Acting on Impulse

by Mia Sosa

  “Ready to do something more than paddle in circles?” I ask her.

  She bites her bottom lip. “I’m not sure.”

  “Yes, you are,” I assure her. “If you can swim, you’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, I’ll follow.”

  We paddle out toward one end of the widest section of the lagoon. Within seconds, a passing motorboat causes a few ripples.

  “Eeep,” Tori says behind me. “Ay Dios, me voy a morir!”

  I turn my head and frown at her. “You’re not going to die, Tori.”

  She bends her knees to regain her balance. “Wait. You understand Spanish?”

  “Only what I can remember from high school. I had a Spanish tutor.”

  “Ooh. Tell me something else.”

  I lower the paddle into the water and use my elbow to wipe my brow. “Estoy caliente.”

  Tori barks out a laugh. “Ha-ha. Despacito, Justin Bieber. You’re supposed to say tengo calor. Estoy caliente means you think you’re hot, as in sexy. Common mistake.”

  I give her an overtly smoldering look. “Who says it was a mistake? Are you saying I’m not sexy?”

  She stops paddling, and her cheeks flush. “No, I never said that. You’re sexy. Very sexy.” She dips her chin and blinks as though her brain has now caught up with her mouth. “I mean . . . you, ah, you’ve definitely got that . . . lumberjack swag. With the beard and all.”

  I smirk at her. “Uh-huh.”

  I’m not even a little annoyed that she struggles to give me a compliment. It feels real. Right.

  Tori’s choked voice crashes into my thoughts. “Carter, we’re drifting apart.” Her eyes are wide, and she’s whipping her head back and forth as her board takes her farther away from me.

  “Just keep paddling toward the beach. I’ll catch up with you.”

  She maneuvers herself around and paddles in the shore’s direction. The strain in her face disappears when she realizes she still has control of the board. Only when I know she’s comfortable again do I paddle to meet her. Once I’m close, we move through the water side by side, and as we approach the sand, we race to the finish, Tori’s laughter floating in the air like a cool breeze on an oppressively hot day. Just a day by the sea with a woman I like—a lot.

  Still, I can’t let a few days in the sun blind me to reality. Tori and I wouldn’t have this easy connection if she knew the truth about my profession. So I’ll enjoy our time together for what it is. And then we’ll both return to Philadelphia the way we came.

  Alone.

  OUR GROUP, EXHAUSTED and disheveled, returns to the resort in the early afternoon. Tori and I make plans to have dinner together.

  A couple of hours later, Tori meets me at the entrance to the open-air restaurant on the north side of the resort. She’s wearing a one-piece tank-top-and-shorts combo that accentuates her long legs. Her hair is slicked into a side ponytail, a mass of curls draped over one shoulder, and her eyes are rimmed with black eyeliner.

  “Your hair looks great,” I tell her.

  She flicks her ponytail. “Very necessary, too. My hair lost its battle with the humidity today. To the victor goes the frizz.”

  Paper lanterns dot the perimeter of the restaurant and bathe the space, giving it a warm glow. A band plays soft jazz on an elevated platform in a corner.

  As we wait to be seated, I breathe in the salty sea air and listen to the waves crash against the shore.

  The hostess arrives and tells us we’re free to sit at the bar or choose a table wherever we’d like. The bar is populated by a rowdy bunch, half of them standing, while most of the people at the tables are twosomes who appear to be enjoying a night of romance under the stars.

  Tori and I are silent as I weigh our options. The intimacy of sitting at a candlelit table might tempt my brain to go to places it shouldn’t, but I’d prefer not to be jostled by the drunkards at the bar.

  Tori lifts her brows. “Um. Table?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  I’ll just keep it light. Easy and breezy always works.

  After we order from the bar menu, I ask Tori about her plans for tomorrow.

  She folds and unfolds her linen napkin. “I’m going to spend it on the beach. Nothing else. Just me, a book, and sunshine.”

  I gasp, pretending to be shocked. “You’re going nude?”

  She tosses the napkin at my face, and I catch it with one hand.

  Tori doesn’t know that a napkin can become art in my hands, but I’m planning to school her. I fold it in half diagonally.

  She reaches over, her pretty mouth curved into a playful smile. “Hey, what are you doing with my napkin? It’s rude to touch someone else’s stuff.”

  “If that were true, no one would have sex,” I say as I roll the napkin.

  “Without asking for permission,” she clarifies.

  “Fair point. Tori, can I touch your stuff? You’ll be glad I did.”

  She blushes. “Fine. But you better make it worth my while.”

  I throw innuendo at her, and she pitches back sass. I could do this with her all day. And if I’m not too careful, I’ll miss her more than I should miss anyone after a jaunt in the Caribbean.

  I fiddle with the napkin and present it to her. “Voila. Tori, will you accept this rose?” It’s the same question countless bachelors and bachelorettes have posed to their dozens of “one true loves” on that train wreck of a show.

  She gazes at me, smiles, and leans forward. “Absolutely not. You just had your tongue down the throats of four other women. You probably have mono.”

  I laugh until my sides hurt. Then I toss the napkin back at her.

  “So you’ve worked in a restaurant, too?” she asks.

  “Catering, mostly, which included all the setup. It’s left me with an impressive skill set.”

  The candle in the center of the table highlights the twinkle in her eyes. “Any woman would be lucky to have you.”

  “Sarcasm notwithstanding, I agree with you.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  The band takes a short break, and an up-tempo song plays through the speakers. The drums add a thumping beat that’s hard to resist, and soon Tori and I are both swaying in our chairs.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?” I ask.

  She’s snapping her fingers to the music as she answers. “Twenty-nine.”

  Shit. She is older than me. Not by much, but still . . .

  “How old are you?” she asks.

  “Twenty-seven. I’ve been told I act mature for my age, though.”

  She sits back, opens her eyes wide, and cackles. “Whoever told you that is a liar.”

  “And whoever taught you manners is a terrible teacher.”

  She tips a nonexistent hat and gives me a lopsided grin. “Touché.”

  “Let me put this age difference in perspective.”

  With her eyes squinting at me in amusement, she gestures for me to continue. “Please, Carter, break it down for me.”

  “When I was born, you were learning to pee in a potty. That’s it. That sums up our age difference.”

  She shakes her head. “No, what sums up our age difference is the absolute certainty that I would never willingly mention peeing in a potty in casual conversation.”

  We stare at each other for several seconds, and then we both howl with laughter. While we’re still doubled over, the server delivers our drinks: a beer for me and a glass of passion fruit juice for her. Minutes later, he brings an assortment of appetizers to our table, including grilled barbecue chicken so good Tori and I are both licking our fingers before we’re done.

  “You’re right about what you said earlier, actually,” she says, sucking barbecue sauce off her thumb. “I have the worst manners when I’m with you.”

  I study the way her lips close over the digit. Perfection. “I could say the same about myself,” I say in a low voice.

  She drops her hands to her lap like she’s a Catholic schoolgirl who’s been to
ld to sit up straight by a nun. It’s fascinating to watch her react to me. One minute, she’s playful. The next minute, she’s shy. Playful appears to be her comfort zone, and I wish she’d stay in it.

  “It just means we’re comfortable around each other,” I say, hoping to send the message that there’s no risk in flirting. “And I’m not complaining.”

  She nods and leans forward, her hands reappearing on the table to fiddle with her straw and glass. But she avoids my gaze. After a few seconds of worrying her bottom lip, she straightens, her jaw set in determination. “I’ve been thinking about our wager.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, I’m feeling generous, so even though you lost the bet, I’d like to help you anyway.”

  I’d forgotten about the bet, and since I’m spending tons of time with Tori already, I have no interest in her assistance. “It’s okay. I’ll manage on my own.”

  She clasps her hands in front of her and pleads. “Please, Carter? C’mon, it’ll be fun. You might even be able to have cake by the ocean.”

  “Tori, trust me, I’ve had the equivalent of a dessert party by the ocean.”

  She draws back, her lips drawn up to her nose as though she’s smelling something unpleasant. “Ew. Poor taste. TMI. Overcompensating.”

  The apples of my cheeks warm. This woman will keep my ego in check for sure. And she’d fit in just fine with the rest of my family. I can picture Tori squeezed between my sisters on my parents’ couch as they razz me about something. The image should make me shudder. But the idea of adding Tori to my family peanut gallery takes up residence in my brain and refuses to move out.

  She scoots her chair closer to mine, dragging her drink along with her. She brings the glass to her lips. Rather than take a sip from it, though, she swings the drink away from her face. “There,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Do you see that woman at the bar? She’s been checking you out for a while now.”

  I follow the trajectory of her swing and glance at the subject of our conversation.

  “It’s like she’s trying to figure out if she knows you,” Tori continues.

  The hairs on my arms rise. It’s nothing. Well, I hope it’s nothing. No, I pray it’s nothing. But given my current state of dishevelment, it’s probably something. Since I can’t just run out on dinner, my best option is to go talk to the woman and find out what she knows. “Okay, I’ll humor you. What advice would you give me?”

  Tori leans into me, a few strands of her long, curly hair brushing my shoulder. “Don’t use a line. Be yourself. She’s going to wonder why you’re talking to her when just a few seconds ago, you were talking to me. Explain that we’re friends. And if she seems to be slipping away, hit her with”—her voice drops to a whisper as though she’s revealing a secret—“the eyes.”

  “The eyes?”

  “Yes, Carter, your eyes. Unless you’re truly clueless, you know they’re one of your best features. Give her ‘the smolder,’ and she’ll be yours.”

  I stare at her for several seconds more than necessary, practicing “the smolder.” Her gaze is transfixed on mine. I glance at her lips, and she parts them—unconsciously, I’m sure—and then she snaps them shut. With her face averted, she leans back and stretches her arms above her head as though she’s bored.

  I shake my head in disappointment. “See? I think you’re overestimating their allure.”

  But then she blows out a slow breath. Maybe she’s not unaffected by me after all. Even if that’s true, though, I’m committed to not doing anything about it.

  “Just take my advice and run with it, Carter. You’ll thank me later.” She gestures for the bill and shoos me with a smile and a thumbs-up.

  I make my way across the patio, unsure how we got here. Tori’s encouraging me to flirt with another woman, when all I want to do is spend time with her. But right now, the bigger question rattling in my brain is this: Does this woman recognize me? If she does, I’ll beg her to keep quiet about it, making noise about my privacy. And if she doesn’t, I’ll give Tori enough of a show to make her think I tried—and failed—to pick up my admirer.

  As I approach, the woman swivels in her seat as she pokes the ice in her cocktail with a straw.

  I claim the stool next to her and gesture for Damon’s attention.

  He furrows his brows for a few seconds, but then he slips into his professional bartender demeanor. “What can I get you, pal?”

  “A Coronado.”

  He nods. Less than a minute later, he returns and places a bottle in front of me.

  The woman doesn’t turn my way, but I catch a small smile before she takes a sip of her cocktail.

  I turn my head and glance at Tori, who nods her encouragement.

  “Lovely night, isn’t it?” I say to the woman.

  “It is,” she says.

  I offer her my hand. “Carter.”

  She places her small hand in mine. “Janine.”

  Then I lean into her. “Janine, I’m going to be frank with you.”

  The half smile is now a half frown. “Okay.”

  “Did you happen to notice that I was just sitting next to a woman?”

  “I did.” Her eyes go round as saucers. “Oh God. I’m so embarrassed. I was staring, wasn’t I? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just that you look so familiar to me. But then I figured it’s true what they say—that everyone has a twin.”

  “I get that a lot. One day I’ll have to figure out which celebrity I favor.”

  She nods. “Well, anyway, please tell her I don’t have designs on her man or anything.”

  “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. You see, she thinks I need help in the dating department. What she doesn’t realize yet is that I’m very interested in her.”

  Janine sighs and her eyes brighten. “That’s so romantic. But why don’t you just tell her you’re interested? Honesty’s always the best policy and all that.”

  I turn back and glance at Tori. She’s shaking her head and motioning for me to abandon my pickup attempt. That’s precisely what I’m doing—for my own reasons—but I make a mental note to ask her later why she wanted to call it off.

  My arm brushes against Janine’s side when I swivel the stool in her direction. “Well, she broke up with her boyfriend recently, and she’s not interested in dating anyone. I’ll tell her when the time’s right. If it’s okay with you, I’ll just say that, much to my disappointment, you told me you have a boyfriend.”

  Before Janine can respond, a shadow blankets the table and a thunderous voice coming from behind me says, “Her boyfriend’s right here, asshole.”

  Oh shit.

  Chapter Eight

  Tori

  THE BEEFY GUY standing behind Carter clenches his fists and stretches his thick, tattooed neck. Are all bullies taught to signal their willingness to fight in this way? I tried to warn Carter that the man had been looming in the background, but Carter’s incapable of reading a signal. Since I got him into this mess, I suppose I should help him out.

  When I reach the table, the Hulk appears to be one button way from busting out of his shirt.

  “That’s not what I asked, dipshit,” he says to Carter. “Why are you sniffing around my woman?”

  The woman rolls her eyes at her boyfriend. “Greg, stop being a jerk.”

  Greg places his hands on his chest. “Oh, I’m the jerk? Some guy’s trying to pick up my girlfriend, and I’m the jerk? That’s classic, Janine.”

  Greg pounces on Carter, grabs him by his shirt, and pulls him close. “As for you, I should kick your ass.”

  A few chairs scrape across the patio floor as other guests move out of the way.

  “Do you mean that literally? Because if you do, I should tell you that my ass is indestructible. It’s like a superhero’s ass.” Carter says this last bit under his breath. Or tries to.

  The guy tightens his hold on Carter’s shirt, because Carter is just as incapable of muttering under his breat
h as he is incapable of heeding a signal. “Is this a joke to you?”

  I wedge my arm between their chests and separate them. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, big guy. Settle down. He’s with me.”

  “Then what’s he doing trying to pick up my girlfriend?”

  I shove Carter behind me while the guy waits for my explanation. “Well, you see, um . . . my boyfriend and I have this thing we do. Um . . . we pretend to be single and pick up other people.” My heart is racing. And damn, this is embarrassing. Carter owes me big-time. “We like watching the other flirt with someone else.” I reach back and clasp one of Carter’s hands. “Don’t ask me why, but it turns us on to pretend that way.”

  “It’s a shit thing to do,” the Hulk—rather, Greg—says.

  With a vigorous nod of my head, I agree with him. “Yes, you’re so right. I . . . I mean, we see that now, and we’re going to put this game to bed. Right, Carter?”

  “Right,” Carter says behind me with laughter in his voice.

  I will kill him if he’s smiling. Of course, when I turn around, I see that he is. My sandal-clad foot “mistakenly” connects with his shin, and the smile disappears.

  “Okay, again, we’re sorry about this,” I say to Greg and his girlfriend as I pull Carter away. “Have a nice evening.”

  “Yeah, right,” Greg says.

  “Have a nice evening, you two,” his girlfriend chimes in, a cheesy grin on her face.

  “Thanks for the save,” Carter says as we walk back to the opposite end of the bar. “I would have been fine, but having a fight in Aruba is not my idea of a relaxing vacation.”

  It hits me then. Carter lives in an alternate universe where skinny men overpower guys twice their size simply by force of will. The guy continues to stare at us despite his girlfriend’s efforts to engage him in conversation, until she grabs him by the chin to redirect his gaze toward her. But seconds later, when I peek behind Carter, Greg’s again preoccupied by Carter and me, likely wondering if we’ve tricked him out of a fight he clearly wanted to have.