21. Mandy
21
MANDY
H e’s not there when I wake up.
I must have dreamt it, the shadowy figure silhouetted against the window as the storm pounded outside, keeping watch over me.
Even though I’d just been chased and had to run for my life, I didn’t have any stress dreams—the ones where Jaxon is waiting in the back seat of my car or hiding in one of my cupboards or under my bed and I don’t realize he’s there.
I slept soundly, feeling safe and for once not waking up in a panic.
I pull my hair out of my mouth and untwist the soft, good-smelling T-shirt I’m wearing. I inhale deeply. It smells like Salinger.
“Oh my gosh.” I start hyperventilating. I’m wearing his shirt. I’m wearing Salinger Svensson’s, my boss’s shirt, and it smells exactly like him—earthy undertones of ancient moss, crisp evergreen, and driftwood.
Before I can start drooling, since clearly I’m about to lose it, I throw back the covers and yelp.
I’m wearing his boxers—that has to be what these are.
My inner teenage girl opens her mouth, ready to scream.
“We are going to get rid of these immediately,” I tell her aloud, before my brain can be inundated by I Heart Salinger stickers. I should have learned my lesson before about lusting after my boss. It brings only bad things into my life.
Outside, the storm has broken. A lush green lawn stretches out in front of the wood-framed floor-to-ceiling sliding-glass doors that open up onto small terrace. My toes dig into the plush rug as I stand in front of the window, looking out at the view. Across the lawn—which, please don’t tell my dad, is the nicest lawn I’ve ever seen—is a line of old-growth conifers, the sun drying the last of the rain from them.
The room has a small breakfast bar with tea and coffee.
“Wow, Pepper!” I thumb through the various imported tea options. “The one percent truly does not live like the rest of us. I don’t think we’ve ever been in a hotel this nice, let alone someone’s house. Wait…Pepper? Pepper! Dammit.”
The dog isn’t in the bathroom that I can see in the daylight is huge and luxurious. I can’t appreciate it because I need to find my corgi. She’s not still snoozing under the covers or hiding in the closet.
“Pepper!”
Am I afraid for her safety?
No .
Am I afraid that she’s currently ruining the very expensive floors and rugs in Salinger’s house, which I will never in a million years make enough money to replace?
Yup.
“Pepper. Pepper, come!”
The huge house is completely empty. Why does one man need such a large house all to himself?
I race down the stairs two at a time, calling for the corgi. Finally, I see her through the window, wandering around by the flowerbeds.
She could fall down the cliff and hurt herself. I don’t think they medevac corgis.
“Pepper, no. Pepper, come,” I yell through the window.
The dog doesn’t hear me.
There’s some fancy-pants lock on the doors that I can’t get open, so I finally give up and go through one of the open windows, landing in some tall grasses artfully planted next to the house.
“Pepper, get away from that right—oof!” I slip in the wet grass, my arms windmill, then I face-plant in the grass.
Pepper immediately freaks out that I’m lying sprawled on the lawn.
Then I hear, “Mandy?”
Crap.
I scramble upright. It’s not graceful, but at least I’m not lying like a beached whale on the grass when Salinger walks like a Norse god up the steep path from the ocean below.
I cross my arms. I do not need him to see the effect he’s having on me.
My sister was wrong. I so do not have a crush on him. One, he’s my boss. Two, I’m too old to have crushes.
Salinger’s barefoot, wearing those skintight black wet suit pants that make a man look like a superhero and his ass look better than fried chicken. His sandy-blond hair is damp from the ocean. Unlike in the office, where it’s perfectly styled, now it hangs in messy locks over his forehead, shading eyes the same color as the Pacific Ocean behind him.
As an American female who spent her teen years religiously watching The OC , this is very much playing into all of my delusional dream-boy surfer fantasies.
His top half?
Completely naked.
No, don’t use that word. I will not think about my boss naked while I’m wearing his clothes.
Clothesless. The top half of him is clothesless and stupidly muscular.
Droplets of salt water cling to his chest and his washboard abs. His biceps bulge, veins snaking up muscular arms. Tiny rivulets trickle down his torso, tracing the lines of his physique down to the V of muscle that makes me wonder what exactly is under those skintight surfer pants.
I imagine the scent of ocean water lingering on his skin, the briny taste.
I want to lean forward and run my tongue along those salty droplets…
Mmm, salty droplets…
A frown mars his handsome face. “You look like you’re still in shock. Earth to Mandy.”
I am. “Nope. I’m totally not in shock.”
Salinger reaches out and pulls a twig out of my hair. “I took the corgi out with me. She didn’t really seem to want to get out of bed, but I think that dog spends too much time inside. ”
“Pepper and I are indoor kids.”
“What kind of dog doesn’t want to walk?”
I run a hand through my tangled hair. I should be putting it in a protective style at night, but there are lots of things I should be doing, and it isn’t like I’m trying to go out there and find a man, regardless of what my mother thinks I should do.
“Thanks for taking her out. I was afraid she was going to ruin your floors.”
Salinger isn’t listening—he’s looking at me like I’m a piece of meat. Raw meat.
I look down then yelp and wrap my arms around myself.
He rubs his hand over his jaw. “Grass is still wet, huh.”
“Er, yes. Sorry about your shirt. I’ll wash it.” I don’t need a mirror to know my face is beet red.
“The staff will take care of it.” His face is almost kind. “How did you sleep?” The words are almost tender.
I don’t trust this. “Very well, thanks, and on that note, I think I’ve imposed enough on your hospitality.”
“Hardly. The staff get bored—they like house guests.” He turns and passes me, his bare arm almost brushing mine.
“I’m not a house guest—or I guess I am, but I’d like my houseguest status revoked,” I call, running after him.
“Mind the grass.”
Cursing, I hop over to the flagstones dotting the green lawn. “I have plans this weekend.”
Salinger looks over his shoulder at me. “Surely you can stay for breakfast before your plans?”
When he’s not angry or screaming at you, my boss is very yummy-looking.
Wiping off my feet, I follow him into the warm interior .
Salinger chats pleasantly as we make our way through the house, me with my arms firmly crossed over my chest, while he points out various expensive art pieces, the custom built-ins, the antique safe from a historic bank in town that he repurposed as a wet bar.
As we pass through one of the sitting rooms, Salinger picks up a Hermès blanket, one like all the Insta influencers have, and drapes it over my shoulders.
“I didn’t realize you were so basic.”
He laughs. The sound is rich and soothing like a perfectly hot foamy latte. “They just give these blankets to you for free if you spend enough money on saddles. I have a number of them. You can have one if you’d like.”
“You have horses?”
“I grew up riding.”
“Sounds posh.”
His smile is soft and warm. “It wasn’t exactly that kind of riding. But there are trails on the island. After breakfast, why don’t I show you the stables?”
He’s being nice to me. It’s suspicious. Or maybe he really does care.
Or maybe I’m delusional and wish I was the type of girl a man like Salinger Svensson would invite to his home because he likes her and not because he wants... what, exactly?
I hug the soft blanket around me. A girl could get used to this type of luxury.
As if by magic, breakfast is laid out in the sunny room with the breathtaking view. It’s still not as breathtaking as the bare chest in front of me.
Salinger pulls out a chair for me, and I slump down on it. A fancy little buffet is set out, like you would get for hotel-room service .
Salinger picks up one of the white porcelain plates. “Eggs? Bacon? You’ll want one of these croissants, of course. The chef was trained in France at Patisserie Parisienne.” He’s unsettlingly pleasant.
He sets the plate in front of me along with a white cup and saucer. Coffee is poured steaming out of a pewter carafe.
At my feet, Pepper whines loudly.
“There’s a bowl of chopped chicken, carrots, and green beans for you, Pepper,” Salinger informs her.
The corgi looks at it suspiciously.
“I usually share my breakfast with her,” I explain as he fixes his own plate.
“My apologies, Pepper.” Yeah, definitely unnerving. “How about some eggs and toast?”
The corgi lets out a brief howl.
“She really wants the bacon,” I say.
There was that rich laugh again.
I’m on edge, waiting for the bomb to drop.
Salinger kneels gracefully in front of Pepper and sets her plate on the floor. She scarfs down half of it before it even touches the floor. Then he takes a seat across from me.
“This is a really good croissant.” I pick flaky crumbs from the blanket that probably cost more than my car, if we’re honest.
“Yes, the chef has a gift.”
He’s in his charming corporate mode. I’ve sat in enough meetings to recognize it.
I scarf down my food. I’m starving, and the eggs are creamy, with just the right amount of salt and cheese. While we eat, Salinger continues to chat about the house, the land, his horses, the Jack Russell terriers that live in the stables .
“Does Pepper like other dogs? Might she like to meet them?” he offers.
“She did get a big meal, so she should be fine.”
This is weird, sitting here with Salinger, eating breakfast.
If he was someone I had a crush on—which I don’t—or thought was attractive… which I do not… or believed I had a snowball’s chance in hell with—which I certainly never will—then I’d be worried about adhering to the nineties-teen-fashion-magazine advice of not overeating in front of men. Thankfully, Salinger is just my boss, and I didn’t eat much last night, and running around in a cold dark alley really works up a girl’s appetite. And dammit, there is bacon.
I take a sip of my coffee.
“So…” He sits casually in his chair, blinks slowly at me with that same charming smile, and asks in that same charming tone, “Do you want to tell me exactly what happened last night and who you were running from?”
“Nope.”
His knife scrapes the plate. “Mandy…”
“I appreciate you coming to give me a ride on short notice.”
“It wasn’t just a ride.” There’s a hint of a snarl in his voice. “I rescued you.”
“Semantics.”
His fingers curl on the knife.
I take a sip of coffee. “It’s my problem. I’m handling it. Don’t worry—you won’t be bothered by it again.”
“Of course I won’t, because you’re not leaving this island.”
“That’s not going to work for me.”
His large hands slam onto the table. “Then tell me who the fuck was after you. ”
The bacon on my plate bounces off, and Pepper snaps it up before it can hit the ground.
“Of course I’m not going to tell you!” I shriek, jumping up. “You’re a lunatic. You’re going to go all Fortunate Son on him.”
“Why are you protecting him?” His fist slams the table again, sending the cutlery flying, toppling the drinks. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m not protecting him. I’m protecting you . You’re going to go ballistic and do something crazy and go to jail. I’m not letting anyone else’s life get ruined because of my mistake.”
“Mandy.” My boss leans over the table. “I am one of the most powerful men in the country. I don’t need you, a girl with a Starbucks addiction and an affinity for sparkly gel pens, to protect me.”
“I am not a girl. I am a grown-ass woman, and I am making my own choices.”
“Fine.” He sits back down and returns to his food. “Guess you’re my permanent house guest then.”
“You cannot just keep someone locked up like Stuart Richmond.” I take an angry bite of the last piece of bacon on my plate.
“Stuart Richmond trapped people in a shitty windowless New Jersey basement. This is a two-hundred-million-dollar property.”
“You can’t keep me here on your island all weekend. ”
The set of his jaw, the tone of his voice, lets me know he absolutely can and absolutely will.
“I have to go to my parents’ for dinner. My mom’s making my favorite.”
“Your favorite,” he spits.
“Loaded tater tots and sloppy joes.”
“I can have a Michelin-quality meal served to you at a private oceanside table.”
“Hard pass.”
“Fine. You can starve, but you’re not leaving.”
“You can’t!” I squawk. “My mother will freak out. You don’t understand—she is from the Midwest. She is paranoid and crazy and retired. I give it thirty-six hours before she has the Navy SEALS out here storming your island, not because she knows people but because she nags. Corporations hate her. She once made a mistake when she was ordering new cabinets for her kitchen renovation, and she badgered Home Depot until they not only gave her all the cabinets for free but also a store credit, and the CEO called her personally to apologize. If you think your port contract is dead now—which, again, let me off the island and I will make sure that it’s not—”
He sniffs.
“It and your reputation will be toast if my mother goes on a mission.”
“Fine. I’ll take you to your parents’ house.” He stands, takes my plate, and starts loading it with more food. “Then you’re coming right back here.”
He sets the plate in front of me.
I glower at him over the bacon and waffles.
As if.