Nope. She’s definitely saying what I think she’s saying.
And that means that the man I’m with isn’t Mike. What else could it mean?
The handsome guy slides out of the cab and then holds the door open for me. I step out, pushing my phone back into my purse.
“Hey,” I say, as soon as my heels hit the pavement. I cross my arms over my chest. “I just got a message from my friend. She says that Mike was waiting for me at that restaurant.”
He raises one eyebrow. With the ocean as his backdrop, he looks more like an image I’d have posted above my bed as a teenager than a man I’m annoyed with. It takes great effort to hold onto my annoyance, but I persevere. I don’t like being lied to.
“You’re not Mike, are you?”
Chapter 2
Hunter
She’s gorgeous. Her crossed arms make her breasts pop up above the fabric of her dress even more than before. I like the pattern of her dress. It’s artistic and wild. I like her style. The dress is tight around her chest, form-fitting over his hips and ass, and then flares out over the curve of her thighs.
Damn, I’d love to take it off her. Release the curves beneath.
She’s talking, but all I’m aware of is the way her red lips bunch up and then part as she speaks. It takes me a moment to realize what she’s just said. She’s onto my white lie. I can’t help but laugh.
“No,” I say, then chuckle some more. “My name’s not Mike. But for you, I’ll be Mike tonight. I’ll change my name if it means I can spend the evening with you.”
This seems to soften her. I see it in her eyes.
She has breathtaking, simmering dark eyes. “What do you say?” I ask. “Don’t you think this is better than if you’d stayed at that awful, pretentious restaurant?”
I watch her gaze move to the ocean, behind me. “Yes,” she says. Her voice is rich and velvety. There’s even the hint of an accent, which I love.
“Good,” I say. “Are you going to hold me to it? Make me change my name? I’ll do it, but the paperwork is going to be a bitch.”
She’s trying to stay serious, but I see the ghost of a smile on her painted lips.
I keep up the banter. “I’ll have to wait in line at the DMV, change all of my bank account information, the deed to my apartment…not to mention my social media. What are my fans going to think?”
This sends her over the edge, and she breaks into a fit of giggles.
“No,” she says. “I won’t make you change your name.”
“Whew.” I feign relief, wiping my hand across my brow. “I’m not crazy about the name Mike, anyway. I’ll keep my own name—Hunter. Unless you change your mind. Then, I’ll swallow my distaste and book an appointment with the DMV for a new license.”
“Hunter,” she repeats thoughtfully.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Maria,” she says. Her voice lilts as she reveals these syllables, and I feel suddenly that I know her much better. Maria. What a perfectly suited name for this woman. She looks every inch a Maria. Her skin is caramel colored, her eyes are deep pools of espresso brown.
“Well, Maria,” I say, dragging my eyes up and down her body. “I guess we’ll be spending the evening together, then.”
“I guess so.” She smiles.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. And I don’t think the food in that place was going to cut it.”
Her pretty smile grows wider. “Did you see the appetizers?” she asks. “I literally saw a plate served that had three shrimp on it. Three!”
I laugh. “Oh, I believe it.” I glance out toward the pier, where an assortment of vendors have set up temporary shop. “I bet out here, we could get a bucket of shrimp for the same price.”
She laughs too. “I’ve had that before!” she says. “Sadie’s Shrimp Shack. The bucket special is her hottest seller. I bet she’s here, too.”
We both start moving, toward the wooden walkway that extends a quarter mile out into the bay.
The night is warm; the air is soft and laden with saltwater. The smell of the ocean mingles with fragrances wafting out from the vendor’s pop-up kitchens.
As we walk, I start naming off our options. “Ah, we have Taste of Asia—are you in the mood for egg rolls that have been warming in the sun for the last five hours?”
She scrunches up her nose.
I shake my head. “Me either. What about Gyros? That guy has a heat lamp set up and everything. Or check that out. What do you think that is?”
I point across the way to a place where a Vietnamese woman is scooping a mysterious dish into a paper cup. The food looks slimy and I swear I see tentacles. We both laugh as the woman catches us staring, and Maria hides her face behind her hands.
“I don’t know if I’m feeling that adventurous,” she says.
“No?” I raise an eyebrow. “Not the adventurous type? You look like you don’t shy away from the new.”
“I do?” she asks. She looks down at her dress. “Maybe it’s this outfit. I wanted something to make me feel confident. But I wouldn’t say I’m the adventurous type.”
“What type are you then, Maria?”
We’re strolling lazily along now. We’ve fallen into an easy pace; I notice that our feet fall on the worn boardwalk in synch.
“I guess you could say I’m…the quiet type? A little reserved, maybe? I don’t know. That’s what my family always told me. My older sister did most of the talking, and I spent most of the time hiding behind my mother’s skirts.”
“Ah. The shy one.”
She nods.
“Where did you grow up?” I ask.
“Here. San Bravado.” She turns to me. “What about you?” When her eyes hit me, I feel like a light is being beamed right at me, showering me with warmth. It feels good to be the object of her attention.
“Southern California,” I say. “My father was in the movie business. We spent a lot of time in LA… I moved to the East Coast for college, but I couldn’t wait to come back West.”
“Is your father still in the movie business?” Maria asks.
“To some extent. He’s retired for the most part. But sometimes he can’t resist, and he’ll get roped into a project.”
She nods. “I’ve always been fascinated by the movies. When I was younger, I dreamed of becoming an actress.”
This makes sense. She could be in the movies—she has the looks for it.
“My mother was an actress…before she passed,” I say. “I was raised by my dad.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her voice is soft and sweet. “I lost my father,” she says. “I mean—he didn’t pass away, I don’t think. But it was just me, my sister and my mom when I was growing up, so I know what it’s like being raised by a single parent.”
Just as intensely as I enjoyed being the object of her attention, I find that I like soaking up her sincere sympathy.
“Thank you,” I say. I mean it.
We walk in a comfortable silence for a moment. The sun is sinking down over the horizon. Gulls circle above the walkway, eager to scavenge for scraps left by the day’s crowds.
After a few moments, we walk by a hot dog stand. The vendor calls out to us. “You two lovebirds look like you could use a good meal. What can I get you?”
I turn to Maria. “What do you think?” I ask. “Hot dogs?”
The instant she grins, I know what her answer will be. Though we’ve spent less than an hour together, I already feel like I can read her expressions—as if we’ve known each other for a long time. And I realize in that instant, as she grins and nods, that I want to get to know her better.
A whole hell of a lot better.
Chapter 3
Maria
Is it weird that I feel like I already know this man?
We just met a little while ago, but for some reason, we’re bonding. It’s like we were meant to meet at that stuffy restaurant—a place where both of us stuck out like sore thumbs. And now we’re here at t
he pier, one of my favorite places in the world.
I might still be a bit buzzed, too. The cocktails have me feeling all warm and fuzzy toward him.
But it’s not just the alcohol. Even in a stone-cold sober state, I’m sure I’d be into him. It’s almost uncanny the way he’s checking all the right boxes.
Confident. Check.
Handsome as hell. Check.
Down to earth. Check.
Smart. Funny. Sexy. Check, check, check.
Is there anything this guy isn’t? I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’ll tell me that he has a wife and five children. He’ll spout off some racist comments or mention off-handedly that he’s moving out of the country in the morning.
There’s got to be something wrong with him. He can’t be this perfect. Can he?
“What toppings can I get you, sweetheart?” the hotdog vendor asks me.
“Just ketchup,” I say.
Hunter laughs. “You really keep it plain, hm?”
“I told you, I’m not adventurous,” I say.
The vendor hands me the dog and turns to Hunter. “And you?” he asks.
“What’s that?” Hunter asks, pointing to one of the dishes on the cart.
“That’s my signature mango chutney,” the vendor says, puffing his chest out with pride. “Can’t beat it. That, with a little bit of my red onion relish and…” He kisses his fingers, completing his sentence without words.
“I’ll have that,” Hunter says. “Sounds delicious.”
“I get it,” I say, once Hunter’s paid for the meal and we’re walking toward a free bench. “You were making a point back there, about trying new things.” I’m smiling to myself.
“How do you know you won’t like something if you never try it? That’s what adventure is, you know—an unusual, exciting exploration of new territory.”
“I like familiar territory,” I say with a sigh. I settle onto the bench and look around us. “Like this place. I’ve been here a thousand times.” I smile and then bite into my hot dog. Everywhere I look, a memory seems to come up. Camila and I spent so many hours here, during our childhood.
“My mom used to work here,” I say, after swallowing. “My sister and I used to meet her here after school. We’d play while my mom worked, and then we would help her pack up at the end of the night, just when it was getting dark.”
“Not a bad place to hang out,” Hunter says. “This place must be heavenly for a kid. What did your mom do?”
“She worked at a lemonade stand. The drinks were amazing—half tea, half fresh squeezed lemonade. My mother squeezed the lemons.”
“Nice.”
“It wasn’t her only job,” I say. “She also worked at the Lightman hotels, cleaning rooms. When she finished there, she would come here.”
“A hard worker,” Hunter says. “That’s rare, these days.”
“She didn’t have a choice. She had to put food on the table. You know how it is…for a single parent.” I glance sideways at Hunter while I take another bite.
“Yeah, my dad worked a lot too,” Hunter says casually.
I wait for him to go on. I want to hear about his father’s successes in the movie industry, but he apparently doesn’t want to dwell on the subject. Instead, he turns the conversation back to me.
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” he asks.
“One sister. Camila.”
Speaking of her makes me reach for my bag and pull out my phone with my free hand. It just takes a split second to check the screen and confirm that I haven’t missed any calls. I’ve been on edge, waiting for Camila’s calls of distress, since she told me about the loan sharks, last week.
“Does she live in the area still?” Hunter asks.
“Yes.” I purse my lips. Hopefully, she’ll stay in San Bravado. I need her here. We’re family. We have to stick together. But if she keeps getting hassled for money by those guys, I don’t know how she’s going to manage to stay. Rent in San Bravado tends to be steep. How in the world is she going to pay off twenty-five grand of debt while raising her boys? What will happen if she can’t pay it off?
My mind is like a runaway train. I have to stop the momentum before it builds too much. I blow out an annoyed sigh to break my train of thought.
“She’s going through a rough patch,” I say, in order to explain my sigh. “A divorce—and it’s messy.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Hunter says. “I guess it happens pretty regularly these days, though. They say half of all marriages end in divorce.”
I’m a bit taken aback by this statistic. Is Hunter some kind of expert? Has he been divorced?
I don’t look directly at him as I ask. “Have you… have you been married and divorced, Hunter?”
He answers me without hesitation. “No—no, no. Nothing like that.” He laughs. “I just know because I deal in real estate. It’s the reason for a lot of sales in this area—a couple splits, so they sell the house. Pretty standard.”
“Oh.” I feel relieved. I know that Hunter can tell.
Hunter has two water bottles at his side, and he hands me one just as I polish off the last bite of my salty meal. I crack open the top of it and drink appreciatively.
“What about you?” he asks. “You were at the restaurant all dressed up…meeting someone named Mike? A blind date, I assume?”
I nod. “My friend Jemma set us up. She’s constantly trying to get me to date. I barely ever agree to it. Tonight was a rare exception.”
“I’m glad that you agreed,” he says, meeting my eye. “Or else I never would have bumped into you.”
I hesitate for a moment, becoming lost in the sparkly green depths of his gaze. My breath hitches in my throat, but I manage a soft answer. It comes out as a whisper. “Me too.”
Another beat of silence, and then he shifts in his seat, reaching for the second water.
“So…your sister’s divorce. It’s not going well?”
I shake my head. “Terribly. Her ex-husband, Dan, is a total scumbag. I never liked him. I can usually read people pretty well. Everyone has their own energy, you know?”
He nods.
“But she liked him, so I supported her. They got married a few years ago, and at first, I thought maybe I was wrong. He seemed like he was getting his act together—treating Camila right and being a good father, too. They have two boys…my nephews. They’re adorable.”
“Then what?” he asks.
“Things started to fall apart. They started to fight. And then—he left.” Like all men do, eventually, I think to myself bitterly. But I don’t say that aloud. I don’t want to come across as jaded.
“Moved out—took a job in Michigan all of a sudden and made it clear that Camila wasn’t invited. Then he filed for divorce, which I was happy about. Camila did fine for the first few months without him. She and the boys were actually happier, I think, without him around.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad,” Hunter says. He’s drained his water, reminding me to drink more of my own. I take a sip, letting the wet liquid balance out the lingering salty flavors on my tongue.
“It wasn’t. It was great. At first. But then—just last week—it went sour. Their finances are all messed up. The scumbag was keeping it all secret from Camila. My sister is in total panic mode. She doesn’t know how to pay the creditors back.”
I stop there, without going into too many of the gory details. I don’t tell Hunter about the fact that my sister’s ex has left her with twenty-five thousand dollars of debt. Or that the “creditor” is actually a shady, corrupt group of loan sharks who seem to be more than willing to do whatever it takes to get the money back from Camila. They’ve made it clear that my sister is going to come up with the cash, or she’s going to suffer.
“Camila’s a hard worker,” I say. “Like my mom was.”
“Then I’m sure she’ll figure out something,” Hunter says.
“I hope so.”
Hunter holds his hand out, and I hand
him the paper container in my hand. He hops up and walks to a nearby trash can. I take the opportunity to drink down the rest of the water.
When Hunter returns, he stands in front of the bench. I’m still sitting, and I look up at him.
“I don’t mean to lay my troubles on you,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted. “I’m being a bore.”
“You are so far from boring, Maria, you have no idea,” Hunter says with a glimmer in his eye. He holds out his hand. I place my hand in his, and he helps me up.
It’s the first time we’ve touched since meeting. His flesh is warm, smooth, electrifying. I feel a jolt run through my body as I find my feet. It takes me a moment to steady myself, and when I do our bodies are close together.
A wind billows up from the ocean beyond the pier, carrying a chilling, salty spray. My dress whips around my legs. I hug myself, to ward off a chill. The sun has sunk beneath the horizon; it is now dark out.
“Are you cold?” Hunter asks. He’s already pulling his blazer off. He hands it to me before I can answer. “Here, take this.”
He wraps the soft jacket around my bare shoulders. I was right. The suit jacket is not made of the standard material. Instead, it’s a jersey-cotton blend. The artwork on it is unique, and I can’t help but look down over the designs with appreciation before wrapping it tightly around me.
“I’ve never seen a blazer like this before,” I say.
He laughs. “Pretty crazy, isn’t it? I know it’s different. I like that about it. I don’t need to be like everybody else. I like to break the mold.”
“Where did you get it?” I ask.
“Florence,” he says. “A designer I know over there made it for me. He knows what I like.”
“It’s nice.” I hug it around me. “And warm.”
“It did get colder out here, didn’t it?”
I nod. “There’s a great Mexican place across the street—Don Juan’s. They make a mean margarita. Do you want to go?”
“I can’t say no to a mean margarita,” Hunter says.
I wear his jacket for the next three hours, as we sip one margarita after another. Don Juan’s rooftop bar is speckled in heat lamps, and Hunter and I post up under one, at a table that offers spectacular views of the bay.
Bought by the Boss Page 2
