Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
What am I doing?
Seriously—what the actual fuck am I doing?
Less than eight hours in and I’ve already got diarrhea of the mouth. Every time I open it, shit falls out.
Dumb, stupid shit.
The same dumb, stupid shit I’ve been swallowing for years now.
I’m not talking about the dirty talk. That’s par for the course where Millie and I are concerned.
She’ll never pass up an opportunity to remind me what a conceited, arrogant, averagely intelligent asshole I am, and I’ll never pass up an opportunity to remind her that she’s not as cool and unflappable as she pretends to be.
That no matter what she thinks of me or how much she hates me, there’s still a part of her that wants me.
A part of her that listens to all the filthy fucking words I whisper in her ear and wishes they were true.
So, no—I’m not talking about the raunchy shit I’ve been torturing her with all day.
I’m talking about the other shit. The shit about Paige.
About what happened that night in the Hamptons.
The how and why I became her cousin’s on-again-off-again fuck buddy and sometimes dinner date.
Not the bullshit reason I gave her Friday night.
That I keep letting Paige reel me back in because being seen with her is good for my business.
The real reason.
Saying that shit out loud would be the end to everything.
I might as well walk myself into traffic.
Going home isn’t an option—her father made that pretty fucking clear.
If I turn back up in New York without his daughter, I have not one, single doubt that Preston Blackwell will dismantle my life, brick by brick.
Everything I’ve built. Everything I’ve worked for.
Gone.
So get it the fuck together, asshole. Keep your distance and your mouth shut. You’ve been swallowing shit around Millie for the last two years—you can keep doing it for another two weeks.
Yeah.
I can.
But here’s the problem. Why I’m hiding in this goddamned bathroom from a hundred and twenty pound blonde like she’s the freakin’ boogeyman.
I don’t want to do either of those things.
I want to tell her everything and I sure as hell don’t want to stay away from her.
Which means, it’s only a matter of time before I do that other other thing I always seem to do when it comes to Millie Blackwell.
I’m going to fuck it all up.
Out of the shower, I scrub myself dry with a thick, white towel before pulling on one of the plush bathrobes I found hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
I’m not a robe guy but putting my dirty clothes back on isn’t an option, and neither is walking around naked.
Tying the belt around my waist, I tell myself to quit being a pussy.
That Millie is probably as tired and in desperate need of a shower as I was and that the longer I stand here and stare at the door, the harder it’s going to be to open it so unless I plan on spending the next two weeks drinking sink water and eating hotel soap, I’m going to have to grow a pair and open the goddamned door.
Right.
Opening the door, I step out of the bathroom to find the rest of the bungalow empty. No sign of Millie.
The fuck?
Suddenly sure I really did fuck it up and that she’s halfway back to her plane and on the phone with her pilot, scheduling her flight home by now, I reach for my cell, intent on—what, exactly?
Calling her to apologize?
Promising to keep my dirty mouth to myself?
Begging her to come back?
Before I completely spiral, I hear the faint scrape of silverware on glass. Zeroing in on the sound, I find her outside on the deck—eating a late dinner by herself, at a table by the pool.
Not gone.
Just hungry and tired of my bullshit.
Tossing my phone on the bed, it lands on a pile of clothes.
Clean clothes that are definitely not mine.
Reminding myself that beggars can’t be choosers, I pull a pair of boxers from the pile and shake them out.
Untying my robe, I shrug out of it, tossing it on the foot of the bed before bending over to pull them on.
I put on the rest of it—a pair of dark, cashmere sleep pants and a white T-shirt.
The pants are a little too short and like the boxers, the shirt is a little too tight for my liking but like the boxers, they’ll do.
Dressed, I tell myself to leave Millie alone. Let her finish her dinner in peace and go to bed hungry.
Instead, I make my way to the full spread buffet and make myself a plate, piling it high with crispy fried conch fritters and shrimp carbonara, carry it outside, and set it down on the table Millie is sitting at.
“Thanks,” I say, pulling the empty chair across from her away from the table. “For the clothes.”
“You’re welcome.” Looking up from her plate, Millie gives me a flat smile.
“Full disclosure—they were meant for Allister. I bought him an entire honeymoon wardrobe and had it shipped here as a surprise wedding gift.” Setting her fork down, she reaches for the bottle of expensive Chardonnay on the table between us and tips it over the rim of the wine glass in front of me.
“Aside from a pair of shorts and another T-shirt I kept out for tomorrow, I sent the rest of it with Mateo to be altered.” My glass filled, she sets the now empty bottle down before giving me another faint smile.
“I know the pants are going to be a little too short and you’re much broader in the chest than he is. ”
Okay, so we’re just going to pretend that after years of pretending it never happened, we’ve both acknowledged the fact that we very nearly hooked up that weekend in the Hamptons and the reason we didn’t is because I left her hanging.
“You did all that?” I say, shaking my head while I unroll my silverware and place my napkin in my lap. “How long was I in the bathroom?”
“Long enough to convince me you were never coming out…” She gives me a quick, uncomfortable smile before dropping her gaze back to her plate. “I know the clothes probably aren’t to your liking but—”
“They’re fine,” Reaching for my wine glass, I take a drink. “Seriously, what sort of prick would complain about three hundred dollar pajama pants?”
“Well... there’s also a gift-wrapped Rolex with today’s date engraved on the back of it, in the nightstand drawer next to the bed.
You can have that too, if you want it—” Offering me a small shrug, she avoids looking at me.
“I’m sure you can have the back plate replaced when we get back to New York. ”
“A Rolex… Jesus fucking Christ,” I bark out on a laugh. “Only you would casually give away an eighty-thousand dollar watch like it was a Timex from Walmart.” Leaning into her, I give her a wicked grin because I can’t seem to get enough of getting a rise out of her. “What do I have to do for it?”
Cheeks pinking up with embarrassment, Millie, gives me an annoyed eye roll. “Nothing—consider it an olive branch.”
Okay, so maybe we aren’t pretending.
“Olive branch?” I say it carefully because I’m suddenly finding myself in uncharted territory when it comes to her and I’m not sure I like it.
“Yes.” When I don’t say anything, her slim, sandy brows knit themselves together. “A peace offering. I—”
“I know what an olive branch is, Mildew,” I tell her, more irritated than I have a right to be. “What I don’t know is why you feel the need to extend one.”
“Because you were in the bathroom for a long time. Long enough for me to stop being angry at you and start thinking logically…” Giving me a helpless shrug, Millie shakes her head.
“I’m committed to seeing this thing through, so unless you want to go home, you and I are stuck together—on this island and in this room—for the next two weeks, and.
..” Pulling the corner of her lower lip between her teeth for a few moments, she gives me a sigh.
“I don’t want to spend them at each other’s throats.
The way I see it, the only way to make it through without killing each other is to call a truce. ”
“A truce?” Jesus, I keep repeating everything she says—no wonder she thinks I’m stupid.
“A truce. A ceasefire. Rules of engagement—whatever you want to call it,” she says, forehead crumpling a bit at my tone.
“I’ll quit telling you how rude and arrogant I think you are, and you quit calling me Prissy Princess Millie.
We do our best to stay out of each other’s way and when we can’t avoid it, we behave like civilized adults.
We’re more than capable—we’ve both demonstrated civility where the other is concerned, in the past. I think with a little effort, we can make this situation as pleasant as possible. ”
Civility?
Effort?
Pleasant?
Yeah. I don’t like it.
Not one fucking bit.
“Come on, Maalox…” Looking at her, I give her one of my shitty smirks to cover up the fact that I’m suddenly just as uncomfortable as she is. “Do you really think you’re gonna be able to share a space with me for the next two weeks without telling me what an insufferable asshole I am?”
Chewing on her lower lip again, I watch while she comes to the same conclusion I did—that going two hours, let alone two weeks, without verbally assaulting each other is going to be next to impossible.
“Right.” Sitting back in my seat, I take my wine glass with me. Lifting it to my mouth, I take a drink before I set it back down. “So, what if we make it interesting?”
Brow furrowed, she shakes her head. “Interesting how?”
“Well…” I cross my arms over my chest. “Doesn’t a little rule follower like you think there should be some sort of consequence for breaking them? I mean, I know I’ll be more likely to keep my mouth shut and play nice if there’s some sort of incentive involved.”
“Okay.” Giving me a head nod, she takes a drink from her own glass. “That makes sense—what sort of consequence do you have in mind?”
“A mission, assigned by the insultee, performed by the insulter.”
“A mission?” She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You mean like a dare?”
“Exactly like a dare,” I tell her with a head bob. “No shit talk. No insults. If I break the rules, you can tell me to run naked through the hotel lobby and I’ll have to do it—and vice versa.”
“No.” She shakes her head emphatically. “That’s ridiculous. Can’t we just pay a fine or something?”
“It can’t be money,” I tell her plainly. “I don’t have any and you have so much of it that losing it would be meaningless to you. No—it has to be equal. Something neither of us would want to lose.”
“I seriously doubt that running naked through the hotel lobby would be a hardship for you,” she tells me, her cheeks flushing slightly at the thought.
“I’m sure you’re more than capable of finding some way of torturing me, Mercurial,” I say with a shrug. “Besides—isn’t that the point? The consequence needs to be heavy enough that we’ll do everything we can to avoid it, right?”
“Would you tell me to run naked through the hotel lobby?” She looks worried. “Because I—”
“No public nudity.” I hold my hand up. “Scout’s honor.”
When I say it, she snorts. “You were not a Boy Scout, Dean.”
“Jokes on you, Medusa—I was a fucking Eagle Scout.” I tell her, lowering my hand to offer it to her across the table. “Do we have a deal?”
Staring at my hand, Millie chews on her lower lip for a few seconds before she looks up at me. “Can I tell you to sleep on the couch?”
Shit.
I didn’t think of that.
“You can tell me to sleep on the couch for that night,” I tell her, back already stiff from the thought of it.
“But not the whole trip—and no being extra bitchy to trigger me either. We’re on our best behavior—both of us.
” Wiggling my fingers at her, I roll my eyes.
“Come on, Mackinac—do we have a deal or not?”
“Does that count?” She frowns at me in frustration. “Does calling me Mildew and Maalox, constitute as an insult?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her with a shrug. “Does it make you feel bad about yourself when I do it?”
She sits back in her seat a bit when I ask like it’s something she never considered before. “No…” Shaking her head at me, she gives me a soft, defeated sigh. “it doesn’t.”
“Then it doesn’t count.” Looking at her, I give her a much heavier sigh of my own. “My arm is getting tired here, Mills—in or out?”
Looking down at my offered hand again, she frowns like she’s contemplating all the ways this might be a horrible idea. “Okay.” Finally, she lifts her own arm and thrusts it across the table, practically shoving her hand into mine. “Deal.”