by Sarah Smith
I tap my bottle against his. “Bring it.”
* * *
• • •
Ten minutes into the pilot episode of The Office UK, I’m all giggles and my bottle is three-fourths empty. The alcohol and the bubbles have gone straight to my head. Callum’s got just a few gulps left, though, which means I’m for sure losing this contest. I don’t care though. Tucked under his shoulder, his arm wrapped firmly around me as I’m comfortably tipsy, I’m winning by a long shot. I get to cuddle with Callum, then ravage him in bed. Something stirs inside me. Not warmth, not even comfort, but something deeper.
“You know something? I think I like the American series better,” I say.
“No surprise there.”
“Let me guess. You prefer the UK version.”
He takes a long swig of champagne. “Of course. The original is always superior.”
I shake my head before leaning so close to his face that we’re almost touching noses. “No way. Have you ever had Extra Crispy KFC chicken? Way, way better than Original Recipe.”
“If you say so.”
I cross my arms. He kisses the tip of my nose, and I burst into a smile.
“You’re adorable when you’re petulant,” he says.
I fall back against the couch and take another gulp of champagne. I gaze up at him.
“And you’re adorable with this whole romantic champagne setup.”
He peers down at me. “Romantic?”
“Anytime there’s pink champagne involved, it’s romantic.”
“Not sure if I agree with that.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you drink pink champagne with your brother? Or your friends?”
He shakes his head.
“Point proven.” I take a gulp and feel the slightest bit dizzy. I focus back on the TV. “So tell me, Mr. Pink Champagne. Did you prefer Jim’s grand gesture of surprising Pam with a house in the US version? Or did you like Tim’s quiet gesture of gifting Dawn new art supplies during the UK version’s Christmas special with a note encouraging her to pursue her dreams?”
My tipsy and random question doesn’t seem to faze Callum at all, because he replies immediately. “Jim, hands down. I’ve got a soft spot for grand gestures.”
“Really? I would have never guessed.” I hiccup. “I liked Tim’s style better. Sweet and thoughtful but also low-key.” I beam up at him. “Look at us, switching allegiances so quickly. Just a minute ago you were ready to toss me off the couch because I admitted I liked the American version better.”
He runs his hand up my bare leg.
Eyes closed, I let out a satisfied hum. “This was a great idea.”
He peers down at me then glances at my bottle, a smirk on his lips and in his eyes. “You think so? Even when you’re about to lose?”
I shrug and take another gulp. “I still get to fool around with you at the end of this, you sexy, sexy man. I’m the real winner in that sense.”
Just then Lemon jumps on the couch, cuddling between the two of us. He pats her plump pregnant stomach, which triggers an idea.
“Hey, I was thinking. We should work out some sort of custody agreement for Lemon.”
“How so?”
“You took care of all of her medical bills. You should get to keep her part of the time. We could do the week-on, week-off thing. Like divorced parents.”
“Not the most positive spin you could’ve put on it.”
“Screw spin. Are you interested or am I keeping Lemon and her future baby kitties all to myself?”
He kisses my cheek before giving Lemon a head scratch. She nuzzles his knee appreciatively.
“I would love that,” he says.
“Great. I’ll leave her here tonight and get her next week.”
Callum scratches under her chin while peering down at her. “You hear that, Lemon? We’re officially one big happy family.”
I swig more champagne. “One big drunk happy family.” I giggle so hard, I nearly drop my bottle on the floor.
He straightens to a sitting up position, takes the bottle from me, and leans forward to deposit it and his own bottle on the coffee table.
“But the contest . . .” I say before hiccupping.
“Let’s take a break.” His tone is low, soft.
Hugging me tighter against him, he gives Lemon another pat. Then he presses his lips against my forehead. I close my eyes, a happy hum emanating from my throat. His lips on me, our bodies pressed together, our cat between us, and two cheap bottles of champagne. Such an easy recipe for a perfect night. I let the moment sink in, then promptly melt into the couch.
“This is perfect,” I say. “Like, literally perfect.”
He gazes down at me with cloudy eyes. I’m guessing he’s tipsy, too, but less so than me since he’s got the body of a muscled warrior. “Is it?”
“I like doing this with you. I wish we could do it every night.”
It’s a nervous moment while I wait for him to say something. But only silence from him. Great. I made things weird with an unintentionally touchy-feely comment.
To recover, I stand up and grab my bottle from the coffee table, then quickly down the remaining champagne. I spin around, narrowing my gaze at him. An amused expression dances across his face.
“I believe I just won the contest. You know what that means?”
He smirks before gently scooting Lemon next to him on the couch. “Not sure if that counts, petal. We were in the middle of a break.”
I bite my lip, giddy at the very English nickname he’s chosen for me. This is feeling more and more like an actual relationship by the minute, and it’s nowhere near as terrifying as I thought it would be.
I quickly tuck the errant thought aside. Everything seems ideal when you live in a fantasy world like this, when you don’t actually have to do the dirty work of a relationship, like arguments, sharing chores, splitting bills, enduring annoying relatives, all that. When a relationship is simply hanging out and mind-blowing sex, it’s easy to idealize—because you’re only experiencing the best parts.
I’m thankful for the reminder my tipsy self manages to give. I focus back on the task at hand: bantering with Callum in the lead-up to sexy fun times.
I shrug. “Too bad. Those are the rules; you said so yourself. Whoever finishes their bottle first, wins. I finished mine first, which means I won. Which also means . . .”
I twist my head in the direction of the hallway to his bedroom. Just then Callum stands up and grabs me by the waist.
“Which means I owe you a favor,” he says.
“You do.”
I press against the front of his shorts and lick my lips at the hard feel. Mischief dances across his face. Any awkwardness from the moment prior is gone. We’re back to playful and horny.
“What would you like?” he growls.
I scrunch up my face in mock indecisiveness. “What are my options?”
He leans down, softly pressing his lips to my neck. “Anything and everything,” he whispers.
My answer is wordless. It’s just me tugging him by the shirt to get his mouth to mine. After a minute of rabid kissing, I finally voice my request. “Your bed. Now.”
In a split second, Callum bends down and tosses me over his shoulder. He heads in the direction of his bedroom. On the way, he slides his hands up my shorts, squeezing a palmful of my ass. I squeal and giggle.
“Whatever you say, petal.”
* * *
• • •
I dunk another basket of lumpia into the fryer, unable to wipe the smile from my face. It’s only been two days since Callum and I last hooked up, but our meetups have become my own personal sexy rewards program. Bust my ass during the day, act professional around all these customers, then when evening falls, I treat myself to a naked Callum making me howl into the wee hou
rs of the morning.
One downside to my secret hookups? Lying to my mom about what I did in London and what I do with my free nights now. And where I’ve taken Lemon. Thankfully, she’s bought the lie that I’ve made some new friends who are curious to see what owning a cat would be like and want to try it out before making a final decision.
Leaning out the window, I hand the baskets to the waiting customers and see the napkin dispenser that’s usually on the ledge is now missing. Looking up, I spot Callum leaning out of his food truck to hand off an order. Then he catches my eye and winks. I turn away quickly before anyone can see me smile.
The missing napkin dispenser is payback for when I swiped all the malt vinegar bottles from the ledge of his food truck yesterday. Despite our secret hookup arrangement, we still have appearances to keep up. After a couple weeks of acting civil to each other, we realized customers would eventually notice our sudden change in behavior—and probably post about it online. And if the Maui Food Festival organizer caught wind of my and Callum’s new arrangement, we’d both be disqualified from the contest. So every few days we resume some small-scale form of fake fighting. I adore it. It’s a whole new form of flirting between us.
Mom turns to hand me two orders of lumpia, pulling me back into the moment. She smooths her hand over the blue bandana she’s wearing as a makeshift hairnet. “So energized, anak.” She turns back to the counter to scoop an order of papaya salad. “I knew a vacation was a good idea. It really recharged your batteries. You’ve been in a good mood every day since you got back.”
If I don’t make direct eye contact, keep my hands busy, and speak in vague statements, I can get away with withholding the truth. But skirting the issue is all I can do. If she grabbed me by the shoulders, pinned me with her stare, and asked me what was really going on, I’d cave. I can’t look her in the eye and lie. So I don’t look at her at all.
Just then, Mrs. Tokushige comes to the window. “Nikki! How was your trip to London? You two have been so busy lately, I haven’t had the chance to ask.”
I smile while pretending to check on the silverware containers. “London was a lot of fun,” I say.
She pats my arm. “I’m so glad. You deserve some time away. Like your mom said, you work so hard.”
Mom perks up. “It’s good, too, that you’re going out more now that you’re back. Having hobbies, meeting people, it’s all so important.”
If only she knew what I’m actually doing when I tell her I’m headed out for the night. I nod, making a split second of eye contact with her before I spin away to wipe down the counter. Anything longer and I’ll break.
Mrs. Tokushige pulls Mom into a chat about the new thriller she’s reading for their book club. I leave to take out the garbage to the trash can, which sits equidistant behind both food trucks. I dump the bag and turn back to my truck, catching Callum’s eye as he leans out of his window to hand a customer their food.
The corner of his mouth darts up when he spots me. That familiar fire ignites within. It’s like I’m running around with some glorious sex-induced fever that leaves me giddy twenty-four seven.
I walk back to my truck and lean on the counter, sipping from my water bottle. My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Callum.
How about something different tonight?
He sends a link and I click on it. It’s an advertisement for a masquerade-themed block party in Paia. I swipe through the photos and read the captions. A night of music, dancing in the street, and drinks.
My thumb hovers over my phone screen as I hesitate. Every time we’ve met up since returning to Maui, it’s been in private with no one else around, at either his place or mine. To show up in public together could pose a risk. If some food blogger or customer saw us together and it got back to the Maui Food Festival organizers, they could think we’re together and we’d lose our shot at the prize money. No way is it worth the risk.
I text him my concern, and he answers right away.
I have our masks ready to go. We’ll be hidden in plain sight, promise. All you have to do is show up at my condo at 7. What do you say?
While I mull it all over, he texts again.
Come on, petal. It’ll be fun
The use of that nickname pushes me over the edge. I lean out the window to sneak a peek at him. He’s standing at the window of his food truck, his head buried in his phone. He looks up but is careful not to show any discernible happiness in his expression. The wink from before was risky enough in front of everyone.
Something extra dances behind his gaze the longer he looks at me. It’s a sneaky slyness that his hazel-green eyes hide well. I suspect I’m the only one to notice it, because not a single nearby customer pays us any attention. We’re indulging in our secret out in the open, yet no one even notices. Just his eyes on my eyes—it’s all I need.
Tearing my gaze from his, I turn back to my phone.
What color dress would go well with my mask?
Chapter 12
Whoa,” I mutter as Callum pulls his car into Paia.
It’s just after sundown when we arrive to the block party, and this normally sleepy beach town has morphed into a mini Rio de Janeiro during Carnival.
The entire main drag through town is closed to cars. During the day it’s a low-key tourist destination. People mostly pass by it on their way to drive the insanely popular road to Hana. Some stop to check out the restaurants and shops, and to take photos of the Old West–style buildings lining the main street, which are painted in an array of pastel colors. But tonight it’s overrun with a crowd of masked people jumping and gyrating to frenetic dance music.
We get lucky and take a street parking spot right as a car pulls out. Callum stares ahead at the rave-like celebration commencing in front of us.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, his eyes wide. His expression is what I imagine he would look like if he saw a fireball flash across the sky.
I nudge his shoulder. “This was your idea.”
Twisting his head to face me, he grins. “Are you ready?” He hands me a mask from the back seat of his car. It’s a basic black eye mask with pink feathers shooting from either side and looks perfect with my black minidress.
“Hell yes, I’m ready.”
I secure it on, then watch as he sets his own in place. It’s a gray one that covers half his face, like in Phantom of the Opera.
I gaze down his chest and legs. He’s opted for a crisp, short-sleeve button-up and gray chino shorts. It’s the perfect smart yet not-too-dressy outfit for an outdoor dance party. I lick my lips. Even with his face shrouded, he’s still positively delicious.
We climb out of the car and walk toward the block party. Callum grabs me by the hand and leads me through the mass of swaying bodies. The sea breeze picks up, whipping my hair around my face. Callum turns to me and tucks my hair behind my ear.
Even though I can’t see most of his face, I can tell just how much he’s enjoying being out and about. His mouth is curved up into that telltale half smile he sports every time he’s happy yet wants to play it cool.
“Thank you.” I squeeze his hand.
We stop at a nearby booth selling some rum, pineapple, and coconut concoction in a coconut shell. I hand the seller cash and hold the straw up to Callum’s mouth. He takes a sip, making a satisfied exhale when he swallows. “Very, very good.”
“Hey, cool accent, man.”
Callum gives the guy a thumbs-up as he flashes the hang loose sign. We continue down the block. The song booming through the salty sea air is some EDM tune I don’t recognize. I bop along anyway, swaying my hips as we walk.
“I didn’t know you were such a good dancer,” Callum says as we walk along the outskirts of the dancing crowd.
I pull him by the hand, moving us away from the crowd, and take a few more pulls of the fruity drink. It’s more dangerous than it tastes, becau
se already I’m feeling tipsy. I haven’t had a strong cocktail in about a year.
“I used to go out dancing all the time with my friends when I lived in Portland. Not so much anymore.”
“That’s a shame,” he says. “I love seeing you let loose.”
His words from that night in London—the night we first hooked up—echo in my head.
I want to find out what you look like when you let loose.
I take a step forward so that our bodies are nearly pressed together. “That’s funny coming from someone so straitlaced.”
“It’s bloody sexy seeing you move like that,” he growls.
I bite my lip a bit to keep myself under control. “Let’s keep going, then.”
Callum pulls me by the hand to the very edge of the dancing mass. He takes a sip of the drink before letting me finish it off. I set the coconut at our feet, letting the alcohol and the electronic beat pulse through me.
He presses his front against me, swaying his body slowly at first. The beat speeds up, and I move my hips faster. One of my hands clutches Callum’s shoulder; the other holds my long hair back and out of my face. With the elastic band on my wrist, I tie it up into a ponytail.
Callum leans his lips to my ear. “Always prepared,” he muses.
“Always.”
Under the influence of alcohol and electronic dance music, I feel a whole new kind of ease, moving my body however and wherever I feel. I haven’t felt this good—this free—in ages.
Maybe it’s the juice-laden alcohol pumping through my system. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been out like this in almost two years. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve got this hot man pressed against me in public and I can touch him, grab him, and grind against him, without a single worry as to what anyone around us will do or say. Because of these masks, we’re hidden in plain sight. And it drives me the best kind of crazy.
Spinning around, I press my backside against his front. I lean my back into his chest and grip the back of his neck with my arm. He peers down at me gazing up at him; our stares lock. Despite the barrier our masks provide, I can tell exactly how he’s feeling. It’s all in his eyes. Those normally hazel-green stunners are dilated to hell. Jet-black spheres overtake the green. The way I’m moving my body, the show I’m putting on for him, it’s having quite an effect on him.
