Lag (The Boys of RDA Book 2) (2 page)

“Oh my god. Are you okay? I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.” I ramble my apology with rapid words.

His head rises with his body until his dark brown eyes rest on mine. He’s gorgeous. Why the hell couldn’t I elbow the were-doctor? Why was it the cutest guy I’ve seen all week? His tan skin is highlighted by a short beard, almost over grown stubble, but it’s trimmed to the perfect lust-inducing length and shape. His thicker eyebrows and straight nose help me peg him as Greek or Italian. In all my future fantasies of this moment, he’ll speak Italian and whisper sweet nothings in my ear.

Flustered by my reaction to him, I almost forget I elbowed the poor guy in the junk. I bet his memories from today will be much different than mine. The grim thought forces my smile to fall and our faces match when I look up again. I need to get out of here.

“I’m so sorry, again. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Although he’s no longer using me to keep himself standing, his hand still rests on my knee almost hovering above. His body still blocks my escape.

“No, it’s okay.” He smirks and his head moves to look at where his hand is still on my knee. “There’s more than one person out there who would tell you I deserve it. They’d probably applaud you.”

It’s noon, in August, in the Bahamas, but my body temperature spikes from the sound of his deep voice. My face heats and I hope he thinks it’s from embarrassment not the hormones he’s produced in me.

“Can I buy you new drinks? You’re wearing half of yours.”

I follow his eyes to the three cups on the bar and notice they’re lower in liquid by about a third each. Alcohol isn’t included in our all-inclusive package and gets pricey, but I don’t feel right about the guy replacing them when I almost neutered him.

“Oh no.” I grab all three glasses in the same hold as before and try to stand from my stool, but again he doesn’t take the hint and step back. “Excuse me.”

My words are soft, but his chest tightens as I speak them. “Right. Well, enjoy the rest of your vacation.” He crosses his arms, disrupting my view of his muscled torso, and steps away from my stool no longer hampering my cowardly retreat.

CHAPTER TWO

Elena slips down the hallway from the suite we share with our parents. Her short green dress shifts with each step and I worry for a moment about letting her out like this. How often do cute, blonde, American girls get kidnapped on vacation? I can’t let anything happen to my baby sister.

“Elena! Hold up. I’ll come with you,” I call to her as loudly as I’m comfortable with, which isn’t much since I don’t want to risk one of our parents hearing.

Elena turns back to me and cocks her head to the side as she sizes me up. “You aren’t dressed for the club and Dad will figure it out if you go back in now,” she loudly whispers back.

I steal a quick peek at my outfit as if I’ve forgotten what I have on. Am I in pajamas? My dark colored skinny jeans with sandals and a pink tank top isn’t horrible, but maybe not dance club material either. Not that I have any desire to go to a dance club. God, am I that old? I sound like a twenty-six-year-old grandmother.

“I’ll sit at the regular bar, it’ll be fine.” I try to reassure us both and walk in her direction.

The elevator takes us down four floors before depositing us in the massive lobby. The grandiose circular room with white stone pillars sculpted into a combination of fish and seashells looks the same at this later hour as it did this afternoon, but less people mill about the area. Our sandaled feet create a steady click against the marble floor. It’s almost peaceful rather than rushed like other times I’ve been here. I follow my sister to the left passing between two of the large columns set in a circle in the middle of the room.

Once we’re out in the open night air, the steady thump of the nearby club pulses through my body and my heart jumps with the beat. I won’t set one foot in there. Yup, it’s official, I’m old. Elena continues toward the club doors. Her hips swing more than they did in the hallway upstairs.

“I’ll be over here.” I point in the direction of the quieter area to my left, but she doesn’t look back, signaling her understanding with a wave above her head before passing through the two tall light brown club doors.

“Children these days. No respect,” a deep voice speaks behind me and the sound crawls up my skin, heating it in a familiar way.

I turn but can’t make out the person. The speaker’s face is hidden in the shadows. He’s stretched out on one of several white leather couches spaced around an outside fire pit. His feet, one crossed over the other, lazily perch on the edge of the stone circular pit as if it was there solely for his amusement.

Pure curiosity causes me to step closer. The small fire in front of him aligns with my new angle and grants a better view. I gasp when I recognize him, which causes a small laugh to escape his lips. Lips I’d planned to fantasize about back in the safety of my New York apartment.

The stranger I almost de-balled this afternoon grins at me from his place on the couch. The fire casts moving shadows on his face that could paint him with sinister traits if this were a horror movie, but I cross my fingers and bank on something more along the lines of the Hallmark channel as I go and sit on the couch. I’m beside him, but as far to the other end as physically possible.

I don’t realize he didn’t ask me to sit with him until I already am, and I panic for a moment, my eyes searching out an approaching girlfriend. Being this close to his chiseled jaw gives me mini eye orgasms. There’s no way this man isn’t already taken.

Almost as if he senses my discomfort, he sinks deeper into his corner of the couch and throws an arm across the back. The top half of his body is covered by a thin button down blue striped shirt, the sleeves up to his elbows. The wind creates a slight dip in the temperature at night here and while he’d be too hot during the day, it’s perfect for these cooler evenings.

Nervous with all the visual attention and not wanting to be caught staring at him, I clear my throat. I stick one leg under me on the couch, in a half Indian-style pose, and turn toward him.

“I hope you’re feeling better… you know… from…… um.” I stumble over my thoughts but wave my hand in the general direction of his junk.

His smile grows in size. “You mean are my balls feeling better after you tried to take them home with you?”

My eyes go wide at his comment. I open my mouth to respond but only produce a squeak. He throws his head back and releases a boisterous laugh at my expression. Realizing he isn’t angry, I join him in the moment. I’m not sure which is funnier, my inability to say the words or his blatant honesty with our earlier situation.

His beer sits on the end table behind him, and I try a better approach to break the ice. “Can I get you another beer?” It feels like the least I can do for the guy.

He reaches behind him to recapture the abandoned beverage. “Sorry. Your elbow may have roughly fondled me earlier, but I can’t accept a drink from a girl I don’t know.”

His joke breaks away more of my tension and I lean toward him with my hand extended. “Simone Stevens.”

Our hands connect and the warmth from his fingers reminds me how cold I’ve become in the short time I’ve spent on the couch. I’ll have to go back upstairs to get a jacket eventually, but I don’t want to leave here without his name first.

“Trey Good. It’s nice to meet you, Simone.” My name rolls off his tongue when he puts extra emphasis on the “one” making it sound almost dirty. If my mouth had been open, I might have been caught in a moan.

I’m reluctant to pull away, but I shiver from a sweep of breeze roaming through the patio we’ve taken up residence in. From the way Trey inspects his clothing for a moment, he must have noticed my chill but doesn’t have anything to offer me. The thought seems to make him remorseful if his pursed lips when his head raises are anything to go by.

My libido tempts me to ask for his button down shirt. I could easily make some comment about how the light blue shirt would pair well with my pink tank top, but I can’t openly flirt with someone I’m not sure is single. Plus, I didn’t feel anything with my elbow jab earlier today, but my ninja skills may strike fear in his manly bits now. At least that’s what I tell myself. It will make any impending rejection easier to handle.

“So where are you from, Simone?” He says my name again with his question, but it doesn’t sound as risqué this time.

Before I answer, a waiter in the standard hotel polo and black pants walks past our couch. Trey reaches a hand out and waves him in our direction.

“What are you having?” he asks.

“I thought I was buying?”

He doesn’t answer my question with words, but the pinched, straight-faced look he tosses my direction tells me not to fight it. And for some ridiculous untold reason I don’t. “Get me a Long Island, please.”

“Two Long Islands and a blanket for my lady,” Trey directs the waiter and turns back to our conversation.

I almost release a stupid girly laugh at the “my lady” part, but I get ahold of myself in time. I’m back to normal before I speak. “You didn’t need to do that. I’ll be fine.”

Trey slides his thumb back and forth on his jaw line as his eyes noticeably travel up and down my body, stopping at my chest to linger. “Let’s let me do what I need to do, okay?”

His not-so-cryptic comment about my hard nipples causes my face to heat. I wrap my arms around my sides to try and cover up the evidence before they poke through my tank top more. My B-cups have never felt so large and in the way before. Plus, I’m not sure if it’s the temperature or his gaze that’s to blame for my current condition.

In a hurry to change the topic, I fill the silence with my answer for Trey’s earlier question. People seem to think life in New York City is a whirlwind of excitement, but in my case it mostly involves working. I explain my job title might be “Executive Assistant,” but I’m more of a gopher. My days — and sometimes nights — are spent making sure my bosses’ clients are satisfied with our financial services.

You’d think it would be simple since I work for a financial firm, copy some papers here or there, but over the last five years I’ve done it all. From shopping for a million-dollar apartment with Mrs. Peterson to buying a new Aston Martin Vantage GT in green for Mr. Clark.

High profile clients often come with high profile problems, which is why I get paid so much to make sure every detail is taken care of before issues arise. It’s also why I’ve purchased every birthday, Christmas, Valentines, and anniversary gift for the wives of more than one of my male clients. If I’m truthful, there are a few mistresses on my gift list too. I’m paid to not ask questions.

It’s not how I planned to use my accounting degree after graduation, but a girl needs to eat. I like food. Food is expensive in the city… along with everything else.

My description of Clark’s face when he realized he couldn’t drive the stick shift, but he’d already signed on the dotted line for his brand new pretty Vantage has us both laughing.

“I drove the car home for him and then set him up private lessons with a tutor the next day.” My face hurts from how far my lips have stretched as we’ve talked. I can’t remember the last time I smiled so much.

Trey wipes his finger under his eye, any earlier awkwardness between us fizzled away while I talked. “God, that’s hilarious. I have a buddy who bought a house boat before he realized he suffers from sea sickness. They could be friends.”

Our laughter fades as I run out of good stories. I’ve barely eaten up five minutes. I fidget with the ends of my tank top. “Enough about my crazy life. What do you do?”

Trey leans back in his seat and is silent, almost as if he’s deciding what he plans to tell me in advance. “I’m pretty much one of those rich assholes you deal with.”

I chuckle at his expression and serious tone until more time passes and I notice he isn’t laughing with me.

CHAPTER THREE

“You’re kidding right?” I ask as I get control of myself again.

Before Trey answers our waiter returns, our drinks on his black round tray and a blue Mexican blanket thrown over his arm. I’ve seen blankets similar to these all over with their various striped patterns. They seem to be on sale everywhere, but I haven’t picked one up yet.

The waiter hands me a plastic neon green cup and I place it on the edge of the fire pit while the blanket is wrapped around my back and over my shoulders to create a shawl. The fabric is thick and firm, a little scratchy, but it keeps the wind from my bare skin.

Trey hasn’t continued his answer even as the waiter walks away leaving us alone again, so I decide to prod him along. “Are you from New York? What do you do?”

He breathes in a large gulp of air before the words rattle out of him. “I’m CEO for a digital arts company in San Francisco. We make apps and computer games. I’m not crazy like apparently New Yorkers, but I did make our receptionist order my mom flowers last week after I missed a dinner with her. I might not be much higher up the totem pole.”

“I hope your receptionist knew what she was doing. The trick is to keep the cards short and sweet. If you get too flowery, the wife — or in your case, mom — will figure it out. Then you’re in more trouble.” I try to lighten the mood.

It works as Trey laughs a little with my advice. “If she doesn’t quit like the last one, I’ll make sure and tell her.”