Moonlighter

6. Alex

ALEX

At first I thought I was imagining it. But no—I called this. Eric Bayer is taunting me with his hot body. He wants me to feel bad about turning him down that time in April.

He wants revenge. And even worse? It’s working.

No man has ever had such an unruly effect on my hormones. Maybe it’s the pregnancy. Or the jet lag. Or the sunshine. But I can’t stop looking at the hunk of male glory that is Eric Bayer. Two-hundred-odd pounds of muscle and smirking.

I shouldn’t even be attracted to him. But I am.

And it’s bad. Really bad. For example, I never thought much about a man’s gluteus maximus before now.

But I’ve been treated to over an hour of those sculpted buns on the treadmill.

They’re going to be jogging through my dreams forever. I can just tell.

Also, I never knew that a man’s back muscles could be so sexy. Or his calves…

This is going to be the longest week in paradise ever.

After my spa treatments, I take a cool shower and wash my hair. When I come out, Eric is seated on the sofa in nothing but a fresh pair of shorts and two days worth of scruff on his rugged jaw.

He’s sitting on his butt, thankfully. So I can’t ogle it. But, hell! That hard chest and that glorious set of abs? It’s killing me. Seriously? Does the man even own a shirt?

Pregnancy has turned me into a woman with a voracious appetite. And not just for food. I want to climb him like one of the trees we used to scale on the Vineyard.

Maybe I’ll have to order up that cot after all. Or change rooms? We could have adjacent rooms with an open door between them. And separate beds. That should do the trick.

Eric’s cool gray eyes flick up at me. “Hey. Lunch time?” He looks back down at his phone, but not before giving me a head to toe once-over.

I’m wearing my slinkiest sundress, just in case I’m not the only one who feels a stirring sensation down below. Why should I be the only one to suffer? I straighten my spine and lift my chin, which has the advantage of emphasizing my bust.

As it happens, my boobs are in a tight race with my ass for which body part can most quickly expand. I’m busting out of all my bras, and should probably shop for new ones. So let’s just say I’m filling out this dress a lot better than my preteen self would have dreamt possible.

“Lunch would be nice,” I murmur, and somehow it comes out sounding like a proposition. As if I’d said, sex on the terrace sounds wonderful.

His eyes go hot and then cool again so fast that I may have imagined it. “The restaurant is probably air conditioned. You might need a sweater.”

“Pregnant women run hot,” I say, and that sounds kinky, too. They do, though. “Although I’m pretty sure they’d frown on a shirtless customer.”

He makes a grumpy noise and stands up. “One second. I’ll find a shirt.”

Point to Alex! I love competition. And if Eric wants to make our time together into some kind of libido battle, then I’m here for that.

Up to a point, anyway. I pull out my phone while he’s changing his clothes, and dial the hotel’s reception desk.

“Yes, Ms. Engels,” the receptionist says. “How can I assist you?”

“This suite is lovely,” I say quietly, moving toward the terrace door for a little privacy. “But perhaps I’ve booked the wrong room for my needs. Could you possibly relocate us to two adjacent king rooms instead?”

“I’m sorry to say that we’re fully booked,” the receptionist says. “I could call around to other hotels…”

“Oh, no.” Of course they’re booked. The tech conference draws executives from all over Asia and North America. “Thank you. I should probably stay put.”

“If you need a cot sent to your room, I could try to find availability.”

Someone clears his throat behind me, and I whirl around to see Eric waiting for me in a tight Brooklyn Bruisers T-shirt. Every ripple of muscle is visible where the cotton stretches to accommodate him. And the short sleeves don’t cover those powerful arms…

“Ms. Engels?” the receptionist asks. “The cot?”

“Oh! Thank you,” I say quickly. “That won’t be necessary. Thanks for your help,” I babble, and then quickly end the call.

“Problem?” Eric asks. And is he flexing his pecs at me? “Did I spill something on my shirt?”

My face burns as I drag my gaze up to meet his. “No spills. But I’m not sure that fits you. Consider sizing up.”

“No way.” He gives me a slow smile. “This shirt is lucky.”

“Oh.” All the athletes I know are superstitious. “You mean you win games after you wear it?”

“No, I mean it’s lucky to be wrapped so tightly around me. I wouldn’t want to deprive this shirt of that privilege. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“The ego on you,” I scoff. “Time for lunch.” I grab my clutch purse off a table, checking to make sure that my key card is there. “Do we need to turn the cushion around? Which side has the camera?”

“Oh, fuck.” He sighs. “I hate that thing.” He walks over to the couch and faces the spotted side toward the door. “Okay, let’s roll.” He beckons me toward the door of the suite.

We step outside together. And as we head for the elevator, Eric puts his big hand at the center of my back. It’s just a light touch, but his thumb finds the divot of my spine. And his light caress sends shivers down my bare arms. I stiffen and skitter away.

“Alex, look.” He stops in front of the elevator. “We need to get a few rules straight.”

“Rules?” I blink up at him, not really hearing. I still have goose bumps from his touch.

“Focus.” He snaps his fingers. “I’m supposed to pretend to be your jealous boyfriend.”

“Right.” I force my gaze up to his face where it belongs.

“According to my brother, your ex’s flight landed…

” He looks at the watch on his thick wrist. “…Two hours ago. So tell me right now what’s allowed.

I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But I have to touch you occasionally to sell this.

How about an arm around your shoulders? Or maybe I should hold your hand?

You didn’t like it when I touched your back. ”

“It’s f-fine,” I stutter. “My back is…yup.”

He squints at me, as if evaluating me for signs of a stroke. “You okay?”

“Sure!” I chirp like a crazy person. “Carry on.” The truth is that I need Eric as my smokescreen. It’s a perfectly good plan.

I just didn’t expect to experience a hormone spike every time he got near me.

We’re silent in the elevator until Eric says, “Whenever you spot him, I want you to nudge me. I’m positive I can keep this prick away from you. But the first time he approaches you, I may not be subtle.”

“Okay,” I agree as some long-dormant portion of my heart flutters. I’ve never wanted to be anyone’s damsel in distress. But the idea of Eric getting into Jared’s face is pretty hot.

“What’s he like, anyway?” Eric asks. “Is he the kind of guy who’ll beat on his chest and make a big scene?”

“No,” I say as the elevator doors open into the lobby. “I take him for a coward. He’s the kind to choose his fights very carefully.”

“And this man hit you?” he asks under his breath. We’re crossing the lobby toward the doors to the beach restaurant.

“Only once,” I confirm, and Eric growls immediately. “I think he scared himself.” But he scared me even more. The menace on his face was actually more terrifying than the blow itself.

“Even once is too often,” Eric says darkly.

I don’t disagree. “I can’t see him taking a swing at you, though. He’s cunning. He won’t start a fight he can’t win.”

Eric glowers, and my attitude toward him softens even more. But then he ruins it by opening his mouth. “After lunch can we go to the beach? After the conference starts, I’ll be trapped in boring meeting rooms with you for hours on end.”

“Right,” I agree with a sigh. The beach is probably just another excuse for him to take off his shirt again. I mentally catalogue my bikini choices. I’m definitely wearing the smallest one, while I still have the body for it. This might be my bikini collection’s last hurrah.

The hotel restaurant is a sleek Asian fusion place that’s half inside, half outside. “Where would you like to sit?” the hostess asks us.

“Outside,” I say at the exact moment Eric says, “Inside.”

The hostess freezes, glancing from one of us to the other.

“The lady has chosen,” Eric says tightly. “Outside it is.”

“Afraid to mess up your hair?” I ask after she leaves us at a lovely table near the railing, with an unobstructed view of the ocean.

“Not at all,” he says, opening the menu. “But outside tables always leave one person in the shade, and one facing into the sun. And chivalry demands that I’m the one who squints.”

I look him up and down. “You’re not squinting at all.”

“Not yet,” he says with a sigh.

“Are you always such a grump?” I ask him. “Or are you usually a pleasant, happy-go-lucky guy who just hates his life this week?”

“Little of both,” he says. “My buddies are hiking in Vermont right now.”

“I’m sorry. You’ll just have to have freshly caught seafood and a tropical drink instead. The horror.”

He gives me a smirk, and then lifts his sunglasses from the collar of his too-tight tee and slips them on.

Sure enough, not more than ten minutes later, I notice that the angle of the sun has shifted. A beam of sunlight is now hitting him square in the forehead. “Oh, dear.”

“Right. One hundred percent predictable.” He lifts his iced tea and sighs.

“I never noticed that before. I guess I don’t eat outside very often.”

“Maybe the men you’re dining with always give you the shady side,” he suggests.

“There aren’t a lot of men. Well, there hadn’t been in a long time. But after I turned thirty, I realized that I was married to my job. And I think I went a little crazy. Such a cliché, but…” I let the sentence die. “You’re still single, though. So I guess you understand.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m married to my job, too. But I like it that way. When I was in college I had this semester where I got all bent out of shape over a girl. And that’s when a coach gave me the best advice I’ve ever gotten in my life.” He sips his tea slowly.

Very slowly. And then it occurs to me that he might not actually finish that thought. “Well?” What an infuriating man.

He levels me with one of those sexy smirks that I am starting to hate. “He said, Eric, you can do anything. But you can’t do everything.”

“Really?” I yelp. “What a cliché. I saw that printed on a notebook just last week.”

He shrugs. “So I have it hanging on my wall at home, too. Because it’s true. To compete at the highest level you need to commit. And once I really owned that idea, everything got easier for me.”

The waiter picks this moment to deposit our lunches in front of us. I thank him, but my mind is still chewing over Eric’s words.

“You know, women are told that they can have it all,” I point out. “A fulfilling career. A husband and children. And the message is that maybe there’s something wrong with us if we don’t at least try.”

He shrugs. “I don’t believe that at all. Life is all about hard choices. I made my peace with that a long time ago.”

Well, I haven’t. Although it’s hard to argue that Eric’s viewpoint is wrong. My quest for a partner ended badly. Although sometimes I just wonder if I’m not to blame. I’m so used to calling the shots for myself that I don’t really want someone else to do it for me.

“You gotta do you, though,” he says, taking a big bite of his fish. “Besides, I’m sure you can have any guy you want.”

“You’d be wrong,” I reply quickly. “The men who date me are usually looking for money or prestige. The men who don’t need those things all seem to want wives who are willing to stay at home and throw dinner parties and make them look good.

They don’t want someone who travels ninety days a year and earns more than they do. ”

He stares at me for a moment, and I wish those sunglasses weren’t hiding his intelligent gray eyes. “Those men are doofuses. They’re probably just afraid of you.”

“Some of them,” I concede, lifting my fork. “But I’m not easy to date. And it doesn’t matter anymore, because I’ve given it up.”

“That’s not very considerate,” he says, eating a french fry that looks perfectly salted and absolutely delicious. “What about your fake boyfriend’s needs? In fact…” He gets up from his place at the table, then nudges his plate next to mine. “Scoot over, would you?”

“Why? Oh.” He means to sit next to me on the same side of the table. So I move over to make room on the padded bench.

Then his solid bulk lands beside me, his left arm around my shoulder. “Okay, honey bunch. Eat up,” he says in a voice that’s loud enough to carry a couple of tables in either direction. “You need to keep up your strength for me. No passing out early like you did last night.”

“Eric!” I hiss.

He laughs. “I’m committed to playing this role. I’m all in. The good news is that you can steal my fries if you want. I see you eyeing them.”

Oh, dear. I wonder what else he’s noticed me eyeing?

But yay, fries! I take one and dip it in his ketchup. “Thank you, lover.” My boob manages to press against his arm just before I lift the french fry to my mouth. I give him a glance that says, two can play at this.

He gives me a slow, conspiratorial smile, and it confuses me. Are we joking, here? Or are we flirting for real? Those cool gray eyes aren’t always easy to read.

Fine. It’s probably all in my head. Who looks at a hormonal, stressed out woman—pregnant with another man’s baby—and says, I need to hit that. And let’s not forget I insulted him a couple of months ago.

“You’re a pretty good sport, Eric,” I say quietly.

“Thank you, babycakes. More water?” He lifts the carafe the waiter brought us and offers it to me.

“Sure, hunk-muffin.”

He snorts, and I laugh. The tension I was feeling slides blissfully away. We can do this. We can be friends again under tricky circumstances, like we were so many years before.

But then I happen to glance up, and the smile slides right off my face. Because Jared Tatum is taking a seat about twenty feet away from our table.

And just like that I’m stressed out all over again.