Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
LINC
I wouldn’t call myself highly sexed. Medium, maybe. I don’t know. Healthy. Whatever. All I know is that I like sex very much. And I make sure whoever I’m with likes it too.
But it’s been the only thing on my mind ever since I overheard her categorically telling the person on the other end of the line that she was never going to have sex with me.
And it’s stupid, because I don’t want to have sex with her. Not really. She’s been a pain in my ass ever since I started working at Hampshire PR.
Some guys love a challenge like that. The ones who think that sex is some kind of transactional relationship where they win every time.
But not me. For me, sex has to be mutually pleasurable. I don’t want to win. I want to make her win.
Okay, I want to make her come.
I take a deep breath and try to forget that thought. Not just because it’s inappropriate – so highly inappropriate I don’t even know where to start. But because I think that sex with Carmichael could only end in tears.
For both of us.
“Would you like to start with a cocktail?” the server asks.
Tessa and I are sitting under a thatched roof held up by wooden columns. Lights are hanging from every rafter, the soft, yellow kind that make everything and everybody look better. We’re sitting next to the beach, giving us the perfect view of the darkening ocean as the sun slowly slides beneath the horizon. In the corner a band is playing what sounds like a slow version of an Ed Sheeran song, and a couple are on the dance floor, swaying together and laughing.
“What cocktail do you recommend?” I ask.
“The Bahama Mama, of course,” she tells us. “It’s everybody’s favorite.”
I catch Tessa’s eye and she nods. “Two of those please.”
Five minutes later we’re sipping at our pink frothy cocktails. They’re made with crushed ice, and the first mouthful gave me a brain freeze.
Tessa insisted on taking photographs and videos of the cocktails first, and now she’s recording me. I lift a brow before I take a sip of the cocktail.
“You want me to take my top off for the video?” I ask her.
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not one of your yacht girls.”
Oh, she’s still salty about that. “You shouldn’t dismiss it until you try it,” I tell her, smirking because she has no idea what she’s talking about. And if I’m being honest, I like winding her up.
“The yacht or your girls?” she asks, giving me a smile that looks like danger.
“They’re not my girls,” I say. “I’d have thought a feminist like you wouldn’t demean women that way.”
That makes her frown. She takes a long sip of her cocktail. “You’re right,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t.”
I take a deep breath, because it’s going to be a long night if we keep annoying each other. I decide to take some videos as well, pretty much to try to keep up with her. I start with a panoramic, my eyes on my phone screen as I slowly twist around and video the beach, the now inky-black sky, the illuminated rafters of the hut we’re sitting in.
And I finally get to her. She fills the screen as she looks at me, a strange expression on her face. Beneath the lights, her hair is shining. Her skin is too. It’s pale and lustrous, the complete opposite of nearly everybody else here.
“You don’t need to video me,” she says.
“You took some shots of me.”
“Because you’re the kind of guy we want to appeal to in our pitch.”
“I am?” I tip my head, putting the phone down so I can look at her directly. “What kind of guy is that?”
“Rich?”
“I’m not rich.”
“You’re not poor,” she says softly. It doesn’t feel like a jibe this time, just an observation.
“No, I’m not. But most of that is thanks to my family, not me.” Or more specifically my dad. He was a financier. Made a lot of money in investments. And as a beneficiary of the family I get to share some of it. And I live rent free, which is a big deal in New York City.
“You have disposable income. You’re a good looking man. Discerning…” she trails off.
“You think I’m discerning?” I ask, confused because a second ago she was railing about my yacht girls.
“I think you could be.”
For a moment, neither of us says a word. I just look at her, trying to work her out. We’ve been working for the same company for almost two years now, but I know so little about her.
Hell, I didn’t even know she was divorced until she told me the other day. She’s more impenetrable than Fort Knox .
And now I’m thinking about fucking penetration again. Why does my mind do this? Why can’t it be normal? I knew I should have whacked myself off in the shower.
I was going to do it, too, until she heard me drop my damn bottle of shampoo and I realized that the walls in the cottage were so thin she could hear everything.
Including me touching myself and groaning, if I were to do it.
Which I didn’t. Because I’m a gentleman.
“I think you don’t know me at all,” I say softly. Her gaze doesn’t waver. Christ, she’s pretty. Especially when her hair is down which I know is a fucking cliché but it’s true.
“Can I take your food order?” the server asks, cutting through the silence. It’s almost a relief to pull my eyes away from hers as we give our orders and the server assures us the wait won’t be long.
Which is good. Because we need to get back to the cottage and she needs to go to sleep so I can take care of something very important.
Without her listening. Because that would kill me.
TESSA
Our food arrives ten minutes later. We decided to skip the appetizers and go straight for the main course, which turns out to be a great plan, because I’ve already got my heart set on one of the amazing ice cream desserts I’ve seen them bringing out to other guests.
I chose the Mahi Mahi tacos, which are glorious. Tiny handmade wraps, filled with flaky white fish, a rainbow of vegetables, and the most exquisite salsa I’ve ever tasted. Linc looks equally enamored with his meal – Bahama Curried Chicken, served with coconut rice and a charred side of flatbreads. He closes his eyes and groans as he swallows a mouthful and I realize again just how attractive this man is.
I wasn’t lying when I said he’s the demographic we’re trying to appeal to. I know enough about his background to understand his life has been extremely different than mine. Not that I blame him for that – we don’t get to choose who we’re born as.
“Would you like a taco?” I ask, magnanimously, because this food is too good not to share. He takes one eagerly, and then offers me a forkful of his chicken, and I get why he let out an orgasmic groan when he tasted it.
“Why does food always taste better on vacation?” I ask.
“The same reason everything else is better. Because you’re relaxed.” He tears off a piece of bread and offers it to me.
I’m getting full. And I want to leave some space in my stomach for dessert, but it feels churlish to refuse. It feels more like a peace offering than a piece of bread. So I take it.
“What else is better on vacation?” I ask.
He smiles and I roll my eyes.
“Do you think about anything other than sex?” I ask him.
“Not really, no.”
At least he’s honest.
I clear my throat, because I’m blushing. And I’m thinking about sex, too.
Thanks, Ange.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says, breaking the silence. He’s actually cleared his plate.
“You want my last taco?” I ask. “Because have at it. I can’t eat anymore.”
“That wasn’t my question, but I’ll take it anyway.”
He eats the taco like he consumes life. Like it’s the best thing ever. When it’s gone, he’s still looking at me.
“Okay,” I say. “Ask me your question.”
“Why do you hate me? ”
Oh. That’s not what I was expecting. I blink, trying to think of how to respond.
“I don’t hate you.” What a great response. Especially when it’s been clear that I really dislike him. Or I did. For a while.
Okay, until today when I tried to broker some peace.
And maybe I still do. Maybe this third – yes third – cocktail is responsible for my mellowing out.
“Yeah you do.” There’s a look of amusement on his face. “Maybe we should make an agreement. We don’t lie to each other while we’re on this island.”
“Why would I agree to that?”
He lifts a brow. “Because I’d have to agree to it, too. And you could ask me anything you want.”
“What makes you think I want to know anything about you?” I ask tartly.
He grins. “Because you’re as nosy as I am. You’re just better at hiding it.”
I let out a long breath. “I don’t hate you.”
He looks stupidly pleased about that.
“I’m not the easiest person to get along with,” I admit to him. “And you might have started working for Roman right as I was going through the worst part of my divorce. My best friend called it the ‘We Hate Men’ phase.”
“It definitely felt like your ‘I hate Salinger’ phase.”
“I’m sorry.” I shrug. “But you also seemed to delight in riling me up.”
“I’m going to tell you a secret,” he says, leaning in.
“Is this part of the being honest thing?” I ask warily.
“Yeah. You just told me the truth, so I’m going to tell you one. Quid Pro Quo.”
“Isn’t that what Hannibal said to Clarice?” A shudder snakes down my spine. I hated that movie. I remember watching it as a kid and not being able to sleep for days.
“Who’s Hannibal?” he asks, frowning .
“It doesn’t matter. Tell me your secret.” Because I’m stupidly invested in this honesty thing now. At least until it’s my turn again.
“You’re the first person I’ve met who doesn’t like me,” he says.
It takes a moment for the words to sink in. And when they do, I shake my head. “That’s not your secret.”
“It is.”
“Lots of people must hate you.” The words slip out before I think them through. But luckily he throws his head back and starts laughing. “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that,” I protest.
He can’t stop laughing, though. His face starts to redden and I’m starting to worry he’s going to choke.
“Are you crying?” I ask him.
“I think so,” he manages, spluttering out the words.
When he gets his breath back I try to explain again. “You can’t go through life without people hating you,” I say. “Some of them do it for no reason at all.”
“Like my brother and his wife.” Linc nods, sagely.
“They hate each other? Are they getting a divorce?” I ask him.
“No, they’re horribly in love. But they started out hating each other. Worked at the same company actually.”
“Well isn’t that a lovely lawsuit waiting to happen?” I grin.
“But seriously,” he says, his eyes catching mine. They’re a striking blue. “Nobody hates me.”
“That’s not possible. You must have an ex or two with little Linc mannequins full of pins,” I say.
“Nope. I’m friends with all my exes. Was the chief bridesman to one a couple of years ago.” Now he looks smug.
“What about at work? It’s not just me who finds you…”
“Finds me what?” He looks like he’s enjoying himself a little too much. He smiles over at the bar and nods at somebody before bringing his gaze back to me .
“Challenging,” I say.
“Nobody finds me challenging,” he says, as the server brings us over two more cocktails. Our fourth round. I shouldn’t drink anymore, my words are starting to slur. Even worse, I’m starting to like this man. Rum has a lot to answer for. Still, I thank the server and take a long sip of the glorious cocktail.
“They find me charming,” he says, winking at the server. She blushes and grins back at him. “Not challenging.”
I shrug. “Okay, so it’s only me. I’ve ruined your unblemished record.”
“You’re right.” He nods, looking thoughtful. “But I’m winning you over, aren’t I?”
“The cocktails are winning me over,” I tell him. “You’re just basking in their glory.”
He laughs again. “By the end of this week, I guarantee you’ll be putty in my hands.”
“You’re very sure of yourself,” I say, gazing at him coolly.
“I just know who I am. Don’t get me wrong, you’re my toughest win yet, but I’m going to do it.”
“Good luck with that,” I say, finishing my cocktail.
Damn, I really am feeling drunk.