Chapter 11 April #2
He turns his body just slightly still speaking into the phone, but he’s too far from me to hear him.
Then his eyes dart in my direction. When he sees me, his eyes linger, and a slow smile forms on his lips.
I clumsily lean down and slide my heels off my feet, trying not to stare at him and failing miserably. He’s too damn attractive.
He’s wearing a white button-up and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.
The wind barely rustling the fabric. He’s not wearing a tie, and the top few buttons of his shirt are undone.
He looks relaxed and casual in a way I’ve never seen on him.
His jaw is freshly shaven; his silver hair is styled but somehow looks softer than ever and blows in the breeze.
His slacks are pristinely pressed, so well-fitting that it should actually be a crime.
Out here, away from the boardroom and the skyline and the stress of Manhattan, he looks devastatingly handsome.
Suddenly everything feels too real when before it had all just been a fantasy in my head.
My mouth goes dry, my fingers tighten around the straps of my heels, and my pulse throbs, especially between my thighs.
He lowers the phone from his ear and he turns to face me fully. He takes a few steps toward the table as I walk through the sand towards him.
“April,” he says, his voice is low and far too intoxicating every goddamn time he says my name like that.
He looks me over slowly and deliberately.
It’s as if he’s memorizing the sight of me against the backdrop of the estate, the palm trees, and the fucking insanity of it all.
Something tightens in his expression, and I can’t quite read it.
I hate that. I hate when I can’t suss him out. “You made it.”
I swallow hard. “You didn’t text me back. I thought maybe you were shipping me off somewhere to have me killed.” He rolls his eyes and his fingers brush mine. It feels like an electric shock when he takes my heels from me. “I’m a C.E.O., not a mob boss, princess.”
His gaze lingers on the red lace poking up out of my dress before he turns, nodding for me to follow him. “Come on. Before the tide decides to join us.”
I freeze, unsure whether it's the table or the…lounging spot that he’s instructing me toward. He sets my shoes down carefully by the pillows and blankets, then glances back at me, stuck in place.
“I’m not going to bite, April,” he says, one brow raising. “Unless you want me to.”
The world’s most pathetic noise escapes my throat. “I just…Are we…Now?”
A small, amused grin spreads across his face. “We’re going to eat,” he says, gesturing toward the table. “It’s nearly 9:30. You must be starving. Do you genuinely think I’m going to fuck you when we’re both hungry?”
“N-no?”
“Good. Then your brain is still working, albeit slowly,” he says, pulling out the chair in front of him. “Sit down. Let’s eat.”
I glare at him but sink into the chair. The sand pushes up between my toes, and I practically squeal as he lifts my chair slightly to push me in.
He sits down across from me, leaning back in his chair like this is the normalist thing in the world.
Like we aren’t in Turks and Caicos for the sole purpose of trying to get me pregnant.
The waiter returns and serves us plates of steak and scalloped potatoes. He calls it some French name, but I can’t quite make it out. He pours two glasses of red wine and then disappears back toward the estate, leaving us alone. “What…what did he say this was?” I ask.
Anthony’s lips twitch again. “Filet mignon,” he says.
“No, the potatoes.”
“Pommes boulangère.”
My face betrays me; I look confused.
“It’s just potatoes and onions, princess, you’ll be fine.”
I nod and pick up my knife and fork, cutting into my food, trying not to focus on the blood rushing through my veins or the worried anticipation in my head.
For the first few minutes, we eat in silence the way we normally do during work trips.
The only differences are that neither of us are on our phones, I’m wearing lingerie under my dress, and we’re potentially going to have sex within the hour. Completely normal.
“You’re nervous,” he says, his voice is softer than usual. He sits back in his chair and takes his glass of red wine. Blood rushes to my face as my cheeks heat. “Hard to believe, I know,” I mumble, burying the stupid words in a sip of wine before meeting his gaze. “I normally beam confidence.”
“Was that meant to be sarcasm?” he asks, his lips ticking up a little more. “You do normally. Except when you’re flustered after sending me extremely explicit texts.”
I nearly choke on my food. “Please don’t bring those up. It was mortifying. One of those things that’ll haunt me at three in the morning when I’m trying to fall asleep for the rest of my life.”
“Oh, I’ll absolutely be bringing those up whenever I choose to,” he smirks, lifting his glass to his nose and sniffing it. “I fully intend to hold them over your head forever. They’re excellent material.”
I narrow my gaze at him. “And you call me the brat.” He genuinely grins.
Fully. Teeth out, predatory, but so, so fucking sexy.
I nearly drop my wine at the sight of it.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Anthony Voss smile like that.
“In my defense,” he says smoothly, taking a sip of wine between his words, “you provoke me, April.”
April. Again. He knows what he’s doing. He knows every time. “Wrong way around. You provoke me.”
“Maybe,” he admits, shrugging, the fabric of his shirt pulling against his muscles. Christ, I really am ovulating. “But I enjoy the back and forth.”
The honesty lands like a warm hand on my back. It's unexpected, intimate, and disarming. I huff out a breath. “Doesn’t always seem like it.”
“Ah.” He sets his glass down, leaning forward to cut himself another bite. “Should I be more honest about that? ‘Thank you, April, for the banter we just had, I quite enjoyed it’?”
I stare at him, blinking. Then I snort and cover my mouth. “You—you’re doing that thing again.”
His face scrunches. “What thing?”
“Trying to be funny. Or charming. I can’t figure out which one it is.” I tilt my head, pretending to study him, but my shoulders are still shaking with silent little laughs. “It’s unnerving. Are you feeling okay? Should I check your temperature? Or ask the staff to go get you a doctor?”
He scoffs in amusement, his brows raising as he stabs at his steak, his fork hanging in his hand. “I’ll have you know I’m hilarious.”
A bark of laughter leaves my lips, and I don’t try to cover it this time. “No. Absolutely not. You’ve made one joke in person with me, two months ago, about Karen. One.”
“It was a good one,” he grins.
“It was mediocre at best!”
He drags the meat off his fork with his teeth and sets it down. He watches me as he chews, his brows narrowed like he’s carefully choosing his next words. His eyes are bright with something I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him—playfulness. “You laughed.”
“I did not!”
“You did.” His smile sharpens, one finger points at me. “And you’re laughing now.”
My cheeks heat more, and I try to use my wine glass to cover them, but it’s useless. “Shut up,” I say through a small laugh. “Stop looking so smug.”
“Can’t help it. You make it easy.”
The banter unravels effortlessly as we eat.
He teases me about my stubbornness, and I mock his control issues.
He calls me argumentative, and I call him ancient.
He laughs at that, actually laughs, and I feel something inside me loosen and expand in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
He’s being himself. That version of him I’ve seen in small glimpses or caught behind his eyes.
He’s showing it to me. God, I like it more than I should.
“Where did you go?” he asks as he finishes his wine. The plates are cleared and the breeze shifts as if the night itself is wrapping around us, drawing us closer. His gaze goes down to my breasts, to the hint of lingerie peeking out above my neckline. “This morning.”
My arm instinctively moves to cover my chest, and I can feel myself flush across my skin.
“Don’t,” he says. His voice is low and gravelly. He reaches across the table, wrapping his fingers around my wrist and gently pulling my hand away from my breasts. “Don’t do that. You don’t need to cover yourself.”
I nod slowly, holding his gaze, and swallow hard. The atmosphere is shifting rapidly. I can feel it. “Okay,” I say, but my heart still flutters. “Did you…not check the expenses?”
He grins softly. “No,” he says. “Wanted to be surprised. So surprise me.”
“Um. I didn’t, uh, go to either of the ones you suggested.”
He blinks at me. “Please don’t tell me you went back to T.J. Maxx.”
An awkward laugh escapes me. “No, I didn’t,” I grin and down the last of my wine before setting the glass on the table with an audible clink.
I need the confidence. “I was going to go to the places you suggested. Agent… whatever. Fleur du Mal. But I was passing by this little boutique and one of the displays in the front window drew me in.”
He raises a brow. “I’m not sure I trust your taste in lingerie enough to feel good about that.”
“I bought five sets,” I say slowly, holding his gaze.
“They measured me. The total was nearly eight grand.” His nostrils flare.
Heat immediately blooms between my thighs.
It’s a physical reaction to the way he’s looking at me.
It’s like he’s already peeling off my clothes in his mind. “Is that okay?”
A muscle in his jaw clenches. “That is…” he starts, his outstretched hand curling into a tight fist as he brings it back to himself, “more than okay.”