by Gage Grayson
Almost too good-looking—like dangerously good-looking.
Dangerous to my poor libido.
“Do you think we can pull this off?” I’m honestly curious.
I don’t know if we can, but does he think we can?
His answer doesn’t come as quickly as I expected, considering it was his idea.
He turns slowly to me, and his eyes run down my scantily clad body slowly. My blood starts to boil immediately.
This feeling of being simultaneously angry and turned on, which was foreign to me before today, is rapidly becoming very familiar.
“Oh yeah. I think we can do it.” His words and their double meaning sink into my head slowly.
The little fucker!
“Ugh!” Springing to my feet, I throw back the last couple sips of my wine.
As I put my drink on the table, he hops and faces me, holding up his hands apologetically. His robe is dangerously close to being totally open.
And I’m super mad at myself for even noticing.
“I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere, but I still need a minute to think. He waits while I stare silently at the wall for a moment, but continues talking the second I look back at him.
“I do think we can pull this off. Let’s talk about it, at least.”
I hesitate at his words. I want to do it, but he needs to know he can’t treat me like that.
And besides, I can’t show my hand yet.
“Okay, let’s talk.” My words relax him a bit, and he drops his hands to his side.
“Okay.”
8
Aaron
What does she even want? What’s she trying to do?
I can’t tell anymore.
What I can tell—what I do know for sure—is that she’s driving me fucking insane.
Here she is in this pink bit of material barely covering her.
It’s fucking difficult to keep thinking straight. Any second I expect my brain to take an extended vacation.
Who could blame me?
Trying to think straight is fucking torture, but it’s torture I need to get through in order to properly sell this proposal.
“So, you have to agree it’s a fucking brilliant idea, isn’t it?”
To my surprise, the argumentative artillery stays silent.
This is a woman with a vast stockpile of verbal weaponry, with very little hesitation to open fire at a moment’s notice.
Judging by most of her reactions so far and her expression right now, you’d think that this would be a prime time to let me have it.
But then again, this may just be the calm before the storm—the eye of this very locally centered hurricane.
I watch her moisten her lips slightly with the top of her tongue and subtly flip a few strands of hair from her forehand.
Her oceanic eyes are studying me closely. There’s such intensity behind them I feel as if she might steal my soul, or at least part of it, through her gaze.
I stare right back. I’ve got nothing to hide—let her study me.
At least she’ll get to check out my goods.
“Come on.” I think I’m on a roll. “Surely even you can see the sense in what I’m saying?”
“And by ‘even you can see the sense,’ you’re suggesting what, exactly?” Her hands are now resting on her hips. “That I pick up ideas slowly? A little stupid? Not the brightest bunny in the bunch?” She takes a deep breath. Here come the bullets.
“You’re going to start with the blonde jokes next, aren’t you?” Her chin sticks out, and I know I may have stepped in a puddle.
“Because you know, chances are, I’ve heard them before. But come on, give it your best shot. Surprise me.” She spits those words out at me. I feel myself flinch a little.
“Of course, that’s not what I mean,” I protest. “When I said even you, I just meant, you know…” That jumble of words doesn’t convey what I want it to.
“Come on, Macy. I’m talking about an arrangement that benefits both of us. Honestly, we’d be stupid not to take advantage of this. It would be like staying at this resort and rejecting half the perks even though they cost nothing extra—fuck, it’s not like that, it is that.”
This is fucking hard work. How come I can get a full house of some the world’s largest and temperamental fucking egos to work in harmony on a high-stress production, but I can’t get this one hard-headed fucking woman to agree to something which should be a no-fucking-brainer?
It’s not about that anymore. It’s about me. That’s why she’s not budging on this, because of the face attached to it—not that my classically chiseled face ever put anyone off before.
I’ve got my work cut out for me if I’m ever going to win over Macy the Stubborn, but for now, I’m honestly concerned with closing the deal on actually getting the vacation I’ve earned.
“What makes you think I want to do all those activities anyway? I mean, I’m perfectly happy just hanging out at the resort, on a tropical island, without doing any of those things you mentioned.”
I let out a rare sigh.
Of course, she’s got a fucking point.
But I’m not ready to give up quite yet. My oratory skills can’t be that fucking rusty all of a sudden. I know I’m burnt out, but fuck, this should be an easy fucking sell.
“Come on, Macy.” I feel confident about this, but I’m having trouble summoning much of it. “Imagine getting the chance to actually be deep into those sparkling blue waters, and to sail on the surface, and to get an actual massage to help finally ease out some fucking tension because, seriously, aren’t we both supposed to be here on vacation? I know I’ll be ready to get back to work a few days of this momentary break. How about you?”
My eyes are on her. I’m trying to gauge her reaction.
And I’m also looking for some flicker of recognition, since I just mentioned work, that she might know who I am.
Nothing.
For her next vacation, Macy should hit up Vegas and clean house at the World Series of Poker, because I’ve got no fucking idea what she’s thinking.
She wouldn’t even need a hat or sunglasses to hide her tells, because I see no tells at all, and her eyes are as silent as the rest of her.
I don’t know if I’m quite as poker-faced at the moment, even though my mind’s fucking racing.
And my mind usually does not do that shit. In fact, it’s fucking famous for being calm and effective, even when everyone else around me is freaking the fuck out.
The problem is, I’m starting to feel like I should be freaking out, and I’m not even close to being sure where that’s coming from. Still, no tells. She’s standing patiently and silently.
Suddenly, there’s the tiniest sparkle in her eyes, which seems to mean that she’s thought of a response she’s about to fling in my direction.
It might also mean she recognizes the obvious value in the idea, but we’ll have to wait and fucking see on that.
“I don’t understand why it needs to happen with you staying in the same suite.”
She might be fucking with me, or subtly telling me to get lost. But I explain anyway.
“I’ve told you why. We’ve been over this. It’s a package. For married couples, newlyweds. And there are no extra rooms to book—not in the resort, and I can guarantee not on the island, either. You know, spring break, ‘party! let’s all go wild!’ and so on into eternity.”
There’s the subtlest movement around Macy’s lips. I can’t tell if she’s pissed off or trying not to laugh.
There’s no way she’d let herself laugh or allow a respite in the stormy weather of this moment. I get the impression if I said the wall of this room’s painted white—which it is—she’d say, “No, that’s wallpaper, and it’s black.”
And I’ll admit, I kind of fucking love that.
What does this woman do for a living anyway? What’s her story? Those things are starting to interest me more than a quick vacation fling.
W
ell, maybe not more, but.
“Look, we can share the suite, but...” Macy’s next delayed response is interrupted by a hand rapping against the suite door.
We look at each other like we’re in the midst of a criminal conspiracy and the FBI just showed up with a warrant.
“Did you hear that?” she whispers, somewhat hilariously.
“Yeah, I heard the loud knocking at the door, if that’s what you’re asking about.”
She nods, looking deadly serious.
“You want to get that?” she asks. “Or, well, it’s my suite.”
Before I can respond, she’s heading for the door. Quickly, I catch up with her to ask a small question.
“Expecting someone?” Apart from some tangential connection to my hapless friend, I still don’t know this woman.
Or who she’s down here with.
It could be her boyfriend.
Or her husband. I mean, that’s fucking doubtful, but it would certainly make this vacation even more interesting than it’s been already.
Macy doesn’t answer, and she’s already opening the door anyway. I guess I’m about to discover the new twist to this whole St. Maarten odyssey.
As the door swings open with a soft creak, I fold my arms. There are few better ways to stand in the middle of a room in a bathrobe than with your arms folded. It’ll be quite the sight for whoever it is in the hallway.
“Welcome to our beautiful resort.”
If the short guy standing in the hallway—in a dress shirt and tie, wearing a gold name tag, with a silver serving cart in front of him—is Macy’s boyfriend, then he doesn’t look too upset to see me.
“Please accept this as a special gift of the management to congratulate the happy couple and wish you an enjoyable and memorable stay here.”
But seriously, folks. Macy looks downright shocked as the attendant wheels in our tray of swag.
I forget to even thank the guy as he leaves, because I’m too focused on watching Macy’s gorgeously animated face as she marvels at the champagne service, ornate tray of chocolates, and fresh rose petals arranged artily around the tray.
“A lot of work went into this,” she comments.
“I’ll say.” I take a few steps over and grab the gold champagne bottle. “This is Armand de Brignac Gold Brut. Not bad for a freebie.”
“What’re you doing?” she snaps as I work on the cork.
“Pouring the happy couple a glass of this delicious champagne that probably has a four-digit price tag.” I glide the cork smoothly from the bottle and start filling the crystal flutes on the tray.
Macy shrugs and pops a chocolate in her mouth.
“I guess we get the perks without having to put on a show,” she says with her mouth full.
Finished filling the flutes, I hand Macy her champagne.
“Might as well not break the illusion, though.”
Macy stares at me as she slowly takes the glass, and I make a toast. “To the happy couple.”
Macy silently takes a sip of her drink without reciprocating the toast.
Whatever, the champagne’s really good and dry. I might as well ruin it with some chocolate.
“What sorts of chocolates are there?”
I take a step toward her to get a look at the box.
“Is there something hard on the outside but with a soft, lovable center?”
I keep my voice playful and look at her meaningfully.
“Oh, is that supposed to be you or something?”
“Or creamy center. Whatever.”
Back to her old self, she simply shoves the box at me.
This is going to be one fucking amazing vacation. I can feel it in my bones.
9
Macy
I hate the way he’s messing with both my rational thoughts and my emotions without even trying. His whole cocky, condescending thing—clearly some sort of a put-on—is still reaching new levels of tiresome.
But I can see what he’s getting at has some merit.
“Come on Mace, we can do this.”
With an icy stare, I glare at him.
“First, my name is Macy, not Mace, and there’s no we in any of this.”
I take a deep breath and wish he wouldn’t just stand there, looking at me so calmly and casually, in that robe...
I’m beyond distracted now, because I’m looking back at Aaron, at the cloth barely covering his chest.
Fuck.
If there’s one thing this idea has going for it, it’s that my roommate for the week is as easy on the eyes as those chocolates are on the tongue. With that thought, I feel my temperature rising, and I’m at a loss for whatever I was going to say next.
Instead of talking, I start to pace. Up and down, like a nervous film student waiting for the project due tomorrow to render on her fucking slow-ass laptop.
Without looking at him, I feel him keeping his eyes on me the entire time, and my temperature rises even more.
I focus on my breathing. When my breathing slows and calms, my thoughts will also become a little more ordered.
It’s beyond me why this man has this unprecedented an effect on me, eye candy factor aside. None of the boys I’ve hung out with or dated at NYU have left me feeling as if flames are ripping though me.
At NYU they were boys, not men, not a man like Aaron.
Even if his maturity’s not all there, to say the least, Aaron’s easy confidence, his appearance, just his presence screams man, so I’ll give him that much.
But, I still don’t think that’s it.
The fact that he’s watching me, silently, even in the heat of trying to persuade me of something, but still not saying a word and not seeming anxious to do so...
I feel like I’m getting warmer with that idea—yes, fucking literally and fucking figuratively, too.
For about a microsecond or two, I imagine what it must feel like to run my hands down his back and along his bare chest, feeling nothing but pure muscle and an ethereally thin sheen of perspiration.
After enjoying that tiny flash of a daydream, I push my rational mind into taking over. If—and it’s a big if—this stupid plan of his is going to work, there are going to be some ground rules that needed to be established.
But I’m not going to be an easy push over. To set the ground rules properly, I’ll need to assert more resistance. If this asshole thinks I’m a pushover, he’ll be trying to sleep in the same bed as me straight away.
“You seriously think it’s as easy as just pretending to be a couple, and the resort will keep forking over some of the most expensive shit on the island for free?” I stare at him with my fiercest of frowns, it feels ridiculous, but I stick with it.
He shrugs.
In a weird but very real way, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with as relaxed an attitude as Aaron.
“Why not? Do you think we’ll be tested on marriage skills? We’re not applying for a green card, Mace-face.”
He laughs at his own joke.
Another tick against him. I mean if no one else is laughing, it’s not funny.
And I’m not laughing.
I’ll even be generous and ignore that nickname, whatever the fuck was going on with that.
Rolling my eyes, I resume my pacing.
“Of course, there’s not going to be a test, at least not like an exam type test.”
My feet slowly come to a halt as my argument takes shape.
“But things might come up, things a married couple would know.”
My concerns are there, even my words are slow to catch up.
Aaron just stares at me. I can tell he’s so sold on this idea that any kind of flaw with it is invisible to him. As I stare at him, smug look, gorgeous body, effortless, assured posture, it finally hits me. The biggest problem is going to be putting up with him, Aaron.
That’s what I’m really concerned about.
I mean I just can’t talk to this guy. How the fuck am I going to be able to pretend to be married
to him, let alone spend any more than a few minutes in his company without totally fucking losing it?
I’ve been having a hard time pinning down what’s so magnetic about this man apart from his looks, but I can say with confidence, it’s not his lack of obnoxiousness.
Maybe I’m being dramatic—I mean, this is only a logical continuation of the craziness around this situation from the beginning—but there are some things that aren’t even worth a free, sorely needed luxury vacation.
If my life right now were a blistering summer day, where the heat starts out barely tolerable and soon just drains you of all your energy, this vacation was supposed to be like a dip in a cool, refreshing swimming pool, and maybe a glass of lemonade.
However, even on the hottest day of the year, a dip in the pool isn’t worth it if the water’s infected with terrifying sharks, and the lemonade’s laced with poison.
Okay, maybe a more accurate metaphor would be that the pool has a bit too much chlorine, enough to be irritating, and the lemonade is some weird flavor that you kind of hate, but can’t stop taking sips...
I chew my bottom lip as I look at him and weigh my options.
“So, let’s assume for a minute that I agree that we can do this,” I start and notice the immediate glimmer in his eyes.
“Hold your horses, Sunshine,” I try and rein in his enthusiasm. “I’ve said assume I’m going to say yes, how exactly do you propose we go about it?”
From my experience, this is the best tactic in a conflict. Go on the front foot and find out what the other party has in mind. That way you can either shoot holes in their plan, or work with them to make it better.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean how do you propose it works? What’s so hard to understand about that question? I put it in English for you. You do speak English—or was I mistaken?”
If I’ve offended him, he doesn’t let on.
“We just pretend to be married, act like a newlywed couple.”
“That’s it?” I try not to sound too exasperated. “And exactly how does a newlywed couple act? Are you an expert on newlywed couples?”
