowers the strap of her bag into my hand, taking some of her tank top with it and revealing a colored bra strap. I try to hide my grin. She reaches into her crossbody purse to pull out her license, jabbing it toward me between her index and middle finger. “Lose it and you’re dead.”

“There’s that charm.” I take the ID and lug the bag’s strap over my shoulder as she walks toward the two girls. Ramona squeals again and Nia is embraced before she can even protest.

“Nia, right?”

“Yes,” she gets out, her face smooshed against Ramona’s chest. “Hi, I’m Nia.”

“I have a shirt for you!” Ramona pushes her shoulders away so she can reach into the tote slung in the crook of her arm. “It says #BridesmaidBeast ! What do you think?”

“Cute!” Nia grins from ear to ear. I know that grin—it’s her work smile. Is she actually happy with it, or is she being nice? I know. Because I know Nia.

“Wow, is this your natural hair color? Girl, it’s gorgeous.” Ramona is stroking her hands through Nia’s ends.

“Never dyed it a day in my life,” Nia says, and I sense a hint of pride in her voice. I would be proud too. It’s gorgeous, like the hair of an angel—a hard, jawbreaker shell of an angel.

“Confident,” Ramona observes, looking her up and down. “Love it.”

Grace finally steps in to do formal introductions between the two. I eventually see Nia’s laugh shift from uncomfortable and resistant to more genuine with every moment that passes.

“Now ladies, my sweet blonde and my firecracker red,” Ramona says, throwing an arm around Nia and Grace’s shoulders, “let’s hit up that pool.”

Wait, pool?

“Sir, are you going to move forward or what?” a voice behind me asks, and the tone knocks me out of my thoughts of Nia in a tiny pink bikini. I’m ready to turn and give this dude a piece of my mind when I’m greeted by a familiar face.

Just like Ray can fit into any girls’ club, her husband Wes is a man’s man. He’s already pulling me in for a bear hug, and it’s like a battle of arm strength as we embrace hard enough to pop the other’s head off his neck.

“Truce?”

“Truce.”

We let go. Wes is shorter, but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in muscle. He’s like a walking brick wall, and his arms are the graffiti. When I first met him, he had a few strategically placed tattoos, but the number grew quickly and now his sleeves are fully finished pieces of art.

Cameron, appearing to be a walking coat rack with arms full of Grace’s bags, walks over to join the two of us, panting as he does so. Wes is already pulling him into the test-of-strength hug ritual.

“Congratulations, buddy!” Wes says, patting his back.

“Thanks, man,” Cameron says. “I’m just ready for beer. Lots of beer. And sun. Maybe volleyball?”

“Ian, you got the bachelor party down?” Wes asks, nudging my arm as I edge toward the counter.

“Have I planned the bachelor party? Get real. I’m a master at planning bachelor parties,” I say, letting out a bark of laughter. “Bars, getting arrested, strip clubs—the necessary evil—you name it, we’ll do it. If I could have planned my sister’s bachelorette party, I would have, but apparently that’s ‘not the brother’s job’ and would have been ‘weird.’” I use air quotes as I shrug.

“You haven’t planned any of it, have you?” Cameron says, shaking his head.

“Define plan .” I grin and I pass my card along to the girl across the counter. “Ian Chambers and Nia Smith, please.”

Wes sighs. “Cam, it feels like just yesterday when you mercilessly flirted with Grace at our dinner party.”

“Was it that obvious?” Cameron asks with a cheeky grin.

“We all knew you were getting some that night,” I say. I cringe as the concierge rolls her eyes in response and hold my hand up in apology. “Sorry.”

“I like to think I was playing it cool,” Cameron says mid-laugh.

“You’re not even self-aware.” I tsk. “Bad trait.”

Cameron balks at my statement as I collect the cards and room keys, pocketing Nia’s to give her later. “Who are you to talk? If I had to listen to you and Nia argue for one more minute…”

The sliding glass doors to the pool area open, and Ramona is waltzing back in, now with a giant straw sunhat and less a tote bag.

“Forgot sunscreen!” she laments, throwing her hands in the air and power walking to the elevators, arms pumping beside her.

“I’ll join you,” I say quickly, waving a hand back to Cameron. “Oh no, gotta go. Talk later!” I throw him a salute, having successfully avoided the conversation about Nia, and he throws me the finger.

Ramona is impatiently pressing the elevator button until it opens, and we both climb in. I would try to make conversation with her, but my sister’s tapping foot is keeping any words I could say at bay. I place my own foot on top of hers to stop it.

“Ew, gross feet,” she says, lifting her leg to shoo mine away.

“Ew, gross legs.”

The elevator dings and we both file out. I find my door and unlock it to drop off bags while Ramona rushes into her own room. The decor has that classic beach hotel look: cream-colored wallpaper with pastel watercolor seashells painted on them, the smell of sand and the cool tile practically seeping into my shoes, and the kitschy way every cabinet, baseboard, and chair is some creamy off-white color. In the center of the room is a seahorse bedspread on a king-sized wicker bedframe. Yeah, very kitschy.

I unzip my luggage and pull out a pair of navy blue swim trunks. When I put them on, they’re a bit shorter than they have any right to be, but with my height, it’s difficult to find shorts that are long enough to hit my knee. I look down to my thigh and see my scar is showing just below the hem. I tug the shorts down a bit to try to conceal it.

No dice.

When I walk out of my room, I see Ramona’s door still wide open as she audibly groans in frustration.

“Where is the damn sunscreen ?” she wails.

“Maybe it’s scared of your constant yelling,” I call to her.

“Shut up, Ian!”

Ah, sisterly love.

I find Nia’s room a couple doors down and unlock it to unload her luggage. When I see her wicker bedframe with the starfish sheets, I gulp. God, I’d kill to see Nia on there—splayed out, tied to the posts…

Bad thoughts, Ian.

I leave the room, adjusting my shorts at the thought, and I’m immediately met with a face roughly running into my chest. A swirl of blonde hair greets me.

“Speak of the devil,” I get out. My hard erection bumps into her hip and I try to step back quickly, but there’s no way she didn’t feel me. Shit.

“You’re in my way,” she says, flustered, her cheeks reddening almost instantly. Yep. She definitely felt me. Double shit.

“You’re welcome for dropping your luggage off,” I say.

She breathes in as if debating whether or not to be cordial and then responds with a very small “Thanks” that is mumbled under her breath.

Baby steps.

The door slams behind me at the same time Ramona runs out of her room with sunscreen raised in the air and yells, “Aha!”

Successes for all of the Chambers family today.