CHAPTER 14 Millie Monroe
Poolside Breakfast
I’m taking pictures of my poolside breakfast when a shadow is cast over the waffle heaping with whipped cream.
I glance up to see…yep, you guessed it. Archer Bradley, and he’s glaring at me again. Or still.
He’s wearing just a pair of swim trunks, walking around with those abs shimmering like a goddamn Greek statue, while I’m taking pictures of a very carb-heavy breakfast and drooling over the syrup as the scent wafts to my nose.
“Can you get your shadow off my plate?” I ask.
“Your worth isn’t measured in your pictures or your numbers,” he says.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
My brows dip as I glare up at him, but I think a bit of the effect is lost in the sunlight casting a halo behind his head. “No, but my stay at this resort is measured in social media posts, so I’ll thank you to step aside.”
He does it, but it’s with a rather dramatic sigh of frustration as he plops down onto the lounger beside me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Fuck if I know,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. There aren’t any other open chairs, okay?” He sounds defensive.
“I didn’t peg you to be the lie on a pool chair and relax all day kind of guy.”
“I’m not, but I spent the morning at yoga and then took a long, hard run on the beach, and I planned to sit for a while since my legs are on fire. Is that okay with you?” he asks.
“Whatever.” I change the angle and snap another photo, and I set my phone down and grab the packet with the fork in it. In the meantime, he steals a grape off my plate. A grape! The nerve! “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Seeing if the free grapes taste any different from the paid ones.”
I can’t help a little laugh at that. “And?”
“Nope.” He settles back onto his chair, and I grab my phone while I munch on my waffle and fresh fruit to view the photos I just took. It’s a little too bright to get a good read on what I took, but there’s one that has his sexy calves in the background with the pool just beyond him.
There’s nothing specifically recognizable about his calves, so it’s fine to post it. Or to put it in my special folder for later. Maybe both.
I’m still staring at his legs when his voice interrupts me.
“Are you ever not on your phone?”
“I wasn’t on it much the night we met,” I say, and I don’t know why my big mouth decides to bring that night up again. Maybe it’s my secret way of telling him I want it again. Because I do. Even if he is kind of a dick. He’s a dick whose dick I want to ride again.
“No, but I’m sure you checked your numbers right after.” He smirks.
God, what is it with this guy?
“Look, what I do is important. Besides, what’s it to you if I did?” I ask. “Let’s be real for a second. Your worth is measured in numbers, too. Batting average, catches, strikeouts.”
“That’s my worth as a ballplayer. Those numbers have nothing to do with who I am as a man. And that’s where we’re different. You’re allowing your numbers to identify who you are as a person, and I wish you could see that you’re more than that.”
“Like you have any clue,” I mutter.
“How much fun did we have that night when you weren’t on your phone?” he asks.
I mean…yeah. He has a point, and he’s bringing it up again, and he did take the seat right next to me with some feeble excuse about how there weren’t any others open even though there’s one right across the way from me.
Granted, it’s between two dudes, one of whom is spilling over the side of his own chair and onto the empty one, but still.
I think he wants it again, too.
“It was fun. And then it was back to work,” I say.
“Take some time off. Enjoy life. Stop sticking your nose in your phone all the time.”
“Why do you hate it so much?” I ask. “We hooked up once. I don’t owe you anything.”
He sits up. “You’re right. You don’t. But to answer your question, I hate the fucking distraction of it.
I’ve been trained my entire career, my entire life, to be present in the moment.
To be focused. To be ruthless in my pursuit of excellence.
And to be perfectly honest, I’m burned out on media.
Headlines, cameras—they’re all over my entire family, and it’s frankly gotten pretty damn old.
People make shit up on social media just to be the first with a headline, and trust me when I say I’ve been the butt of those jokes plenty of times.
It’s disgusting, and you want to be a part of that same world. ”
“That’s not what I do,” I protest. “I’m a travel influencer. I post about travel. Hacks, tips, and tricks. I bring joy to people’s lives. I don’t make shit up to be the first with a headline. I’m not here to be ruthless.”
“So you’re saying your first thought when you sat down at my table and learned who I was wasn’t that you could get more reach with your content if you were able to feature me in it?”
“No!” I say, with defensiveness definitely in my tone. I mean, it wasn’t my first thought, but I can’t say the thought never crossed my mind.
Of course it did. Maybe I’m more ruthless than I like to admit.
But I would never post him without his express permission. I’m about to tell him that when he adds one final jab.
“It’s just that you’re chasing all the things I’m trying to run from.” He frowns, and then he gets up and heads over to the pool to cool down or to get away from this conversation. I can’t help as my eyes follow those calves as they walk away from me.
Maybe we’re on opposite sides of this issue, and maybe he’ll never trust my intentions.
But hell if I don’t want to get back into his bed again anyway.
Now I just have to figure out how to get him on board with that idea, too.