Chapter 13
CARLIE
Day two and Rawlins is getting handsy.
“Stop manhandling me,” I snap, moving out of his space.
We stand in the middle of the lawn area by the pool. People lounge on long chairs, sipping drinks that look like cocktails. Why couldn’t that be on our itinerary?
“Sure, I’ll just let you fall and slam into the ground. I prefer that option, anyway,” he says, giving me a deadpan look.
“This exercise is about trust,” Manuel repeats his previous statement. “You fall, Mr. Lawson catches you, yes?”
“Trust is earned, Manuel, not given. I’d rather hit the ground.” I straighten my tank top and shake out my body like that will rid my skin of the ridiculous tingle that’s crept into every inch his hands came in contact with.
Rawlins runs a hand through his hair, flexing a bicep. “Fine, you catch me.”
“I’ll pass.”
He blows out an annoyed breath. “We won’t make any progress if you refuse to participate.”
“Fine, I’ll endeavor to catch you. Don’t come bitching to me when you end up with a concussion.”
He huffs and shakes his head, but Manuel positions us the perfect distance apart again, this time with Rawlins’s back to me.
“Okay, I’ll count you down, Mr. Lawson. Miss Carlie, be ready to take his weight.”
I stare at Manuel, forgetting to ready my stance. That last phrase shouldn’t hit the way it does.
Take his weight.
But after yesterday in the shower and then the failed therapy session, something about him has changed. Nothing huge, just a subtle shift in the way he speaks to me.
So, in true sassy-bitch style, I dialed up my defensiveness.
There is no way this man is hauling my walls down. He may have chipped away a few bricks, but the wall still stands.
“Five, four . . . Miss Carlie, ready?” Manuel shoots me a look that screams ‘pay attention.’ “Three, two, one, and fall.”
I quickly spread my feet, reaching for the man in front of me, the man who has handed over his trust so easily. My palms meet his back.
Fuck, he’s heavy.
I scramble to stay on my feet as his slip on the grass. We tumble to the ground in a tangle of legs and flailing arms. His head hits my chest and wind leaves my lungs.
Rawlins rights himself and turns over, pushing to all fours, looking down at me from under his messed-up hair. “Hell, you okay?”
“Ow! Shit. How are you that heavy?” I sit up on the grass, hands planted on the ground behind me.
He chuckles as he jumps to his feet and extends his hand, offering to help me up. I smack it away and scramble to my feet.
“Again. I’ll be ready this time,” I hiss.
“How about Mr. Lawson catches you now?” Manuel prompts.
I roll my eyes but say, “Whatever.”
Standing in front of Rawlins, I force my eyes shut.
I hate this.
“I got you, Lamont,” Rawlins says, his tone low and soft.
I almost believe him.
“Five, four, three, two, one, and fall.”
Here goes nothing. I wrap my arms around my body, clinging to my biceps.
I tip backward, and the sickening feeling of weightlessness with no guarantee I won’t hit the ground swells in my stomach. I squeeze my arms tight. I freefall for what feels like ages . . .
Warms hands slide over my arms and grip tight.
My head hits something solid. My back stops against a wall of muscle.
“Got you,” Rawlins whispers, his breath hitting my neck. Shivers flood my skin, traveling up my spine. I can’t tell whether it’s his words or his touch, but the air in my lungs stalls out regardless.
“I—”
“Trust, see!” Manuel exclaims.
My eyes fly open, and I am acutely aware of Rawlins’s steady hands still holding me to his chest. Shooting back to my feet and upright, I put space between us.
“Okay, your turn,” I say to Mr. Fucking Perfect. “You fall this time, I’ll catch you.”
“No, we are done here.” Manuel smiles at me.
“What? No, he didn’t have a proper turn.”
“He doesn’t need to go again, Miss Carlie, he already fell. He already trusts you.”
I open my mouth to object but, realizing Manuel has a point, I close it. Rawlins already took the risk on me; he already trusted me with his safety. He did his part. I feel second place again. Like this is some contest over who is the nicest.
One I’m never going to win.
After years of looking after myself, working twice as hard as everyone else to make it this far, I guess I lost the nice-girl vibe somewhere along the way. Honestly, it probably died somewhere in the ten years I worked for Carlson.
“You have free time now. Be free, my lovelies. I will see you for dinner and then honesty hour at eight sharp.” Manuel waves as he heads for the communal area.
Leaving Rawlins and I standing on the grass, staring at each other.
It’s fucking awkward.
“Yeah, so, sorry about crushing you.” Rawlins offers a slight smile.
“Forget it. I should have paid attention.”
“Is that a concession, Lamont?”
“What? No!”
He laughs, genuine and hearty, and he’s . . . absolutely gorgeous.
My stomach flip-flops, and I force my attention to the lucky fuckers at the pool still sipping their cocktails. Rawlins glances to where my gaze has drifted. “Did you want to grab a drink?”
“Ah, no.” I force a smile and decide it’s time I got some work done. But as I turn to leave, a hand catches my wrist. I look down to where his large, warm hand holds me to the spot. “What?”
“Lawson,” he says softly, studying my face.
“I know your first name, Rawlins.”
“Then use it, Carlie.”
My lips pop open, and heat rushes my neck and face as I suck in a breath at hearing my first name from his mouth. Somehow, I manage, “Why?”
“Consider it a nonnegotiable of this professional relationship of ours.”
“We don’t—”
“Yeah, you said that, but we do have a relationship. Whether you like it or not. We ought to make the most of it with the little time we have left together at Serenity.”
I don’t know what to say, torn between the reality of one of us leaving in a few short months and the feeling that’s growing with his touch, his words. The way that having Rawlins—Lawson—in my days has become something I can count on.
“This does not mean we are friends,” I add for clarification.
He runs a hand through his hair, glancing somewhere in the distance before his deep blues settle back on me. “Carlie, you and I can’t be friends.”
Confused, I tug my hand from his grip. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“See you later,” he says, heading for the bar area by the pool.
With nothing else left to do, I track back to the suite and get started on some work.
Four hours later, I am fighting off a tension headache and have only cleared half my inbox. I rub my eyes and yawn. It’s only six, but it may as well be midnight by how fried my brain feels.
Six . . . Shit.
Dinner.
I grab a jacket and shove my slip-on shoes over my feet and cross the lawn to the restaurant area next to the bar and pool.
Rawlins—I mean, Lawson—is still there, perched on a stool.
Weaving through the tables, I wander to the bar and slide onto the stool beside him.
His hand grips a tumbler with amber liquid in it.
How long has he been here?
He forces a smile as he slides his gaze sideways. “Get some work done?”
“Yes, I’m guessing you didn’t? Have you been here the whole time?”
“I—”
I hold a hand up. “Never mind, none of my business.”
He closes his mouth and swirls the liquid in his glass. He doesn’t seem drunk . . .
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Starving, but I have a killer headache.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What, while I was working, and you were here . . . drinking?”
“I only switched to whiskey when the sun went down. The mocktails are interesting, though.”
“Oh,” I breathe.
“Pain relief first or food?”
Someone drops a glass a few feet away, and I wince.
Lawson slides from his stool and takes my hand. “Pain relief first.”
I all but fall from the stool and follow as he leads me from the noisy space.
He drops my hand as we reach the grass and walk together. “You get them often?”
“When I’m stressed or forget to drink my coffee.”
“But we only have coffee at breakfast.”
“Yep, and it sucks.”
I’m one hundred percent sure this is the cause of my headache. But I don’t let on.
Back at the bungalow, he sits me on the bed and disappears into the bathroom area. The tap turns on, then shuts off. He returns with a cool, wet washcloth, folding it before draping it over my forehead. He tilts my head up with his finger under my chin, and I resist the urge to meet his gaze.
This is too intimate.
Too friendly.
“Where’s your painkillers?” he asks, padding to the bag rack.
“Front pocket, on the inside.”
I lie back.
It isn’t until I hear the zipper on my bag that I remember Vinny is packed in the same spot.
Fuck.
If he noticed the pink vibrator, he doesn’t say anything as he returns with painkillers and swipes my glass of water from the bedside table. I take the pills and drift my eyes shut, rubbing my temples, hoping it will help. The ache doesn’t budge.
“Can I try something to help release the tension and ease the headache?” he asks.
“What is it?”
“My mother’s technique she uses for my father. Shoulder massage with pressure points.”
“Okay . . .”
He climbs onto the bed behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders. I stiffen under the large spans of warmth they bring. Holy shit.
“Damn, you’re so tense,” he mutters. Then, “Close your eyes.”
“Not on your life.”
He leans down to whisper by my ear, “You trust me now, right?”
I turn back, giving him an indignant filthy look.
“Let me help, please, Carlie.”
“Fine, but so you know, I have mace in my bag.”
“Amongst other things,” he says quietly.
Heat engulfs my neck and face. I bury my face in my hands. And his chuckle dies in his throat before he clears it. His hands fall away, and I turn back. “Seriously?”
“Sorry, it’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s not. But my headache is killing me, and your hands are so warm . . .”
Glancing back, I catch a small smile tugging up in one corner of his mouth. “Fine, but you get all handsy, Lamont, I’m going straight to HR.”
“Well, for your sake, I’m glad that’s no longer you.” I wait for the words to land before busting out a rare smile for this man. “What happened to our first-name basis?”
He chuckles again before whispering, “Brat.” He plants his hands on my shoulders again with a tight squeeze.
“Ah! Oh . . .”
Shifting my hair to one side with a gentle touch that sends goosebumps blooming over my body, he massages my shoulders.
Lawson’s strong grip works my tight muscles over, and I can’t help the small little groans that slip out as my head begins to feel a little better. My entire body is relaxed. His thumbs work their way up the back of my neck and past my hairline, and I tilt my head to one side with a heady groan.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
I still, breaths burning. The harried blood in my veins is drowning out my rational thinking capabilities. I mean, he’s not wrong. My body is alive under his touch. My heart hammers. These panties are ruined. And they absolutely shouldn’t be.
“Sorry.” His hands disappear from my neck, and the bed shifts with a jerky motion as he leaves the bedroom and pads to the bathroom. I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. That’s the most male attention my body has had in months.
And fuck, it felt good.
But this is Rawlins we’re talking about.
My mortal enemy.
My competition.
My . . . not friend.
Urgh.
I decide to step outside to ring Mills. That way, he can take care of whatever he needs to without me around. Maybe he’s not affected by me the way I am by him. Can’t say I can imagine him getting off in the shower to the image of me naked. Although he almost saw that yesterday.
She picks up on the third ring.
“Hello, sweetheart? Ready to ride off into the sunset yet?” She cackles, not letting me get a word in.
“Quit it, Mills. You’re not helping.”
“Oh, did something happen?”
“Of course not,” I rush out.
“Carlie Marie Lamont, you know how I feel about lying.”
“Something’s changed, Mills. He’s different. I think I—he’s getting to me, I swear.” I pace a small stretch of grass outside the bungalow. “That’s stupid, right? It’s barely been two whole days.”
“Time holds no bearing on such things. Sometimes it only takes one moment to change your life, for better or worse. I have lived both.”
She has too.
“I mean, I guess it’s a good thing we aren’t at each other’s throats anymore. But . . .”
“But what? Don’t see yourself living on a ranch with eight babies and barefoot?”
“Would you stop with that shit? The man lives in Manhattan, and it is nothing like that. Stop daydreaming.”
She cackles again.
How is this woman always so stinking happy?
“We had to do therapy yesterday.” I try to change the subject slightly.
“Oh? How did it go?”
“They asked about my dad, in a roundabout way.”
“Oh . . .” The one syllable comes out from her as deflated as I feel. I’ve never been good at talking about my father, or the absence of him, to be more accurate.
“Well, you share what you feel comfortable sharing and leave the rest to the birds, sweetheart.”
“I will. You okay by yourself?”
“I am old, not incapable. There’s a difference, my girl. I’m enjoying the solitude, but I miss you fiercely.”
I chuckle. “I miss you, too. I better go. Dinner’s started.” I glance at the communal area across the lawns. People are filing in, the tables filling up.
“Go! Enjoy yourself. You’ll be back to reality before you know it.”
“Bye, Mills.”
“Bye, sweetie.”
She hangs up, and I turn back to find Lawson leaning on the door frame. He’s showered, dressed for dinner. And hell, the man is something else with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes snagged on me with a lazy smile stretching his mouth.
“It’s rude to eavesdrop, Lawson.”
“I wasn’t. You were finishing up when I opened the door. How’s the head?”
“Better. Now I’m starving.”
“We better feed you, then.” He winks at me.
Something that feels suspiciously like a cloud of butterflies takes flight low in my belly.
For fuck’s sake.
Damn you, Mills, for putting your daydreams in my head.