by Julia Kent
Just a little. Just for now.
Just pretending.
He pats my ass with a loving touch and a half grin that makes Jess gape.
Who knew Ryan could be such a good actor?
“Don’t be gone too long,” he says with a wink, then turns away from us, his attention on the horizon.
“Right,” I say faintly, my butt tingling from that affectionate love pat.
As Jessie and I trudge up the dunes toward the hotel, something catches my eye a little way up the beach. It’s an umbrella, in what looks like a Provençal print. A man sits beneath it in a canvas sling chair while another man kneels in the sand, building a sandcastle. Jamey and Kevin.
Huh. Nailed it.
And the funny thing is, I feel a sense of relief. If the orange juice isn’t fresh-squeezed, if the greenheads are biting, if the iPod dies, it’s not my problem. I’m not going to be in the Instagram shot of the perfect Cape Cod beach day. Kevin is.
I glance back at Ryan, sitting in the sun with his coffee, quiet and casual, completely unrehearsed.
I wish I were sitting next to him.
RYAN
The last thing I need right now is a shot of excitement from caffeine, but I need to do something with my hands and mouth before I use them both on Carrie in extremely not-safe-for-public ways.
Gulping a Grind It Fresh! coffee so fast it burns my throat is a luxurious form of masochism. I’ll take it.
She smells so good. Tastes like honey and sunshine. The wall inside me between real and pretend is being demolished.
And not just by my horny jackhammer.
I stand and move up the dunes to where the inn has lounge chairs lined up facing the water. Choosing one on the end, I stretch out, coffee in hand, October sun giving my body a nice, light toasting as my heart rate goes back to pre-kiss levels. The run was for cardio.
But there are other ways to get your heart rate nice and high, and they don’t involve miles on the beach.
“Chill out, man,” I mutter under my breath, curling up to take a sip of my coffee. Abs tight, I make myself stay in place, lats tensing, working my core to get some composure. Staying centered emotionally starts with being centered in the body.
Or something like that.
I open my eyes and catch Carrie as she disappears into the hotel with Jessie. As if she feels my gaze, Carrie looks over her shoulder at me, longing etched in her face.
Yeah. If I had to choose between a brunch with a bunch of crazy wedding women and hanging on the beach sipping a latte, I’d pick coffee, too.
I smile at her, but she doesn’t smile back. Instead, Jessie pulls her arm impatiently, and Carrie trips slightly, righting herself quickly, moving with long strides that turn her ass into an animated upside down heart.
I make a sound that’s half exasperation, half arousal.
“Coffee that good?” A woman pulls her chair over to me, a floppy sun hat hiding her face. She sits down, making no effort to be modest with legs that go up to her chin, in a short skirt that shows me she favors thong underwear. “Sounds positively orgasmic.”
I’ll give her credit — she knows when to make a sultry entrance. Long, blonde hair highlighted by a color artist, curled into a loose french knot that stays in place as she peels off her hat. Toned arms, perfectly tanned, shoulders kissed by freckles. Her bright red sleeveless sun dress shows off a pair of sculpted breasts, unnaturally big and perfectly symmetrical. The toothy smile greeting me as she cradles a coffee cup in her hands on top of knees that brush against my thigh is about as obvious as a crotch grab.
“Good coffee is good coffee,” I say with a polite smile.
“And good orgasms are even better,” she replies with a wink.
Working at O means learning how to knock down passes being thrown at you from all angles, often unexpectedly and without warning. No matter what, this woman is not going to score on me, so it’s better to deflect swiftly and move on.
I pull myself up, legs off the bottom of the chair, and spring into a standing position, coffee lid much appreciated. “If you’ll excuse me, I — ”
“You’re one of the strippers at O, aren’t you?” Her eyes narrow, taking me in inch by inch, the look cold and calculating. “I’ve seen you before. But not in the daylight.” She looks down at my running shorts. “And not with so many clothes on.”
“Are you a member?” I keep my voice even. O Spa policy states that if you meet a member outside of the club, you act professionally. Master masseurs are “on” at all times.
Not on the clock, though. I ignore her stripper comment and put up my guard, knowing the best offense is to become a blank wall.
“Lifetime.”
That means she shelled out six figures. She expects me to be impressed. But before I can come up with something to say, she reaches for both ends of my wet t-shirt around my neck, and pulls me close. Mocha and whisky blast my nose, her sour breath tinged with something elegantly sinister. That’s not just coffee in that cup she’s holding.
No surprise.
“I’m Eileen. What’s your name?” One eyebrow goes up. “I know you’re not Henry.” She pretends to look a foot above me and laughs. “He’d stand out in a crowd of Vikings.”
“Ryan.” A split second too late, I realize I should have lied and given her Zeke’s name. Then a warning bell starts to ding inside me. Eileen. Eileen. I’ve heard that name before at work. But why?
“Ryan.” It comes out like a purr and I’m her prey. Her eyes move slowly, like she has a right to check out the meat. My meat. Like she’s bought me already. At work, I don’t care. It goes with the job.
In public? With my heart barely in my ribcage after that moment with Carrie? Eileen’s attention feels cheap.
I don’t do cheap.
I twist away, gently taking her hand so I can untangle myself. But she’s fast. Determined. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes, visible only when I’m this close, make me think she’s well into her forties. Flat belly, though, and toned body.
A few years ago, I would have killed to have a woman like her want me.
Now all I want is Carrie.
Eileen’s manicured fingers tickle my sweaty chest, a low, sexy rumble bubbling up her throat. Red, glistening lips part, her tongue peeking out as she gives me an uncompromising look.
“You have the body of an Olympian.”
“And you have the lines of a pick-up artist,” says a woman behind me, matching Eileen tone for tone.
I jump back, out of Eileen’s grasp, my t-shirt dropping onto my foot.
“Hi Eileen,” Chloe says, one arm firmly around Nick Grafton’s waist, the other extended and ready to shake. “What a surprise and a delight.”
Nick shoots me a look that says, What’s up?
I give Chloe a look that says, I owe you my firstborn son.
As Nick and I shake hands and share masculine looks and deathgrips designed to crush titanium, Chloe and Eileen do the fake air-kiss, murmuring comments about the resort and Grind It Fresh! Niceties that buy time while they size each other up.
“I’m here for a long-term spa stay,” Eileen says, flashing Chloe a tight smile.
That’s code for plastic surgery.
“You’ve worked so hard this year, Eileen. All that charity work. You deserve it,” Chloe says smoothly. “Let me introduce you to my partner, Nick. Nick Grafton, this is Eileen van Donner.”
They shake hands, Eileen’s radar on high, scanning Nick for sex potential. We all feel it. Chloe starts to do a slow burn.
Hold on. Eileen van Donner. Now I remember. Cougar extraordinaire, something about trying to buy Zeke a while ago.
Literally buy him. People with money to burn will go to great lengths to get what they want.
“I see you’ve brought the help,” Eileen jokes with Chloe, who looks genuinely perplexed.
“Help?” Chloe asks.
“I think she means me,” I offer, jaw tight.
“Is Ryan availa
ble?” Eileen asks.
Nick starts coughing.
“Available? No. I have a girlfriend,” I blurt out.
Chloe’s eyes dart between me and Eileen like a metronome on high.
“I meant for spa services. I assume you’re here to work?”
“No, I’m here for pleasure.”
“Funny. So am I.” She reaches for my arm and slips her hand in, fingertips brushing my bare nipple.
“Eileen, a former member of our O staff is getting married here at the Inn. You’ll see many O staff members here as guests. They’re not working,” Chloe says pointedly.
“Not officially,” Eileen asks, her intent clear.
“Not at all,” I say firmly. “Remember my girlfriend?” At that, Chloe arches an eyebrow and smothers a smile. What the hell does that look mean?
Eileen pouts. It’s hard to tell, but she manages it through chemical paralysis. “That’s no fun.”
“Everyone needs a break from work sometimes,” I say, clearing my throat. Nick nods with sympathy. Or maybe he’s just trying not to laugh.
“Don’t think of what you do as work. It’s more of a calling.” Twisting my way out of her touch is easy as I break her grasp and suck down the rest of my coffee.
“A calling?” Chloe asks politely.
“All those women begging for God whenever Ryan touches them.”
I need divine intervention now.
Chloe’s eyes narrow. “I’ll ask you to treat Ryan and any other staff member like a regular person you’d meet at a resort.”
“Who says I’m not?”
Chloe catches my eye. I give her a slight headshake that says, I got this.
Eileen puts her hand on my chest again and stands on tiptoe, coming in for a hug. Something pushes against the waistband of my shorts, right at the base of my spine. I don’t have to look to see what it is.
“Room 422,” she whispers, planting a waxy kiss on my jawline, the sour alcohol breath making me wince.
As she pulls away, I reach back for the plastic hotel cardkey.
And lock eyes with Carrie, who is walking toward us with an enormous flower arrangement and a dropped jaw.
Oh, no.
“There you are, Ryan!” Jessie calls out, hidden by the flowers. “We need your help moving the flowers for the brunch!” She’s holding a similar batch of flowers and shoves them in my arms.
“You look like you need something fresher to hold, anyhow,” Carrie says, her eyes narrowing as she blinks furiously, expression neutral.
My hands fumble to get a good grip on the basket as I process what she just said. Wait. Is she… jealous?
Casting a scathing look at Eileen’s back, Carrie then turns to Chloe and says, “Was that Eileen van Donner? From O?”
“The one and only.”
“She’s the one who tried to hire Zeke to be her houseboy, right? Complete with a leash and everything.” Carrie’s eyes cut my way. “Is she recruiting again?” She looks at the hotel cardkey in my hand.
Then right into my eyes.
Red smudges on her cheeks indicate she’s blushing, an angry, involuntary response to emotion. Carrie’s chin juts up, her shoulders squared.
Jessie’s chattering away a mile a minute about hydrangeas while Carrie stares me down, her chest rising and falling with emotion. She walks closer to me. The flowers in my hands suddenly become a welcome barrier between me and her anger.
Chloe reaches for my hand and plucks Eileen’s hotel room cardkey out of it. “Poor Ryan,” Chloe says in a loud voice. “Never off the clock. The clients love him so much. Even when he told her firmly he has a girlfriend, she kept trying. Unbelievable.” Deftly, she takes the cardkey, walks over to a small stand with empty plastic bags for people who walk their dogs on the trails, and slips it in, tying a knot on the top.
“Trash goes in the trash can,” she mutters, tossing it in a receptacle.
Jessie watches everything with hawklike eyes, clearly trying to catch up. I pivot, putting the giant garden in my hands on the table, then scoop Carrie toward me, caging her. Every muscle in her body is tense. She’s trembling.
“You are the only fresh thing I want to hold, kitten,” I say, just loud enough for Jessie to hear, just soft enough to let my real emotions come through in my voice.
Carrie’s eyes dart all over the place, like marbles being dropped into a maze, as if she’s scattered and unsure. Then she stands on tiptoes, her hands resting on my shoulders, and she comes in for a sweet kiss.
That turns hot in seconds.
“I don’t like the idea of women turning you into a commodity,” she murmurs against my mouth. “Only I’m allowed to do that,” she adds.
Nick laughs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chloe tug him away, Nick nuzzling her neck and whispering something that makes Chloe chuckle in a low, knowing sound.
“Um, hate to break up your little makeout session, but we have more flowers to move because the planners relocated the rehearsal dinner across the resort, and my mom is breathing into random paper bags while — ”
Carrie holds up a palm to Jessie as Angela walks up, grinning madly.
The gentle kiss against my lips, so chaste it makes me want the flip side of Carrie, the dirty, dirty sex kitten I am pretty sure she can be, nearly breaks me.
“C’mon! You two had all night together. How could you still want more?” Jessie whines.
“Look at him, Jess. How could Carrie pick flowers over that?” Angela’s joking, but not really.
“Yeah,” I murmur against her ear. “How could you?”
Carrie jolts, nervous laughter filling the sudden space between us, her hot breath tickling my collar bone.
“Um, we need to go. Something about a ribbon emergency,” she says, patting my chest like a teddy bear wearing a vest she just buttoned.
“Okay. Just don’t be gone for too long. Remember that nooner we scheduled?” Wink.
Angela starts to squirm.
Funny. As I walk away, I swear Carrie does, too.
The courtyard is full of people I don’t know. As I dodge around guests in lounge chairs and tables full of folks drinking coffee, I hear a familiar voice.
As in, I just spoke to him a minute ago.
“I take it this goes with the territory,” Nick says, surprising me from behind. It’s not really a question, but I answer him anyhow.
“Nick! Thought you and Chloe were, uh…” I was about to say, about to go off and have sex, but that’s probably not the best thing to say to Anterdec management.
He makes a sour face. “She just got a call from those idiot developers about the customer service phone tree. They want us to buy a European phone service that always hangs up on American cell phones and can only be programmed in French.”
We share a laugh.
He shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair. “And they want her to add some crazy virtual reality feature with scent-o-rama.”
I grimace. “I could see how that might get, um…”
“Messy?”
We share a sick kind of laugh. It’s the chuckle you hear all the time from employees at O, a strange sound of I can’t believe this is what I do for a living and Damn, I have the best job ever.
“You collect hotel cardkeys from clients like that wherever you go?”
“I can. Depends entirely on the client.”
“All jobs have their downsides,” Nick says with a boisterous chuckle. If I didn’t know how comfortable he is in his own skin, I’d think he was envious.
“I didn’t deal with any of this at my last job.”
“Yeah? What did you do?”
“I was an electrical engineer.”
Nick gives me a speculative look. “That’s quite a career change.”
I shrug. “Like you said, all jobs have their downsides. I make more money working at O and no one dies if I calibrate a sex toy circuit incorrectly.”
Nick starts coughing again.
“Chloe sta
rted calling you the Renaissance Man. She wasn’t kidding.” Nick’s broad grin makes his blue eyes stand out. He has a calmness, an alert confidence that makes the weirdness of this conversation disappear.
“I aim to please.”
“Looks like you succeed.”
With everyone but Carrie.
“How old are you, Ryan?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Some weird look passes over his face, nostalgia and something contemplative as he gives me a crooked grin. “Enjoy it while you can.”
“C’mon, man. I’m sure when you were my age, you had all the women you wanted.”
“When I was your age, I was a single father to twin kindergarteners and a two-year-old. Women weren’t slipping hotel cardkeys in my waistband. They were handing me carpool schedules for tiny tot soccer.”
“That actually sounds like more fun.”
A belly laugh comes out of him, booming and incredulous. “You’ve got every woman you could ever want at your fingertips.”
“Yeah.”
Nick’s eyes narrow. He reminds me of a younger version of my dad, the one I played with when I was little, the dad who was still young enough to toss baseballs and teach me how to ski. I do some quick math and realize Nick’s got to be my oldest sister’s age.
“But you don’t, do you?”
“I don’t what?”
“Have the woman you want.”
“What?”
He shrugs. Now he really reminds me of my dad.
Before he can answer, his phone buzzes. He looks at it and grins.
“I’ve got a woman of my own back at my hotel room,” he says, waggling his plastic cardkey. “I’ve been summoned.”
“Scent-o-rama crisis averted? Hey, man, don’t let me delay you.” I push the Up key on the elevator, legs too tired for the stairs.
By the time he’s gone down the hall, the elevator doors open.
And I’m greeted with squeals.
“It is you! We saw you downstairs being interviewed and thought so. OMIGOD IT’S RYAN!” Twin blondes with hair down to their asses and eyes big as saucers gape at me. One of them grabs my arm and yanks me into the elevator. “You remember us from O? You did our eighteenth birthday party last year! Gia and Gina!”
