18. Scarlett
Scarlett
“Get dressed,”
I hear Morgan’s voice before the door even has time to slam behind him, and I nearly drop my towel. I am literally in the middle of getting into the shower when he blasts into the room.
Talk about déjà vu.
“What’s going on?” I ask because that amount of urgency must mean something is wrong. Like the hotel is on fire, or he owes someone money and they finally found him.
“It’s time to work, that’s what,” he says, and I let out a sigh, though I am a little irritated that there is in fact no fire.
“Now?” I ask. “I was about to get in the shower.”
“You can shower later,” he says, and I just stare at him. This man truly is against me bathing, I swear.
“I have a better idea. You can stop telling me what to do.”
But Morgan just glares at me. The man is still in the suit he was wearing when we got here. The suit he had on in the plane. He might have been less constipated about flying if his tie wasn’t so tight. “Put on something nice. We’re going to dinner,” he states.
“I thought you said we were working,” I say, heading to the closet where I hung my clothes earlier.
“You are my writer and my girlfriend. Dinner is working,” he says, and I take in a deep breath and let it back out with a quick nod.
“Right, I forgot,” I tell him as I sift through dresses on the rack while trying to decipher what exactly constitutes as nice to a man like Morgan Bale.
“You forgot that you work for me?” he asks. I jump because his voice is coming from behind me. Right behind me.
“No,” I state with a tone matching his. “I forgot about the girlfriend part.”
Morgan doesn’t say anything. Not right away. We both know that I couldn’t have possibly forgotten. Especially not after what happened just a little while ago. Still. He just stands there behind me, rigid like a marble pillar, and I turn around to look at him.
“Do you mind?” I ask. Because fake relationship or not, I don’t think he should be watching me get dressed.
“Don’t you have anything more…” he trails off, and I raise my eyebrows. “Formal?”
“Formal?” I echo. Then I laugh lightly. “We’re beach resort hopping. Forgive me for leaving my pantsuits at home. I’m afraid I’m fresh out of anything pleated.”
“You own something pleated?” he asks, tugging at an orange dress. I instinctively swat his hand away, causing his eyes to dilate at the audacity.
“No,” I snap. “I don’t. It’s not me, and it’s not what my followers want to see.”
“Right.” He nods. “White would be good,” he says, finally stepping out.
White, I do have. Though I wouldn’t call it formal. It’s a wispy, long dress with spaghetti straps and a strappy back and slits up to the thighs. It looks like something a minimalist would get married in on a beach.
“Wait,” I say, peeking out of the closet with the requested dress in hand. “You’re not planning a spontaneous beach wedding tonight, are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, pacing the floor and checking his Rolex with every turn around. “You’re not ready to be my bride.”
I am offended by that. Not that I want to marry him. And as far as I know, this agreement won’t actually result in matrimony, holy or otherwise, but I still take offense.
“What?” he asks after checking his watch again. “The entire purpose of this dinner is to get more content for the blog. Food, ambiance, and the service at the resort. All while convincing the world we are in love.”
“Love. Right.” I nod, stepping back into the closet and closing the door most of the way so I can change. “Because our situationship is so very romantic,” I snort.
Suddenly, the door swings back open.
“Oh my god! Morgan!” I snap, covering up my half-naked body with the dress.
“That right there has to stop. You can’t refer to it as a situationship. You’ll blow the cover and the contract,” he says, but I just glare back at him.
“You are blowing the contract by blurring the lines right now,” I state, suddenly not caring if he is standing there. It’s not like he hasn’t seen more than this before, whether he remembers or not.
I pull the dress on and go on.
“Our relationship clause stated that we are together in public only. But in private? We need to have a conversation about the private part,” I say, marching up to him. I don’t even care that I have to stare into the sky to meet his eyes.
“If you think you can just do whatever you want all because you are technically my boss, you have another thing coming, Mister. Because while your money might be my source of income right now, my blog is what’s going to save your ass.
So I’ll go to your little dinner and play along with all your rules.
But after that, when we come back to the room?
The red tape is going down, buddy. And believe you me, you will stay on your side. ”
I am nearly hyperventilating by the time I am finished, and while that was probably very stupid, I have no regrets. I can’t help it. Because I have never had a man get under my skin like Morgan Bale.
He studies me with hard eyes for what feels like forever. And I match that glare until his lips tip into a smirk.
“There’s the girl I hired,” he says, turning on his heel. “Now, come on. We have a reservation.”
I blink hard and almost stumble. That, of all responses, was not what I was expecting. Though I’m not exactly sure just what I was expecting. Maybe for him to explode with authority? Put me in my place with his dominance and sharp tongue.
God that tongue is sharp…
I clear my throat and slip my shoes on. Strappy wedges to make him happy. Then I grab my purse, and we head out the door.
“This is nice,” I say as we take a seat overlooking the ocean. The Sunset Pier is a restaurant located on the pier outside the resort. Though it technically is still on Bale Resort property. We are on the very nose of the pier too, and the waves are practically crashing right below us.
“Only nice?” Morgan asks, and the waitress sets menus in front of us and fills our water glasses.
“It’s very nice,” I tell him. “Is that what you want to hear?”
“I want to hear the truth,” he tells me, and I swear this man is like a Rubic Cube that I can’t solve.
Does he want praise? Does he want me to be real?
Nobody knows. “Seriously,” he goes on as his eyes sweep over the menu.
“You’re a seasoned traveler. I know you’ve seen it all. Is this restaurant blog worthy?”
Seriously?
It’s 10 out of 5 stars. The seating is both convenient and private.
The firepit cooking smells amazing. The cocktails look divine.
The seafood is probably second to none. And I am very much a seafood connoisseur.
Not to mention the view. We aren’t just dining on the beach.
We are practically in the ocean, and yet comfortable. It’s unreal.
“It should provide me with some good content,” I say as I take a sip of my water, suddenly remembering that I can’t order a drink.
I can feel Morgan’s eyes on me, and I turn to look at him. “I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he says with more softness than I thought he was capable of.
Maybe because we started off on our backs.
“How so?” I ask.
“Travel is stressful,” he answers. “We have been bickering a lot. But we need to be on the same team. I hired you because I knew you’d be the best. And I don’t want you to think that I don’t see that.”
I stare at Morgan through slitted eyes, saying nothing.
“You don’t trust me,” he says.
“Not as far as I can throw you,” I state, and Morgan laughs.
Not a full laugh. Not a true laugh. Honestly, it’s more of a chortle with tipped lips, but for Morgan, that just about constitutes ROTFLMAO.
“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “What if we don’t talk about work? What if we just enjoy dinner, let the speculators do their thing, and you do yours. As MooreToExplore, I mean.”
“Are we ready to order?” the waitress asks. All the while I am still staring at Morgan suspiciously.
“Yes,” Morgan says before waving for me to go first.
“I’ll take red king crab legs,” I say.
“That sounds good,” Morgan says, handing her his menu. “I’ll do the same. And the crab cakes.”
I hand my menu off as well, but my eyes are locked on the man sitting across from me at the table.
“Who even are you?” I ask, and Morgan’s lips tempt to smile. Then he reaches across the small table and takes my hand in his, causing all kinds of nerves to fire under my skin.
“Your boyfriend,” he says in a low enough tone that I am pretty sure I can feel it in my downstairs.
“Right.” I nod. It’s not that I forgot. It’s just that I didn’t know he could play it off so well. Honestly, I’m not sure how to feel about it. On one hand, I didn’t know he could act so well. On the other hand, my doubt in his ability to act at all has me wondering just how fake this is.
God knows our bedroom chemistry isn’t fake…
Suddenly, I am aware of the people around us.
People watching, whispering, snapping photos.
It’s a bit odd to me. Even though I have become somewhat accustomed to people recognizing me on my travels, this kind of attention is different.
Maybe because they aren’t just recognizing me, they’re recognizing him.
Recognizing us together. And as I slowly let my guard down enough to smile back at him, I’m not entirely sure I recognize myself.
And the night goes on much in the same way. We get our food, which is phenomenal. And before he can dive into the crab legs, I smack his hand away so I can take a photo.
“You really should stop doing that,” he warns me as I snap about six photos of the food, the food with the beach behind it, and of course one with me in the photo as well. One of the pics has him in the background, and I swear to God there is a hint of a smirk there.
“Yeah?” I ask. “Because I think you’re just going to have to get used to it.”
“Oh, really?” he asks, and while I’m looking at the photos I am taking and not his face, I detect a hint of a smile.
“Yep,” I answer.
“And if I don’t?” he asks, and I set my phone down, trading it for a deliciously huge crab leg.