by Olivia Hayle
“Tell me about your last relationship.”
“I think you’re a little bit drunk.”
Faye rolls her eyes at me. “Are you avoiding the question?”
“My last relationship was with Avery, who you’ve already met, in spectacular fashion.”
Faye wrinkles her nose. “Hmm. Walking perfection, that’s what she was.”
“As much as she’d like to think that, she’s definitely not perfect. Are you okay?”
She’s started to tilt, slightly, and I reach out to steady her. Her skin is warm under my hands.
“Yes.”
It’s wrong to exploit this opportunity—and I’m sure I’ll pay for it later—but I can’t stop myself from asking her the same thing.
“Now tell me about your last relationship.”
She tuts. “That’s a different game.”
“We can’t play get-to-know-Faye? That strikes me as cruelly unfair.”
“There’s not much to know.”
She still has her hand in mine, and I can’t stop myself from gripping it tighter. “That’s untrue. You don’t even believe that yourself.”
“Fine.” She takes a few steps forward, her hand slipping out of mine again, and walks backwards in front of me. The moonlight illuminates her hair, a dark halo around her, and it strikes me—not for the first time—how much person she fits into her short stature.
“I dated a guy called Aiden for a few years. He was a classic Wall Street guy.”
I groan. “No.”
“Yes, and I don’t want to get any grief about that. It’s in the past.” She holds up a finger, as if disciplining a dog, and I nod obediently. If there’s one thing more amusing than Faye herself, it’s Faye intoxicated.
“Go on.”
“He was so dreamy. I thought so, and my friends thought so too. We were going to get married in a big villa in Martha’s Vineyard, you know.”
That sounds serious. “You were engaged?”
“No, God no. But these were discussions, you see. Discussions we had about our future. But eventually, those discussions turned to arguments, and our relationship into a nothing-ship.”
“When was this?”
“Our breakup? Nearly two years ago. I don’t miss him anymore. Do you miss Avery?”
“Not at all,” I say, “but let’s stay on topic. Why did your ideas about the future diverge?”
She throws her hands up, her face still split in a smile. “See? This is why I don’t like playing get-to-know-Faye with you. You’re too… observant. Too much Henry. You’ll see straight through the cracks, and get all the details, try as I might to hide them.”
She’s speaking lightly, but it’s revealing far more of her than I think she would have wanted sober.
“Faye, you can tell me anything.”
“Right,” she nods. “Anything, because we’re such good friends, right?”
She’s being facetious, but I answer her straight-faced. “Yeah, we are.”
In the distance, the lighthouse revolves, a flash of light momentarily illuminating the shoreline before disappearing out to sea again. She reaches for my hand again, despite the lack of an audience. I take it firmly in mine and wonder if my skin burns her like hers does mine.
“Okay, I’ll tell you,” she says. “He didn’t like my ambition. He did in the beginning, of course. It was a turn-on then. But as time went by, it became more and more of an issue. I was supposed to sacrifice for him—and I did, skipping afterwork socials to be with him—but he never once cut down on his hours. He worked straight through my twenty-fifth birthday party, because he wanted to trade on the Japanese stock market.”
“Wow.”
“And when he admitted that he didn’t like my goals, or that he wanted a more traditional lifestyle like he grew up with, with a wife who stayed at home… well, my ambition wasn’t so sexy then. So I broke up with him.”
Her tone is flippant, but her words are not. The experience must have hurt her deep. Having someone reject such an essential part of you…
I would have reacted just like she did.
“He was a coward, and an asshole.”
She gives me a wry smile, and I decide that I like these ones the best, not her winning, megawatt ones.
“Yes, you could definitely say that.”
She leads me up through the shrubbery, onto the boardwalk, as if she knows this town by heart already. We’re nearly at my sister’s cottage, so her sense of direction is spectacular. I open my mouth to tell her that when she derails me entirely.
“Your mother was a stay-at-home mom.”
I close my mouth in surprise. “Yes. Yes, she was.”
“Do you expect your wife to make the same choice?”
Ah. I get it, and something in me grows both warm and cold from the question.
“No, I don’t. Any wife of mine could decide for herself what she wanted to be. But if you’re asking what I like, I like women with career ambitions.”
“Do you find it sexy, too?”
She’s half-joking, but I pull her closer regardless, wrapping my arm around her waist. “Very, very sexy. But I also find it inspiring, and I’d be supportive.”
“Mmm.” Her body is warm against mine, the skin at her waist soft beneath her thin summer dress, and I know that lines are going to be crossed this weekend. How could they not be?
I unlock the front door and we walk into the cottage, still hand in hand. I’ve never been a handholding kind of guy, but with Faye, I don’t want to let go.
She pulls me to the little hallway in between the two bedrooms and we lean against the wall. She blinks slowly, long eyelashes lowering over beautiful eyes, before she looks up at me bashfully. I can’t help the impulse—I reach out and run a strand of her dark, silken hair through my fingers.
“Are you trying to seduce me, Faye?”
“Maybe,” she says. “Is it working?”
I run my hand down her cheek, down her neck, to where her pulse is beating fast. “You seduce me daily, simply by being you.”
Her breath catches as my fingers trail across her collarbone. I sweep her hair out of the way, her skin a map I can’t wait to explore.
“Who taught you to speak like that?” she asks, her voice a bit unsteady.
“Is it working?”
She sways closer. “Yes.”
I should walk away, but self-discipline has never been my strong suit with Faye.
I tip her head back, her breath ghosting across my lips, and my entire body tightens in response. Need, sharp and clear, is like a stab in my lower stomach.
Our kiss isn’t careful. It’s like things have always been between us—a little fast, a little hard. I deepen it, tasting her, and Faye moans. The sound makes my mind go blank. It feels like I’m unraveling, layer by layer, undone by this beautiful woman with sharp words and kind eyes.
She pulls away, her eyes shining. “I’m feeling a bit reckless.”
“Clearly,” I murmur, my lips against her jaw. Her hands trail up my shoulders, tugging at my hair, and I have to fight against the fierce need inside me.
“Let’s do something we’ll both regret, Henry.”
I close my eyes against her temple and force myself to take a few deep, calming breaths. God, but I want to. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to take what she’s offering, to follow her into the master bedroom and see just how well we fit together. But her words make that impossible.
When I take her to bed, I never want her to regret it.
Her lips are soft when I kiss her. “Not tonight.”
“You’re too moral for your own good.”
“That’s definitely the first time I’ve heard that.” I smooth her hair back behind her ear, her eyes dazed and beautiful. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want her in this moment. “Good night, Faye. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She kisses my cheek. “Sleep well.”
“I doubt that,” I say, glancing downwards, and she laughs a
little. “But I’ll try.”
The bedroom door shuts behind her, and I put my head in my hands, trying to still the roaring desire still pounding through me. Her words ring in my head. Regret. I don’t want her to regret anything from this weekend. And despite how tricky it will be, I want us to figure out a solution to our boss-assistant predicament.
Because despite what we’d both agreed to, tonight hadn’t felt like we were acting. Not in the slightest.
21
Faye
I wake up to birds chirping and sunlight streaming in through the window, to a faint headache and the scent of coffee. Where am I?
I roll over in the massive bed as full consciousness hits me, and with it the memory of last night. Of Henry’s family, me confronting his father, his amazing sisters and brothers. Holding hands as we walked along the beach. Me and my loose tongue, feeling more comfortable around Henry than I ever had before. We spoke about past relationships and I told him about Aiden.
We kissed right outside this bedroom door.
I asked him to be reckless with me.
And he said no.
I turn over in bed again and stare up at the ceiling. He was being rational. Nothing good would come out of sleeping together, regardless of how good it would feel. And while yesterday had felt natural, it wasn’t; it was me fulfilling my end of the bargain.
From the sounds outside my bedroom door, he’s already up, doubtlessly already hard at work. I allow five more seconds of feeling sorry for myself before I jump into the shower and get dressed.
There’s a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me on the kitchen table when I get out, and an opened bag of bagels. Henry is already typing away at his laptop, hair wet from his own shower.
“Morning,” he tells me. “Sleep well?”
“I did, yes.”
“Help yourself.” He nods at the food. “You’ll need your energy today.”
“I will?”
“Yes. We’re working for a few hours, and after that we’re going sailing.”
I sit down opposite him and reach for the coffee cup. “You were serious about that?”
“Dead serious, Faye.” His green eyes look solemn, but there’s humor there, too. “I hope you packed a swimsuit.”
I did, but the idea of stripping down around him… I take another pull of coffee and wince at the strength. He brewed it dark.
Henry cocks his head. “Are you game?”
“Yes, of course I am. Show me the ropes.”
“Oh, I will. You’ll be a sailor when we’re done.”
I walk around him to see what he’s working on. It’s the opera house, and he rotates the models, letting me see the changes. “I added the beams here that you suggested.”
“Wow.” It’s a completely different entryway now. I sit down next to him, absently tearing off a piece of bagel. “That looks great.”
“It does, doesn’t it. Here, why don’t you open yours…”
I log on to the same project on my computer, and we spend the rest of the morning side by side, designing an opera house for the ages.
It’s early afternoon when we finally pack up our things and head out to sail. The drive to the marina is calm, the radio playing an old Fleetwood Mac song. Henry’s tapping along to the beat of the song and I steal a sideways glance at him.
I’d been intrigued and attracted to the man he was in the office—an efficient hardass. Now, seeing him relaxed in his element, I’m dangerously close to another feeling entirely.
He shoots me a sideways look. “You’ve been quiet this morning. You’re not thinking about last night, are you?”
“No.”
His lips twitch, like he knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t comment. He pulls into a small parking lot and guides me through a set of trees in silence. The ocean glitters through the leaves and then we’re there, at a beautiful natural harbor with boats bobbing on soft waves. It looks heavenly.
“Come on,” he says. “Our boat is over here.”
At the end of the dock, I stop in my tracks. “This thing?”
“Yes.” He tosses our bag with snacks and water onboard and begins untying ropes with quick, steady hands. He pauses when he realizes I’ve stopped.
“Something wrong?”
“This boat is massive.”
His eyes light up. “No, it’s not. It’s mid-sized. Don’t worry, we’ll mostly use the motor, not the sails. We can handle it with two people.”
“But I don’t know how to. I’ll be in your way.”
“No chance. I have faith in you.”
I want to say that I don’t—I don’t know how to tie a single knot—but I don’t want to sound weak.
“Don’t worry,” he says, eying my expression. “You’re sailing with the winner of the Paradise Shores Junior Sailing Regatta. You’re in good hands.”
I laugh, the tension broken, and climb onto the boat. It’s solid under my feet, rocking rhythmically with the waves. “All right,” I say. “Tell me what to do.”
He’s a good teacher. I’m given instructions, clearly explained, to turn the key in the ignition. To turn the handle toward the starboard side—“your left, Faye, your left”—and then we’re moving.
He ties up the last of the dock lines and comes to stand next to me at the helm.
“Go to the bow,” he tells me. “Help guide me out of the harbor.”
“Okay. What do I look out for?”
“We need to stay between the red buoys. They’re clearly marked.”
The bow of the boat quickly becomes my favorite spot. I watch as we cleave the glittering blanket of water in two and feel the spray of seawater.
Henry barely needs my instructions—he steers us out of the harbor on memory—but I give them regardless. And then we’re cruising along the coast, with little coves and rocks and windswept trees.
I close my eyes and lean back. The sun is warm on my skin and the smell of ocean is all around me. Why have I never done this before?
“Enjoying yourself?”
I look up to see Henry at the helm, a hand on the steering. With his thick hair swept back by the wind and a pair of sunglasses on, he looks like he belongs on the water.
“Yes!”
I close my eyes and lose myself in the feeling for a bit, of not doing anything. No work, no expectations. I don’t know how long we sail for, in silence, the only sound that of waves and seagulls and the motor.
He steers into a small cove and cuts the engine. We cruise softly to a stop, in the middle of a dark-blue lagoon, the shoreline rocky and tree-covered.
It’s gorgeous.
Henry’s undoing his shirt, button after button revealing skin and taut muscles. “Come on.”
“What?”
“We’re swimming.”
“We can’t swim here.”
“Why not?” He’s tosses his shirt aside. His skin is faintly tan, a smattering of hair on his chest, leading down to a taut stomach with the outline of a six-pack. Somehow, with all his desk-sitting, he finds the time to look like this? He radiates vitality with every limb.
Henry meets my gaze. “Ready?”
I square my shoulders and reach for the hem of my summer dress. I pull it over my head, and while I like my black bikini, nerves still dance in my stomach.
“So,” I repeat, and kick off my shoes. “You go in first.”
Henry’s eyes sweep over my form in one smooth motion. His face is completely impassive, almost pained in its tautness, and then he dives off the edge of the boat and clears the surface in one strong, beautiful line.
I take a deep breath and jump in after him. The water is shockingly cold, far more than I’d imagined, and I push up to the surface as fast as I can.
“Shit! It’s freezing!”
Henry laughs at me, water droplets flying as he shakes hair out of his eyes. “Yes.”
“Is it always this cold?”
“Yes,” he says, completely unapologetic, and swims toward me with strong a
rms. “We’re right on the Atlantic coast, battered by ocean currents.”
“You knew.”
“Of course I did.” He flips over and floats past me on his back, the picture of serenity, as if the coldness doesn’t bother him. “Are you saying this is too cold for you?”
I splash him.
He straightens and sputters, something flashing in his eyes. “Juvenile again?”
“I guess you bring it out in me. No, don’t you dare—” I’m splashed back, a wave that plasters my hair to my face and brings me sputtering to the surface.
“You’re impossible.”
“You started it.” He’s closer now, long legs kicking beneath the surface. My mouth is salty from the seawater and I flick a tendril of wet hair back.
“It’s not that cold when you get used to it.”
He smiles, wide and true, and nods. “Profound.”
“You seem so relaxed out here, on the water. When did you learn to sail?”
“As soon as I could walk. It’s sort of the official Marchand family pastime.”
“Like building?”
He grimaces and dives. I kick to stay afloat and watch as he glides underneath the surface, only to appear many feet away, finding a rock to stand on. With his hair slicked to his face and his wide shoulders rising up from the water, he looks like he belongs here.
I swim after him.
“Yes,” he says, “although I’m the only one who pursued that.”
“But that was because you liked it. Architecture, I mean. No one could build an opera house like that if they didn’t truly love it.”
He looks at me for a long moment. “I did love it. Still do.”
“We’re similar that way.”
“We’re similar in many ways. More than I thought in the beginning.”
I dive below the surface too, icy water closing above my head, and take a few long strokes. When I surface, I’m much closer to him than I thought. Green eyes gaze back at me.
“There’s more space on this rock,” he says. “If you can reach it with your toes, that is.”
I can’t, and he laughs, arms closing around my waist as I nearly dip below the surface in my attempt to reach the rock.
“Just one of the ways in which we’re different. You’re a dwarf.”
