Chapter 41 Enemies to Architects
ENEMIES TO ARCHITECTS
NOLAN
We spent the night tangled—limbs locked, skin slick, mouths greedy. Sleep came in waves, interrupted only by hands searching in the dark and soft, broken sounds whispered against my throat.
Rorie Adams is a goddamn force. Insatiable. Relentless. And I’ll never say it out loud, but she wore me the hell out.
Thanks to all of the above, I slept like a fucking rock.
When I finally stirred, the sheets were warm beside me, her scent smothering the pillow. But she was gone.
Left only a note.
See you on the beach, Rival.
I’ve got a feeling she’s about to act like nothing happened.
Too bad for her I remember everything.
Every sound she made. Every way her body moved. Every time she begged and every time I gave in just to hear her again.
And I’ll be sure to remind her…
Slowly.
Torturously.
Endlessly.
My cock stirs at the memories and the possibilities. How she clawed at me. Bit my shoulder. Shoved her hand over my mouth like it would muffle the sounds I made when she slid down on me like sin in silk.
I’ve tasted the queen.
And now I want the whole kingdom.
The sun is already a smug bastard by the time I join the others on the beach. The sand is hot underfoot. Everything about this place is too bright, too loud.
Adjusting my sunglasses, I pretend to size up the competition. My goal is to look strategic, thoughtful, even intimidating. You know—like a man focused on winning.
But truthfully, I’m mostly thinking about what I want to do to Rorie later tonight. In the hot tub. Or with that detachable shower head in her villa bathroom.
I find her standing next to her team, and God help me because she’s wearing a pink bikini today. Thin straps. Tied at the hips. It’s killing me.
Absolutely killing me.
My cock is now in a state of emergency. Her sarong sits low, hips bare, and when she laughs, throws her head back and shines like summer itself, it’s a punch to the chest. In the best possible way.
She looks at me. Smirks, even. We have a secret we’ve burned into each other and now we’re just waiting for nightfall to burn again. Or maybe lunch.
Brunch?
Now?
So yeah, I’m not exactly focused on sandcastle strategy right now.
Shelby strides onto the beach with her signature confidence, sundress billowing, sunglasses perched on her head, and not a single bead of sweat betraying her despite the heat.
“Good morning, everyone!” she calls out, her voice somehow carrying over the sound of waves and the occasional squawk of a seagull probably plotting to steal someone’s snack.
The crowd quiets, all eyes on her.
“Today’s challenge,” she continues, “is simple: build the best sandcastle. But—and this is important—you won’t be working with your teams. You’ll be paired with people from other firms. As I stated last night, we believe the true test of teamwork is adaptability.
You’ll be judged on creativity, structure, and, of course, how well you work in a group. ”
She starts reading off the team assignments. Names blur together as I focus on not staring at Rorie’s ass like it’s the eighth wonder of the world.
“…and for our final team: Nolan Rhodes from Big Stream, Jeremy Brooks from the Laurel Group, Sierra Lin from Taylor & Blythe, and Marcus Dean from Halston, Inc.”
The sun beats down, baking not only us but the sand beneath our feet as we gather around our designated patch of beach. Sierra and Marcus start debating structural integrity and sand-to-water ratios like this is the Olympics of sandcastle building.
I’m not really listening. Rorie Adams is on all fours in the sand, skin kissed golden by the sun, that thin bikini top doing everything but hiding temptation.
Her back arches slightly as she shifts, and her legs stretch out behind her, gleaming and sun-drenched.
The sarong slips again, baring more of her thigh.
It takes every ounce of restraint I have not to get behind her and bury myself to the hilt.
Jeremy doesn’t look at me right away, but when he does, his expression is deeply judgy.
Rorie crouches, molding a wet cylinder of sand, lips parted slightly in concentration, and I am seconds from losing it.
All I picture is her giving me a hand job, those same fingers wrapped around me instead of wet sand. It doesn’t help that she smooths the sides slowly, purposefully, like she’s got nowhere else to be and all the time in the world to ruin me.
I clear my throat, trying to snap out of it. “We should build a moat. You know, for structural… defense.”
“A moat?” Jeremy deadpans. “What are we defending it from? Your fragile ego?”
Marcus snorts. Sierra doesn’t even look up.
I force my attention back to our team. Marcus squats down and sketches a rough outline of a castle in the sand, while Sierra tilts her head, evaluating.
“We should elevate the foundation a little,” Sierra suggests. “The higher the base, the less likely the structure is to collapse when the tide comes in.”
“Good call,” Marcus agrees. “What about towers? We could go for something grand, like a medieval fortress.”
Jeremy nods, tapping a finger against his chin. “That could work, but we need to think about stability too. Wet sand holds better. If we reinforce the walls with a mix of damp and dry sand, it'll keep things from caving in too easily.”
I glance at Jeremy, impressed. “Didn’t take you for an expert in sandcastle physics.”
He shrugs. “Was in a physics club in high school. Won a few contests.”
Marcus grins. “Guess we know who the real mastermind is.”
Jeremy follows my gaze and finally smirks. The kind that says, You’re not as subtle as you think you are, bro.
His smirk fades. “We need to talk,” he says, quieter now.
The team disperses to grab supplies, and before I can come up with an excuse, Jeremy yanks me aside behind one of the display boards.
“I’m just gonna shoot it straight,” Jeremy says. “You and Rorie? There’s something there. Cosmic-level shit. Like fate and fanfic had a baby.”
I blink. “That’s—.”
He holds up a finger. “But, if you’re not serious? If you’re even thinking about ghosting her or playing some casual office-rivalry hookup game. Again. I will personally remove your balls with a souvenir spork from this event. Capish?”
I blink again. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He nods, adjusting his sunglasses like some mafia beach dad. “She’s been through enough. Her ex did a number on her. And before that? Life did a number on her. She doesn’t need a third round with a guy who doesn’t know what he wants.”
I open my mouth, but Jeremy’s not finished.
“Now, don’t get me wrong—part of me ships it. Like, hard. You two have that tensiony enemies-to-lovers, workplace rivalry thing going on. Makes for great drama. But I care more about Rorie’s heart than I do your cheekbones, and trust me, that’s saying something.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
He smirks. “That’s right. I’m funny and emotionally evolved. Try to keep up.”
I shake my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth. “You done?”
“For now. Just know I’m watching you like a hawk.” Jeremy points two fingers at his eyes, then at me. “A hawk with killer intuition and excellent taste in prey.”
“I understand.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Excellent. Now, giddy up, motherfucker. We’re about to build the kind of sandcastle that makes grown men weep.”
I smile. This guy is actually freaking hilarious.
“I’ve been training for this since my kindergarten sandbox days. Don’t slow me down.”
He rejoins the team and immediately makes a wildly unhelpful suggestion about decorating the castle with seaweed hair.
We get to work, and the beach becomes anarchy in the best way.
Some groups go full Game of Thrones, others sculpt mermaid thrones or giant octopi. One team is building a nearly ten-foot replica of Poseidon complete with abs and a trident made out of driftwood. Another creates what looks like a sand coliseum with actual bleachers.
And then there’s one poor team near the shoreline who’ve clearly given up. Their castle is a single lumpy dome with a sad stick flag poking out the top like it’s begging to be put out of its misery.
Jeremy stares at it. “Tragic.”
“Mercy kill?” I offer.
“Nah. Let it suffer. Builds character.”
We all laugh.
We’re hot. We’re sweaty. We’re covered in sand. But weirdly? I’m feeling good. Better than good.
Because Rorie looks up at me now. And when she smiles, bashfully, it feels like something real is finally taking shape.