He places our two towels in a stack and then runs over to a place where two Brazilian children are shoveling sand into buckets. I watch him give the towels to the kids, who smile with gratitude and then run off toward their parents.
When Hunter returns to my side, he reaches for my hand. I give it happily, and we walk together across the stretch of white sand.
For a half an hour we walk down city streets hand in hand. Hunter points out architectural features of some of the historical buildings that we pass, and I start to wonder if this is how our day will end—with a slow, ambling tour of the city.
At the same time, he seems to have an agenda. Occasionally he checks his watch. It’s the one I stashed in my purse, on the first night we met. That feels like ages ago. We’ve been through so much that I’m barely even embarrassed about the watch anymore. The intense emotional experiences I’ve shared with this man dwarf the fiasco of taking the watch.
“Where are we going?” I ask as Hunter pauses to read another set of street signs.
“Oh, you’ll see,” he says mysteriously.
Turning down a narrow side street, I catch the sight of glittering water ahead. A small, secluded harbor lies at the street’s end, crowded with an assortment of boats.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
I take longer steps to keep up with Hunter, who has sped up. As we near the water, I see that many of the boats are sailboats. They rock back and forth along with the rise and dip of slow, rolling waves that enter the narrow harbor.
A rickety, faded wooden dock extends out among the boats. We seem to be deep in the historic district. All around us, ancient buildings rise into the late afternoon sky. Along with the old boats, the buildings make me feel that I’ve stepped back in time.
Though there are a few people along the shore and dock, for the most part, the harbor is quiet, free of the tourists, professionals and rowdy crowds of children that we’ve contended with all day on the mountain and again at the beach.
I follow Hunter as he walks out onto the dock. He points to some of the boats as we pass.
“Look at this one. Beautiful! They’re so old. This blue one must have been built fifty years ago, at least. Life’s Pleasures, it’s called. And over here…can you read the name on that one?”
“Paradise Lost,” I say, standing on my tiptoes to read the sign.
Hunter keeps walking excitedly, calling out the names of the boats as we pass.
“Aha!” he says as we near the end of the dock.
He’s stopped in front of a small boat that looks old but well-loved. The boat gleams with a fresh coat of green paint. In white script across the side, the name is painted.
I read it aloud. “Dream Weaver.”
“She’s a beauty,” Hunter says happily.
I don’t know quite why he’s stopped in front of this boat in particular, and my confusion mounts as he steps lightly off the dock and onto the boat’s deck.
He extends his arm out to me.
“Hunter?” I say. Even while I’m questioning his action, I reach for his hand and allow him to help me aboard. I’m so used to following his orders. After all we’ve done together, I’ve become accustomed to doing what he tells me to do without hesitation.
“She’s ours for the evening,” Hunter says as I land by his side. He begins poking around on the boat, first unfolding a large white sail and then opening the lid on a picnic basket that was stashed by the sail.
“Whose boat is this?” I ask.
“I rented it,” Hunter says. “The ‘Sunset Tour’ package—it comes with appetizers and wine. Here, Maria, let’s get the sail up and then we can open that bottle of red. Isn’t this great?”
His face is flushed with excitement; he’s acting as giddy as a child.
I laugh. I feel so light and happy, here on this boat with Hunter. It’s nice to see him so relaxed. I help him unfold the sail and then follow his lead as we begin tying it to the mast.
“We have to pull up the anchor,” he says. “The tide’s going out. See how the water is pulling the boats out a bit, against their moorings?”
I look out to the boats on either side of us and see that they are, as Hunter has said, straining against their anchors as if they want to move out of the harbor with the tide. “Is that good?” I ask.
“Oh yeah,” Hunter says gleefully. “It’s perfect. That means that once we pull up this anchor,”—he has the thick rope attached to our anchor in his hands now, and he gives it a strong yank—“we’re going to start to move out. The wind is in our favor too. Here—while I pull this up, will you organize the rope? The point is not to get it tangled, so if we need to drop the anchor suddenly, it will go down no problem.”
“Why would we need to drop the anchor?” I ask.
He’s still pulling up the anchor, and his muscles bulge with the effort. His soft white T-shirt is tight around his biceps. I notice that his tan has deepened already, though we’ve only been in Brazil for a day.
“The winds could change. They’re coming from the west now, which is ideal, but usually as the sun drops the air currents change. It has to do with the temperature of the water compared to the land.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
Each time Hunter deposits an arm’s length of wet rope on the boat’s wooden deck, I arrange it into neat, straight lines, one next to the other.
With a splash, the rusty anchor emerges, and almost immediately the little boat starts drifting away from the dock, toward the harbor’s opening.
Hunter deposits the anchor and then springs across the deck, to the other side. He seems to know exactly what he’s doing as he tugs on one of the ropes connected to the mainsail. The sail snaps to attention, pulled taut by the wind.
“You’re good at this,” I say, as the boat moves steadily out toward the open sea. The ocean sparkles around us—little waves created by our moving craft peak against the golden sunshine. The white crests look like they are dusted with diamonds. “Where did you learn to sail?”
“It’s one of the few things I did with my dad, growing up,” Hunter says. “My grandfather had a place in Long Island, and my dad would take me there for a few weeks at the end of each summer. He loved to sail.”
“I can’t blame him.”
The harbor spills into the wide-open ocean. The surf is calm; the skies are clear. The sun is still several inches above the horizon, and now that we’re out of the shadows of the tall historical buildings, I can feel the warmth from its rays on my skin.
“I’m a lot like my dad,” Hunter says, pulling on a new rope which swings the sail slightly toward him. The wind catches it on this new angle, and our boat shifts directions, moving out into the blue-green waters.
“Is that a good thing?” I ask.
I think of all that I know about Hunter’s father. He sounds like a talented, highly motivated, successful individual. But also a bit distant, at least to his son.
Hunter looks out over the blue seas as he answers me. “I used to think I never wanted to be like him. When I was in high school, he encouraged me to intern at his company. Said it would set me up well for a career in the movies—as though I’d naturally want to follow in his footsteps. He was so fucking offended when I refused. It was our first real fight.”
I lean back, settling into the rocking motion of the boat beneath us as Hunter continues.
“I was so intent on being my own man, though. Doing things differently. It’s funny how things work out. Now I’m almost thirty, and in the exact position that he was—the CEO of a successful company. Sometimes I say things or make a certain motion with my hands, and I realize I’m him. I’ve become my dad, in so many ways.”
“Like what?” I ask.
Hunter steers the boat effortlessly. It’s clearly second nature to him.
“Like with women,” he says.
I didn’t expect him to go there, but I’m curious what he’ll say.
What have Hunter’s past relationships
been like?
I glance at Hunter.
He keeps looking out over the waves as he speaks. “My dad always prioritized work. His relationships came second. It was like he couldn’t turn it off…his drive, his desire for more. He could never just enjoy things the way they were. It was never good enough. With women, that meant he was always chasing the next one down the line. I see that in myself.”
“Have you had girlfriends, in the past?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” Hunter says.
I laugh. “How can you not be sure? You either dated someone, or you didn’t.”
He laughs too. “That’s what I mean, Maria,” he says. “I wasn’t raised the same as other people. My upbringing was kind of fucked up, from the beginning. Definitely different than other kids I knew.” He shakes his head. “My dad had a new woman every few months. I started to think that relationships just meant the woman that you’re sleeping with, at the moment. Sure, I’ve slept with the same woman consistently for stretches of time—but is that a relationship?”
I laugh again, but then I realize he’s serious. He’s actually asking me.
“I—Hunter… I don’t think so. Relationships, real relationships are about more than just sleeping together. Plus, if you treat someone as though they’re disposable, then they won’t trust you. You can’t develop true feelings for each other. You can’t fall in love.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “All right, Ms. Smarty-pants Philosopher. What is love? Have you been in love before?”
I feel myself blush. I look out over the water and then trail my hand through it. It’s surprisingly warm against my skin, like bath water.
“No,” I say. “Not yet. But when I do fall in love, it’s going to be amazing. It will make everything else seem trivial—unimportant. It’ll be like finally seeing in color, after living in black and white for my entire life.”
I stare down into the water, watching pools of golden light dance on the ocean’s surface, creating patterns that waver and change. The water feels like silk against my fingertips.
“If love exists, and it’s so wonderful, why haven’t you found it yet?” he asks.
“I’ve been busy just getting by,” I say quietly.
My excuse sounds lame, and I look over my shoulder at Hunter to see if he’s laughing at me. He’s not, so I continue.
“It hasn’t exactly been easy, supporting myself since high school. You wouldn’t get it, I’m sure, but sometimes all I can think about is how to pay the month’s bills.”
“You deserve better,” he says softly. “You’re smart, Maria. You’re kind. You’re beautiful. I have no doubt that you could do anything you put your mind to.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Didn’t you say you were interested in the movies, as a kid?”
I look back over the ocean. That childhood dream seems so far removed from the clerical work I’ve been doing these past few years.
I nod. “I liked the way movies could create whole other worlds—make us experience things that someone else imagined.”
“Stories have always had an important role in societies,” Hunter says. “From the Greeks onward.”
I’m used to people shrugging off my reverence of film. My mother, Camila, Jemma, all of them thought I was just being dreamy and silly. They rushed to get back to practical matters. It’s nice to talk with someone as thoughtful as Hunter.
“You should go for it,” he says.
Water laps against the edges of the boat. Gulls swoop and dive above us. The sun sinks steadily downward.
“Do you think so?”
“Of course. I have plenty of contacts. My dad still works on some of the bigger pictures that move through Hollywood. I’ll give him a call when we return to the States. You deserve to do something that you love… something that pays you well for your time,” Hunter says.
“Thank you,” I say. “And, Hunter…you deserve to be with someone who loves you, who cares about you—wants to laugh and cry with you… Someone who’ll stick with you through the good times and bad.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then he shifts toward the center of the boat, where the picnic basket lies.
“I don’t know about that,” he says. “But I do know that I’m ready for a glass of wine. How about you? I think I saw some plastic cups in here somewhere.”
I watch Hunter dig through the picnic basket. For the first time, he looks slightly rattled. What I’ve just said has flustered him.
Does he think that he doesn’t deserve love?
At this moment, as I watch him search for plastic cups as though his life depends on it, my heart feels like it is swelling—opening up in some strange new way. A warm, fuzzy sensation fills my chest.
There’s an ache there, too.
I want him to know how deserving of love he is.
As I look at him, I realize that I’m starting to fall for him in a way that’s about much more than just sex. I want to be the woman to love him, through the good times and the bad. And judging by the way he’s just opened up to me, I wonder if he’s starting to feel the same way too.
“Here they are,” Hunter says, holding up two little cups. “I found them.”
“Perfect,” I say happily. And it is. Being here with Hunter, on this boat among the waves as the sun kisses the horizon. This is my new personal definition of the word “perfect.”
Chapter 16
Hunter
“Of course, our holdings in Dubai have done incredibly well over the last six years,” I say.
“Six years? That’s nothing.” My client waves a hand, dismissing my statement. Then he reaches for an oyster and brings it to his mouth, barely pausing his speech while he gulps it greedily down. “You’re such a young man. Tell me again how you started in the business? Just out of college, correct?”
I clear my throat, and it feels more like I’m sharpening my sword, getting ready for a duel. Maria, seated on my left, takes a sip of wine. The tension at our table is making her uncomfortable, I can tell. Unlike me, she doesn’t have years of experience with this kind of bullshit.
“I may be young, Clint, but I’m not naive. I started Larson Global as soon as I graduated from business school. I was twenty-three.”
“A boy,” Clint scoffs.
“During my first year, the company bought and sold properties in fifteen countries and earned twenty million in revenue. We’ve consistently doubled our revenue each year since then.”
“It’s been a bull market.” The client refuses to give me credit. He’s trying to knock me down. I’m used to it.
I shake my head. “That doesn’t account for our growth, and you know it. Over the course of history, only three real estate firms in the world have grown as fast as Larson Global—and that includes the bull markets of the eighties and nineties. But Clint, I don’t have to prove myself to you.”
I smile and lean forward, showing Clint that I’m not intimidated by his age or status. Bring it, I think.
“You’re here because you know I have an eye for properties that are going to rise in value, significantly, in the foreseeable future. You want the Emiliano Towers.”
Now I lean back, relaxing into my chair. “If I’m wrong about that, we might as well call it a night. I have other buyers who are very interested, and I’d rather not waste my time—”
“Hold up a minute, son,” Clint says.
“My name is Hunter,” I say firmly. I glare at Clint over the tabletop, which is set with an array of rare shellfish, a thousand-dollar bottle of wine, crusty bread and rich olive spreads.
“All right then, Hunter. Yes, I’m interested. Very interested. Let’s talk business.”
“Good. Maria, could you pull out the escalation clause, please? Clint, there are a few numbers I’d like to go over with you specifically.”
I don’t look at Maria. Instead, I continue staring down Clint.
Why? Because it’s easier to face the man across from me than the woma
n on my left. Yes, he’s a steely old businessman who might cost my company a hundred million if he refuses to meet my terms of negotiation. Sure. But it’s just money. I have plenty of it. Our current negotiation feels like a familiar dance.
I’m comfortable glaring at Clint. What I’m not comfortable with is the way I’ve been feeling about Maria.
What the hell has gotten into me? Lately, I feel like every time I look at her, I lose my train of thought completely. I start imagining crazy scenarios. My mind becomes completely untamed. One minute, I’m thinking about the selling points of the Emiliano Towers, and then I look at her, and bam—I’m imagining our unborn child. If we had a son, would he have Maria’s dark, espresso-colored eyes?
I’m serious. Crazy, crazy thoughts.
It’s best just not to look at her.
She slides a paper in front of me, and I start reading off numbers as fast as I can. I must sound mad, but at this point, I don’t care. I need to do whatever I can to focus on business.
“The buyer, you, offers to pay one hundred and twenty million US dollars for the Emiliano Towers, but if the seller, that’s us, receives a bona fide offer that is higher…” I keep reading from the contract until I reach the end of the long, technical sentence.
Clint is nodding.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “I had my lawyers read this over earlier today.”
“Good. Maria, can you please take this down? I want it noted that Clint agrees to the escalation clause.”
In my peripheral vision, I see Maria hesitate before rustling through my briefcase and reaching for a legal pad and pen. As soon as she starts writing, I pile on a few more action items that I want to remember. It feels so safe to dictate notes to her in this way.
Yesterday was a mistake. I shouldn’t have been so vulnerable around her. I said so many things that made me seem weak. At least now she’ll see me back in a position of power.
As I keep rattling off technical sounding legal terms, and Clint keeps nodding, and Maria keeps writing furiously I feel like I’m back on solid ground.
Bought by the Boss Page 10
