4. Alex
ALEX
I try to settle in for the flight, but it’s not easy to let down my guard around Mr. Hot-but-Grumpy. As the jet climbs toward a cruising altitude, I keep sneaking looks across the aisle, trying to imagine six nights and seven days with this man I barely know.
Come to think of it, he was kind of broody at thirteen, too. Not that I let him get away with it. I had no playmates on the Vineyard, so I adopted him as my friend for the summer.
I’ll admit he was a good sport, though. I don’t remember asking him if he wanted to ride horses, fish, or play tennis. I just sort of shoved different kinds of sports equipment into his hands and demanded that he accompany me. And he did.
Now I’ve inadvertently stolen another week of his life? He should have run while he had the chance.
I pull out my phone and wake it up. “Bingley,” I prompt.
“Yes, my queen?” the phone replies.
Eric gives a snort. “Please tell me that’s not a real assistant who calls you that.”
Bingley answers for himself. “I am very real, sir. I am not, however, human.”
“Well, that clears that up.” He quirks an eyebrow at me over the cover of his Sports Illustrated.
“Bingley is an AI version of a virtual assistant. Nate Kattenberger developed him.”
“Cool.” Eric shrugs.
“I need you to greet him, though. He’s part of my security detail, so he needs to recognize your voice. Bingley, please meet Mr. Eric Bayer.”
Eric scowls. “Hello, computer. ‘Sup?”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance!” Bingley replies in his crisp British accent. “Should you need my assistance, feel free to call me by name. If your request does not conflict with my queen’s best interests, I shall endeavor to obey!”
“I’m flattered,” Eric grunts.
“Thank you, Eric,” I say. “Bingley, fill me in on the evening’s itinerary.”
“Certainly, my liege! When we reach a cruising altitude of thirty-thousand feet, Manny will serve you a sesame chicken salad on a bed of noodles, with gelato for dessert. For our guest, we have a choice of steak tips in wine sauce or Lobster mac and cheese.”
God I’m hungry again already. “Please ask Manny to bring out both.”
“Of course, madame. What would Eric like to drink? We have a selection of beer and wine, and several sodas.”
“Sparkling water, please,” my guest says. “Does the robot serve drinks? That would be fun to watch.”
Bingley answers the question himself. “I may have a silver tongue, sire, but no hands. Your meal will be served by a human. This flight will land once at LAX for a quick refueling. Our estimated arrival time in Hawaii is nine-fifty-two p.m. local time. The time difference is six hours.”
“Thank you.”
“You just thanked a computer,” Eric says from inside his magazine.
He’s right. And it is a little weird. But Bingley is a big part of my new product launch, so I’ve been conversing with him as much as I can. Besides, I don’t like Eric’s attitude. “It’s never wrong to be polite,” I point out.
“Uh huh. The big tech companies have already taught us to clutch our phones all day. Now we need to chat them up, too?”
“Yours probably wouldn’t want to talk to you anyway,” I chirp. “Maybe I should find you a surly virtual assistant to match your demeanor. You could ignore each other.”
“Sounds perfect,” he says with a smirk.
That smirk shouldn’t turn me on, should it? I must be hungrier than I thought.
I sit back and wait for dinner. And I don’t steal glances at Eric.
Not many, anyway.
“Alex. Wake up.” A hand pats my upper arm.
Someone is trying to wake me, but I’m not having it. I screw my eyes more tightly closed and press my face into the pillow.
“Alex, we’ve landed. You need to get up.”
“No.” Whatever the man is saying, I really don’t care. My bed is comfortable, and my body knows it’s not time to wake up.
“The car is on the tarmac. And Manny can’t clock out until you’re out of here.”
I’m too tired to care, though. Oh, well.
Somebody grumbles. And then two strong arms lift me right off the bed. There’s cool air where my pillow should be. That’s inconvenient. But then the pillow is replaced by the firm warmth of a man’s chest. I press my cheek against it. He smells like clean shirts and spicy cologne.
“I’m assuming you had shoes on at some point, Engels?” The question rumbles against my face.
Shoes. Man. Rock-solid chest. And nobody calls me Engels, except…
I wake suddenly to find that I’m in Eric Bayer’s arms. And he’s carrying me down the aisle of the jet. And I startle so violently that my head smacks into his unshaven jaw.
“Ow!” he growls.
“Put me down!” I yelp. “What the hell?” I can’t get off the plane like this. CEOs are not carried off jets like children.
Eric sets me on my feet in a hurry. But I’m wobbly from sleep, so I end up grabbing his firm torso with two hands to steady myself. Good lord, the man is like sun-warmed concrete. Hot and unyielding.
He looks down at me, one eyebrow cocked. “You weren’t listening.”
“I couldn’t hear you!” I holler. “I was sleeping! What time is it?”
“Eleven p.m., Hawaii time.”
“Which is…” I do the math. “Four in the morning New York time.” No wonder I’m so out of it. “Sorry, um, about whacking you in the chin. Let’s roll.”
He chuckles, and then rubs his jaw. “Sure, Sleepmonster. Let’s roll.”
“Hey! You’re the Sleepmonster.” That’s what I used to call him that summer on the Vineyard. I always woke up first. Then I’d pace the second-floor hallway, making noise and generally being a pain in the ass until he finally crawled out of bed.
“Not anymore, apparently.” He turns and exits the plane.
I need a minute to step back into my shoes and grab my carryon.
I haven’t thought about that summer in a long time.
After he finally got up, I used to instruct him on what we were doing that day.
It might be horseback riding, or tennis, or collecting shells on the beach.
Or playing board games or asking the Magic 8 Ball stupid questions.
Good lord, I was a bossy little girl. I wonder if he hated it and I didn’t notice.
When I’m ready, I walk carefully down the aisle of the jet, past the seat where Eric slept. I felt a little guilty crawling into the bed while he was snoozing in the chair.
But not guilty enough not to do it.
All our bags have been loaded into the car already, which means Eric took care of everything while I was sleeping.
I wonder if I’ll ever stop embarrassing myself in front of Eric Bayer.
Signs point to no, as my old Magic 8 Ball would have said. Because I pass out in the car, too. I don’t wake up until it stops. And then I discover I’m sleeping with my face propped against Eric’s muscular shoulder.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” I sit up straight, as if that might help him forget. There’s a little spot of drool near the collar of his polo.
Shoot me.
“It’s fine,” he grumbles. “Just another part of the job description nobody ever gave me. Bodyguard, and pillow to the rich and famous.”
He slides out of the car, and I follow, finding myself blinking up at the entrance to one of Hawaii’s chicest spa resorts. I’m too tired to appreciate the asymmetrical stone facade and the carefully lit water features. But it will be promising tomorrow in the daylight.
Eric already has our two suitcases in hand and it’s all I can do to grab my own carry-on bag and follow him inside the lobby.
Luckily, there’s no wait at the check in desk, and all I have to do is hand over my credit card and remain vertical while the desk agent makes two key cards and small talk with Eric.
“There are three pools on the property. The dolphin experience is located down in the cove.”
“Great. Can you tell me where to find the gym?” he asks.
“On the lower level, sir. We have personal trainers, as well. Touch two on your in-room phone to schedule an appointment or a spa treatment.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I show you to your suite?” the woman asks.
“We’d rather just go on up ourselves,” Eric says, holding out a hand for the key cards.
“Certainly. Your suitcases are already on their way.”
“Thank you,” I whisper as soon as the elevator doors close on us. “I can’t handle people right now.”
“I noticed that,” he chuckles.
“Usually I’m a great traveler. Another symptom of pregnancy is extreme exhaustion. Apparently growing an entire human takes a lot of extra energy.”
“Ah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ve never tried that myself, so…” He runs a hand through his hair.
I don’t know why I feel the need to explain myself. It’s the middle of the night back at home. I’m asleep on my feet right now, but anyone would be.
Luckily, moments later Eric opens the door to a plush suite.
I drag myself inside. And because this is a very nice hotel, our luggage is already waiting for us.
I unzip my suitcase and pull out a nightgown along with my toiletry bag.
Then I disappear into the marble clad bathroom ahead of Eric. But somebody has to go first, right?
After I’ve changed and brushed my teeth, I take a look in the mirror. My eyes are red, and my hair is messed. I look like a disaster. And when I turn my head, I catch sight of a red indentation on my jaw. Good lord. There’s a Lacoste alligator molded into my face from sleeping on Eric.
There is really no end to today’s mortifications.
After brushing my hair forward to hide the mark, I put on a brave face and leave the bathroom.
Eric is in the bedroom, hanging his suit jacket in the closet.
My sleep addled brain spends a few seconds remembering how fabulous he looks in a tux.
In Florida, when I was trying to figure out why he kept glancing at me, I allowed myself a few glances of my own.
My old friend is seriously hot. As fake boyfriends go, he’s an A-lister.
“You should get some sleep,” he says with a glance over his shoulder. I’m obviously not the only one who thinks I look like a zombie right now.
“So should you,” I point out. Then I turn around and count the beds.
There’s only one.
Oh, dear. I should have seen this wrinkle coming.
But Eric isn’t the only one caught off guard today by Max Bayer’s security arrangements.
I expected The Company would send a bodyguard with me to Hawaii.
But I didn’t anticipate the ruse of a pretend boyfriend, so it hadn’t occurred to me to ask my assistant to change my travel accommodations. She always books a one-bedroom suite.
Oops.
Eric watches me with a smirk. “Maybe the living room couch folds out.”
I pad back into that room to check. The couch is a sleek, modern thing that’s low to the floor. I try to lift a cushion, but you can’t. The sofa is a monolith.
Well, this is awkward.
“It doesn’t fold,” I say when I return to the bedroom.
“But it’s okay. We’ll share the bed.” And suddenly I don’t know where to put my eyes.
I meant platonically, of course. But sharing a bed with Eric—under different circumstances, of course—isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever heard. “It’s large enough,” I mumble.
We both turn to glance at it at the same time. If possible, even more awkwardness sets in.
“I could call downstairs and ask them to send us up a cot,” he says, closing the closet door.
“That will never work,” I argue. “Because you would feel like a heel making the pregnant lady take the cot. And I would feel like a diva asking the six-foot-tall athlete to sleep there.”
“Six-two,” he corrects me.
“We’ll share the bed,” I repeat. I’m so tired right now I just need a tiny fractional part of the bed and I’ll be gone from this world.
“Fine. If I can pretend to be your boyfriend outside of this room, I suppose I can pretend to be a gentleman inside it.”
“Is it that much of a stretch?” I walk over to the nearest side, lift the covers and slide in.
“I guess you’ll find out,” he says.
I throw four throw pillows overboard and wiggle down in the sheets. I sigh as my head hits the pillow. I don’t even dignify his taunt with a response. I feel perfectly safe with Eric. He might not like this arrangement. But he’s not going to hurt me.
My eyelids feel heavy when I close them.
Footsteps cross the rug, and the lamp beside my head goes out. He says two words so quietly that I almost miss them. “Goodnight, Sleepmonster.”
I would answer him, but I’m already asleep.