Chapter 22
CARI
I lie on my bed, mortified. I made an absolute fool of myself yesterday. I groped my boss after he saved me from drowning. What was I thinking?
Did he know what I did? I mean, of course he did. He must have. I had a good grope, in my panic induced stupor. Is he going to fire me for it? Would I even survive the humiliation of seeing him again?
Right now, I can’t trust myself to face him.
The ride home was painfully silent, and I didn’t sleep last night, tossing and turning in the suffocating heat. I didn’t even go down for dinner. He didn’t summon me either. Instead, I wandered aimlessly around the house until I found myself in the library. I curled up on the couch, eventually falling asleep there. Somewhere in the early hours, I tiptoed back to my room, where I’ve been hiding ever since.
Jett was nowhere to be seen, and after a dip in the sea, Brooke was content to play in her tent all day. I joined her, and we read and she played with her beloved elephant and her dolls. I love the tent as much as she does, finding it a place to hide, to disappear from the world. From Jett.
***
The weekend is upon us all too soon. I’m looking forward to the pool party tonight. Jett has plans with Brooke, which she told me after breakfast.
I still haven’t gone downstairs, preferring to have my meals in my room. I wait until they leave, watching the black SUV pull away from the house.
Only then do I feel like I can finally exhale. Going downstairs, I grab a plate of fruit and sneak out to the beach. I settle far from the mansion to have my breakfast alone, book in hand.
But I can’t focus on reading. My mind keeps dragging me back to the beach, to the moment Jett pulled me out of the water. The memory hits me like a tidal wave of embarrassment.
Did I really do that?
Did I really wrap my legs around his waist like some kind of desperate woman? I clung to him, panicking until he had to pry me off, telling me he couldn’t swim like that.
And then, when I choked on too much water, he stood me upright, holding me steady until I regained my footing. When my feet finally touched the sand beneath us, I felt such overwhelming relief that I threw my arms around him.
We were chest to chest.
I don’t remember if he wrapped his arms around me, but I was clinging to his waist, shaking, overwhelmed. And that’s when I felt it. That hard pressure against my stomach. Was it …? Could it have been?
I shake my head, embarrassed at my own thoughts. It must have been my imagination. I was disoriented, in shock, overcome by his strength, his muscles, his … everything .
But then I remember how my hands slid down, how I cupped his—God. I hide my face in my hands. I squeezed his bottom. His hard, sculpted, beautiful bottom.
What must he think of me? Jett dates women like Alicia, glamorous women. Meanwhile, I’m here groping him like some love-struck intern. Thank God I’ve already resigned. If I hadn’t, he’d probably fire me.
I let out another embarrassed groan and hide my face under the pillow.
My phone pings, pulling me out of my misery. It’s Jacques.
Are you still on for tonight?
I am most certainly on for a night out, away from Jett. Away from his presence which seems to infiltrate every cell in my body, even when he’s not around me. Going out with Jacques and his friends feels like a necessity now—an escape. I text back:
Looking forward to it!
By six, I’m dressed and ready. I opted for a dark green off the shoulder dress that fits me snugly. It leaves very little to the imagination, but because it doesn’t expose much—apart from one shoulder—I feel comfortable in it. I’ve never worn anything off the shoulder before but Eliana and Aunt Scarlett insisted I try it on when we went shopping. I reluctantly did, and it looked good, I must say. It complements my hair color nicely.
I stop by Ruby on my way out, letting her know where I’m going. She smiles warmly and tells me I look gorgeous, wishing me a good time. I call a taxi and head to the address Jacques has given me. It’s at a hotel, not someone’s house, and that brings me some relief. I don’t relish the idea of bumping into Abigail or her friends again.
I haven’t brought my swimwear with me, partly because I don’t want to get into the pool. I just want to have a few drinks and talk to people. Take my mind somewhere else, and not think about Jett for a change.
As I walk out to the pool at the back, I hear loud music. A DJ is set up on one side, lights flashing around his area, and people are on the dance floor. Others are in the pool, or sitting on recliners. There’s a buzz in the air, an electric force that fizzles with potency. I feel energized being here and it’s a big change from the intense atmosphere around Jett.
Jacques comes up to me, greeting me with a soft kiss on my cheek. He’s wearing swim shorts, but it only reminds me of how Jett looked in his.
“You can change over there.” He points to a door which leads to washrooms.
“I didn’t bring my swimsuit.” I make an apologetic face.
He looks dismayed. “No? But at least you’re here. Off duty, right?”
“Off duty?”
“No childminding.”
I laugh. “No childminding. I could do with a night off.”
“I thought as much. Let’s get those cocktails in!” He whoops with excitement.
***
It’s past midnight by the time I get back. Jacques and his friends kept me out later than I’d planned—drinks at a bar in the hotel, then he introduced me to lots of his friends. Every now and then, we’d dance. It was fun, and the people I met were nice, but my mind wasn’t there.
Despite the distraction of Jacques and his friends, I couldn’t enjoy myself. Not fully. I kept thinking of the day with Jett and Brooke. It had been perfect—until I ruined it in the water. Now, everything feels off. Jett’s probably going to send me home early. Or maybe he’ll just fire me outright. The thought gnawed at me the entire evening.
By the time I let myself back into the house with the key Ruby gave me, I’m a little tipsy. Not drunk—not like I was at the Christmas party—but enough to stumble a bit as I tiptoe through the hallway, my heels dangling from my hand. My throat is parched, so I head to the kitchen for water, gulping it down in the dim light.
As I walk down the long hallway, heading towards the stairs, I pass by one of the rooms. I think it’s the bar. The door is slightly ajar and light spills out into the hall. I step closer and peer in. I notice a polished mahogany counter and vintage brass fixtures. Shelves behind the bar are stocked with a huge display of multi-colored concoctions.
Jett is sitting inside, a whiskey glass in hand. He looks up, and his eyes lock onto mine. “What time do you call this?” His smooth voice is edged with something sharp.
I freeze, my shoes slipping from my hand and clattering to the floor. His stare is hard, more intense than I’m used to. He’s dressed casually, in loungewear that hugs his body, and the sight sends a tingling sensation through me. Not what I need.
“You’re s-still up,” I stammer, feeling a little unsteady from the cocktails. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” He takes a sip of his whiskey, his gaze moving over me slowly, deliberately.
I shift uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of my short dress and suddenly feeling very exposed, especially when his gaze settles on my bare shoulder. “Isn’t it late?” I ask.
“For what?” His brows push together in irritation.
I gulp, my brain scrambling. He looks annoyed. He's going to say something about what happened in the water. And he’s going to fire me. I crossed a line—groping him the way I did—and now I must face the consequences. “To … be … drinking by yourself,” I say slowly.
“Where were you?” His eyes are dark now, like an angry thundercloud.
“I went to a pool party with Jacques and some of his friends,” I mumble, suddenly feeling like a teenager caught sneaking out.
“A pool party?” he snarls, as if he’s having difficulty wrapping his head around the idea. “And you decided to come home now?”
“You said I could have weekends off,” I remind him, trying to stay calm, even though my heart is pounding.
“I still need to know where you’re going,” he growls. “I’m responsible for you.”
“I told Ruby. I didn’t think you’d care.”
He takes another sip of whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine. I’ve never seen him like this—drinking, alone, and late at night. It feels like I’ve caused more trouble than I even realized.
“Which bikini did you wear?”
His question shocks me, like a bucket of ice water thrown at me. “W-what?”
“Was it the stringy, pink one? Or the army regulation one?”
My mouth opens but words fail me. I wish I hadn't had so many cocktails because I feel floaty and light-headed, like this is a dream and not real. “Why do you care?”
“I need to know.”
“Need?” The cocktails have given me a little courage. His need to know feels dangerously flirtatious.
He takes a swig from his whiskey tumbler.
“How much have you had to drink?” I ask.
“Not enough.” He drains his glass, his gaze heavy on mine. “Why not stay out all night?”
“Because I wasn’t having that great of a time,” I admit, my voice quieter now. I don’t know why I’m being so honest.
He tilts his head, watching me carefully. “You weren’t?”
“No.” I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant, though the tension between us feels like it’s growing by the second.
He looks me up and down again, his eyes lingering on my shoulder, then sliding lower. “You look beautiful.” His voice is almost a murmur, and I don’t think I heard him right. Heat flushes through me and I nibble on my lower lip, unsure how to respond.
“Thanks.”
“I like your hair up.” It’s strange how his tone is so casual, and his gaze is so intense.
I reach up, touching my hair self-consciously. I didn’t do the tidy updo I usually wear at work, but something looser, more tousled and with wisps falling along the sides. “It’s so hot here. I didn’t want it sticking to my neck.”
“Let it down.”
I blink. “What?”
“Your hair. Let it down.” He's never spoken to me like this before. There’s a wildness about him. He’s not as smooth and as polished as he usually is. The slick Armani veneer has gone. In his loungewear, with the fabric hugging his body like a second skin, he seems bigger, built, and I can’t stop myself from checking him out.
Without thinking, I reach up and do as he says, pulling the clip from my hair and letting it fall loose around my shoulders. His gaze rakes over me, making my heart race as I feel the heat of his gaze.
Am I dreaming?
It’s like he’s looking at me differently—as if he sees every part of me. He's saying all the right things. He's talking to me as if we are at the same level. As if he wants me. My heart races, the atmosphere between us electric.
Every nerve in my body is alive.
I wish I hadn't had so many cocktails. I don't know if this is really happening or if I'm imagining it.
“You didn’t answer my question about the bikini.”
“I didn’t go into the pool. I didn’t want to. I just wore this.” I wave a hand at my dress.
“Was that for him?” He tilts his chin towards me. There’s a roughness in his voice which jolts me.
“What?” I’m confused, trying to keep up.
“The dress,” he clarifies. “Did you wear it for him?”
“Why so many questions?” And when he gives me a pointed look, “No,” I say quickly, shaking my head.
“Good,” he mutters, before taking another sip of whiskey, his gaze never leaving mine. “You shouldn’t waste your time on boys like him.”
My insides turn into a fireball. I run through the words again, second guessing what I heard. “You think I should find someone ancient instead?” I joke. A couple of times, when he’s riled my temper, I’ve made pointed remarks about his age. But he doesn’t appear to have heard. He gets up and walks over to me, and now I smell the whiskey on him.
“I love the way this dress clings to all your curves. I love ...” His eyes trail over me again and he reaches out, his fingers hovering around my shoulder. I brace myself for his touch. It’s like he wants to devour me. A low, thrumming vibration building between my legs.
Heat rolls off his body. I feel as if wanton lust has spread all over my body like an essential oil. “If I shouldn’t waste my time on boys like him, who should I waste my time on?”
“Someone who knows what he’s doing. Someone who would make it worth your while.”
“I didn’t dress for him.”
“No?” His gaze darkens and the intensity in his eyes are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I don’t trust myself to breathe.
“Would you dress for me?” His voice is thick with something unspoken.
The tension between us zaps, wrapping around us like the sultry heat of the night. A fire ignites inside me, and before I can stop myself, the words slip out. “I would dress however you wanted me to.” In this moment, I would. In this raw and dangerous moment, I’d do anything he asked me to do.
He drains his glass. My desperate confession hangs in the air like a challenge. Stupid girl. What did I go and say that for? More importantly, why is he asking me this? Intense and wickedly dirty thoughts flash through my head.
“I need more whiskey,” he rasps, going behind the bar and pouring himself more.
“Shouldn’t you go to sleep?” I’m trying hard to ground myself, to break the spell we seem to be under. I walk over to the bar stools. I need to sit down and my knees seem to be made of jelly, and I’m scared they’re going to give any moment now.
“No.”
I set myself down and watch the amber liquid glinting in his glass under the low lights. Something has shifted. Jett is always so controlled, always in command, but tonight … tonight, he feels loose, like there’s something untamed lurking beneath the surface. The boundaries between us slip away in this moment and something feral has unleashed. And for once, I don’t care.
Though I should. I suddenly recall that I’m taking Brooke to the Crystal Caves tomorrow. My head needs to be in the right place. I’m a responsible nanny. “I should go.” I slide down from the bar stool and start to walk away.
“Haven't you forgotten something?” he growls.
I turn around at the sharpness of his tone.
“Your shoes, Miss Summers.”
“Oh.” I take a step back and pick up my shoes, feeling foolish. Standing in front of him, holding my heels, I ask, “Is everything okay? You seem … different.”
Also, he called me Miss Summers. He never calls me that. What is going on? He takes a long drink of whiskey, and I realize he’s not himself. “You’ve had too much to drink,” I say softly, suddenly worried about him. Has his father called? Or maybe he’s missing Alicia.
Then another thought crashes into my head, bringing that humiliating moment back. I wonder if it's because of me. Because of what happened yesterday. I put him in a terrible situation. Without thinking, I drop my shoes and flop down on a bar stool. “I’m sorry about what happened,” I blurt out.
His expression changes, his eyes narrow. “Sorry for what, exactly?”
I shake my head, feeling embarrassed. “For, um … the other day. In the water, when I-I—” I stop, unable to find the right words.
“Spit it out.”
“I-I appreciate ... I mean I'm thankful that you saved me …” I begin, “but I mean … the part after that. The part where I—” I glance up at him and something dark burns in his eyes. “Where I-I …” I begin to stammer again. Surely he knows what I am talking about?
“The part where I saved you from drowning?” he prompts.
“I appreciate you saving me. I mean … what happened after that.”
His perplexed expression has me doubting myself. Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe I didn’t grope him. “Oh.” He stares up at the ceiling and nods. “Not a problem.”
Heat rushes to my face. He hasn't said it, but I'm sure he knows what I'm talking about. When I touched him. “I don’t know why I did that,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“I'm just glad you didn't drown on my watch, Cari.”
“That would have been traumatic for Brooke to see.”
“Traumatic for me, too.”
“And bad for me,” I say, trying to make light of the conversation which suddenly seems heavy.
“I was never going to let you drown.” Whiskey glass in hand, his gaze smoldering, he says, “I can't lose you, Cari.”
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. My pulse races, my head spins, and I'm unsure of where this conversation is going.
His eyes trail down from my eyes, lingering on my bare shoulder, before dipping lower … and lower still, taking all of me in. I feel naked, as if he’s undressing me. He’s never looked at me like this before. His eyes meet mine. “Want some?”
“What are you offering?” I tease, though I already know the answer.
He raises a brow. “Whatever you want.”
My insides hollow out. What exactly are we talking about here? It feels intimate, secluded, as if this moment exists in a world all its own. Before I can answer, he says, “Whiskey, but I’ve got tequila, rum … whatever you like.”
Drinks. He was only talking about drinks. I take a moment to compose myself. “It’s a bit late for me to be drinking.” But my gaze still flits across the array of bottles behind him.
“The night is young, Cari. You drank with your boy-man , surely you can have a drink with me?” I blush as he looks down at me.
Boy-man? Ouch. He really doesn’t like Jacques.
“You’re on vacation,” he continues. “We’re not back in the office, and you’re not my assistant here.”
I’m not? Then what am I? I try to loosen the knot that’s stuck in my throat, as I struggle to make sense of his sinister and sexy words. Words that are almost an invite.
Have some fun, my sweet girl. It's been a tough year for you. My aunt's words spin around in my head.
“I've never had whiskey before.”
Jett slides his glass across to me. I take it, inhaling a deep breath, steadying myself as I maintain eye contact with him. I turn the glass around, putting my lips on the same spot where his lips have been. His mouth parts slightly and I sense that he may not be as calm as he appears.
I know, as surely as I feel it myself, this is turning him on.
I take a sip. It burns like liquid fire at first, and I almost gag. But I force myself not to, under Jett’s watchful gaze. Then the smoky warmth rolls over my tongue with an unexpected sweetness, like burnt sugar.
“It’s … strong.” I wrinkle my face at the sharp, bitter edge that lingers.
“Like it?” Heat flares in Jett’s eyes and his gaze dips as he watches me take another sip.
“I could get used to it.”
This feels like a dangerous game we’re playing. I lick my lips provocatively, feeling the dynamics between us shift. My actions are affecting him and it feels good.
“Do I get that back? Or should I pour you a fresh one?”
I cup his glass with both hands, hear the thudding of my heart and pray he can’t hear it. “I'll stick with this, thanks.”
Reaching for a new glass, he pours himself another whiskey, then lifts his glass to me. “What shall we toast to?”
“To ... a … a farewell,” I scramble to say the first thing that comes to mind.
There it is again, the telltale flexing of his jaw. “Why a farewell?”
“Because I'm leaving.”
“So you keep reminding me.” Anger darts across his face, lightning fast, but in an instant it's gone. “I don't want to talk about you leaving.” He's a master at hiding emotion. I've witnessed this firsthand, seeing him with his father. He’s trying to hide it with me now. “To a great adventure in Bermuda,” he says.
“An adventure?”
“It can be. It can be anything you want it to be.”
“Oh.” In my head that sounds like an invitation, and when our glasses meet with a soft clink, it feels like more than a drink. It feels like an understanding.
For the first time, I feel like his equal. Maybe it’s the way he looks at me, as though I’m someone other than his PA. Like he’s really seeing me.
And I like it.