In His Eyes (Into You Book 2)

by Julie Olivia

  “That’s really nice,” I comment. “Like, really nice. You’re a lot nicer than you seem.”

  “I like to think I’m a fairly nice person.” He laughs. “You’ve just made up your stubborn mind to dislike like me over the years.”

  “Because you’re annoying,” I groan exasperatedly. This only makes him laugh again. I look down and see a washed-up, curled piece of plastic. “Ew, what’s that?” I ask, shooting my finger out to point at it.

  He grips my wrist to pull me away before I can touch it. When I lean closer, I see that what I thought was a sheen from the plastic appears to be something entirely different.

  “That’s a condom, Polly,” he says.

  “Gross!” I yell, and he shushes me while snickering.

  “Not a fan of beach sex?” he asks.

  It’s a good thing it’s dark and he can’t see my expression because I feel my entire face grow hot again while my mouth stretches into a grimace. If only he knew the fantasies I’ve been having. I let out an awkward burst of laughter, unable to contain the unrest bubbling within me.

  “Oh, so you are?” he says with surprise, his phone light lifting from the ground to point at me. I swat it back down before it can reach my reddened face.

  “I’ve never tried it,” I mumble, “but I’ve read about it.”

  “In those romance novels?”

  “Shush.” As the tide rushes in, the water wets the sand beneath our feet, causing our toes to create deeper footprints. If we were having sex right here, I wonder if our asses would leave prints on the sand. I wonder if my toes would curl and gather sand around me and if Ian’s hands would make indentions on either side of my hips. No, these are inappropriate thoughts to be having about stupid Ian Chambers…but it’s hard not to notice how, with every step, his thigh muscles tighten and release. I bet they have a lot of power in them.

  With each additional step, his shorts skim his toned thighs, and then I see it again: the cinched scar peeking out beneath the hem. His skin waves inward like the edge of a crumpled piece of paper, leaving a sort of shallow dent the farther up it goes.

  I flash my light to it. “You’ve never told me about that,” I say.

  He hesitates before saying, “You’ve never asked.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  I hear a faint gulp from him as if he’s contemplating whether or not to answer, and I wonder if I’ve crossed some sort of line. He finally breaks the silence with a short, two-word response. “Car crash,” he croaks out, followed by a small chuckle as if he’s in disbelief he said anything at all.

  “Was it your fault?” I ask. He’s silent again, and I get a small tinge of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I’m starting to remember that this is why I never drink. “Oh god, I’m sorry.” I burrow my face in my hands. “I’m so rude. This is so rude. What am I even asking?”

  I hear a thunk and see my phone dropped into the sand. Ian quickly snatches it up before the tide comes in to claim it as its own. I see the hint of a smile when the light from his phone passes across his face. Okay, he’s smiling, so maybe I’m not crossing too many lines, more like lightly placing my big toe on one side.

  “You’re too drunk for your own good,” he says. “And I fully intend to take advantage of this.”

  HUH?

  “What?!” I bellow.

  “No! Not like that, Polly,” he says, dragging out the words with a small chuckle. “Geez, you’re so testy.”

  “I don’t want to be…be…” I struggle to find words and let out a groan. “I can’t talk.”

  “That’s because you’re drunk.”

  “Well, I hate being drunk!” I yell. He quickly places a hand over my mouth and shushes me, laughing.

  For whatever reason, I stick out my tongue and lick his palm, hoping it will cause him to move it away from my lips. To my surprise, he keeps his hand there, instead turning on the spot to face me. I bump into his chest and the smell of his cologne wafts over me. Sandalwood…bonfire…man.

  “You’ve got to stop yelling.” He laughs, finally releasing my mouth.

  I grumble nonsense words in response.

  “What was that again?” he asks, bending a little to reach my level. My eyes must have adjusted to the moonlight because I can make out his features just slightly: the sharpness of his jaw, the manly stubble that’s formed over the past day or so, and the flop of his curls, no doubt fatigued by the humidity. He’s breathtaking in every way a man should be.

  “You’re close,” I whisper.

  “Does this bother you?” he asks. His voice is low, causing me to squeeze my legs together as nerves flitter down between my thighs.

  “It bothers me that you’re good-looking,” I blurt out.

  “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he whispers. “Can I tell you a secret?” The gruffness of his voice seeps into my chest. I gulp.

  “What?” I say.

  “I like you, Nia.”

  My arms cross, but my hands are getting clammy and I’m curling my toes in the sand, barely able to contain the rush of attraction flowing through my veins. I’ve almost forgotten how it feels to be wanted, especially by a man of Ian’s caliber.

  “You’re playing with me,” is all I can get out, and judging by his sly grin, he knows I’m borderline speechless.

  “I wish I were,” he growls. It’s animalistic. I need him to make the noise again.

  Wait—no, I don’t. Remember Ian? Ian, the man who turned you down? The man who ogles every woman? You don’t want that Ian. That Ian does not actually like you, at least not in that way.

  But he’s licking his lips, and I’m biting mine because I’m trying anything to stop this building tension.

  “You look like you want to kiss me,” I comment before I can even stop myself. My whole body gets giddy at the thought, but I swallow it down. “I mean—I don’t, just stating the obvious.” There we go. Good cover.

  He grins. “Lucky you, I don’t kiss drunk women. Not my style.”

  Of course he doesn’t, because he’s too perfect for that, isn’t he? I respect him for it, but admittedly, I’m also a small bit disappointed.

  “Good,” I say defiantly, causing him to let out a laugh.

  He’s a very intelligent man. I know this, and I’m wondering if he can see through my drunk, uncaring, nonchalant façade. I wonder if he’s feeding off it.

  “But if you want to flirt with a woman, go somewhere else,” I say, barely getting the words out through my tipsy stupor. “Go flirt with Corinne or something.”

  “Corinne isn’t exactly into me,” he says with a small eye roll, as if I’m the idiot who should have known that.

  “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid,” I snap, and he laughs again. “Ha ha,” I mockingly reply. “I’m glad my…my drunken state is funny to you.”

  “Maybe, but last time I checked, I’ve been looking at you, not Corinne, or that girl at the bar.”

  I’m exhausted. He likes me, he doesn’t…do I even care?

  “How do you know Corinne?”

  “Old friend.”

  “Old friend you used to date?”

  “Yes and no. I liked her once. But now she’s like a sister to me. That’s in the past. What did I just say? I’m looking at you.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask, exhaling.

  “You know why,” he says. “You’re smart, Nia. Take a guess.”

  The words are coming out so easily for him, and I don’t understand how, but I know it’s all a ruse, just a game from a man who plays them knowing he can win. He’s just a man seeing how far he can take a woman before she caves. I’ve seen this with my older brother Grant and all the girls who swooned over him, all the girls who got their heart broken—including his poor, nameless wife.

  I refuse to end up the same way.

  “Can I tell you another secret?” he continues.

  I don’t want him to. I want to push him away from me and go back to the hotel.
How far did we walk, though? Am I stranded? I wonder if I should start walking back on my own. He can endure the land sharks by himself. Maybe if I walk fast enough, I can outrun them, but I also can’t stop imagining Ian’s touch, and that is the real terrifying scenario.

  “Sure, tell me a secret,” I say, clearing my throat and lifting my chin in the air. This means nothing. This means nothing.

  Curiosity killed the cat.

  “I liked going to the sex shop with you,” he says. The words run through my body like venom. He’s the snake biting me, and I’m succumbing to the pain.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because I can imagine things.”

  The words stab into me, fill my head with no-good thoughts, making my stomach drop. It’s a wonder I’m still standing. His lips look so soft as they hover near me, his curls so willing to have hands running through them.

  I take a step back and feel the water run over my feet. The sand depresses under the weight and my heels dip lower. Next thing I know, I’m losing my balance, toppling over, and my arms are helicoptering in the air as I try to right myself. Ian grabs my arm just in time, wrapping his other hand in my shirt to hold me in place.

  I hear my phone plop onto the damp sand for the second time tonight. Unfortunately, it is not as lucky this time as it was the first. Though not taken by the ocean, it is still soaking wet by the time I haphazardly shuffle to get it.

  “No,” I moan before letting out a louder cry of, “What the HELL!”

  Ian is grabbing his stomach in laughter, bending over and trying to contain himself.

  I can’t believe two seconds ago I was actually considering kissing him, wondering what it would be like to be with him. I’m such a sucker. I’m actually happy he’s being such a jerk again. It’s reminding me why I’ve avoided him for six years. Seven? Eight? Ugh, I don’t know how many! Too many, that’s how many.

  He sees my irritation and tries his best to stop laughing as he says, “It’s fine. Just put it in rice.”

  “Oh, sure, I’ll totally find freaking rice at three o’clock in the morning,” I sneer. I’m just about done with him. I don’t want to hear any more of his misleading comments, and now I have a stupid, wet phone thanks to him. How am I possibly supposed to get back home? I want to leave. I want to get out of here. Stupid wedding, stupid week, stupid Ian.

  “Well, it’s four o’clock now,” he corrects. Smartass. “But I actually do have rice.”

  “Stop lying,” I snap, making my way through the sand, moving away from him. Just another joke, and it’s not even funny.

  “I’m not. I always bring a bag of rice to the beach,” he says. “It’s saved me too many times.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “You won’t think that in a few minutes.”

  I stomp the rest of the way back, clutching my phone in a near death grip. Ian is a few steps behind me, pointing his phone in front of him to guide my way. Even though it prevents me from tripping up the wooden stairs, I refuse to be thankful for it.

  We get back up to the rooms, exchanging no words in the elevator, and he tells me to wait, placing a hand on my arm as if to gently coerce me into being patient while he retrieves his imaginary rice. The gesture works, and that pisses me off even more.

  Lo and behold, he returns two seconds later with a freaking bag of freaking rice. Is this guy even real?

  “What the heck?”

  “Told you.” He holds out his hand, palm up, and I reluctantly place the phone into it. When I do, my fingertips graze his skin. I can feel the ruggedness of it. His hand is so giant in comparison to my petite, slender fingers. I jerk my hand back, causing him to flash a smirk at me. The man can totally read my mind.

  The phone is dropped in the bag of rice, zipped shut, and shaken up.

  “This will soak up the moisture.” He hands the bag back to me. “Leave it in there overnight.”

  “Neat trick,” I mumble, shuffling the rice around. Admittedly, it is a neat trick and a very good precaution to take. I appreciate responsible men, and he probably just saved my lifeline to home. Though, after my conversation with Grant, maybe I should let the thing die.

  “You’re welcome,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets and leaning back in triumph. What does he want, some type of reward? It’s not like I owe him anything. The edge of his lip is curled into a cocky smile. While he is making me exceptionally angry, my body is also betraying me by having my nipples harden and press against my bra. They’re suddenly so sensitive. I wish our hands would graze again.

  It’s silent between us with only the sound of rice bunching together in my hand as I absentmindedly squeeze and release the bag.

  “What was it about the sex shop that you liked?” I suddenly ask.

  It’s been a weird night, and for some reason I feel like I need to hear this. I haven’t received this type of raw attention in so long, and my body is having a hard time resisting.

  He inhales sharply, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets.

  “I don’t know,” he says, giving a small chuckle after. Is he as nervous as I am right now?

  I feel like I’m in college again, in the beginning of a relationship, that magical time where you’re just getting to know one another. There are butterflies zooming through my chest, just waiting for the next comment that will drive my mind insane.

  “No, really. What?” I say, voice nearly a whisper. I’m scared someone will overhear us. The last thing I need is Grace or his sister coming out of her room.

  “You looking at DVDs,” he says. “Picking up penis erasers.” He laughs.

  My mouth twitches into a smile. I roll my lips in to push it away. I both desire and resent this conversation. I need to get out of here.

  But why? He’s no longer my co-worker. He’s just Ian. But, that’s it exactly—he’s Ian Chambers: a liar, a man who, despite saying he doesn’t date co-workers, I have seen do the opposite. I remember that night years ago. He didn’t see me standing there when he broke that sacred rule, the one he promised me he never broke.

  And I’m not gullible. I can’t be.

  “Have you ever thought about…us?” he asks.

  That comment is exactly what I need to prompt me to shake my head, step back, and make my exit.

  “Get over yourself,” I scoff.

  “Wait, hang on—”

  “I’m not here to be just another girl you’ve duped into thinking they’re special.”

  “I’m not teasing you, Nia.”

  He says my name, not some stupid nickname like Polly or Apollo, just Nia. It has a different meaning to it. It’s intimate coming from his mouth, but this will not break me.

  “I’m no different,” I say.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I’m going to bed.” I exhale, nodding in a matter-of-fact manner and rummaging through my pocket to retrieve my keycard. His hand reaches out to grab my elbow and I turn on my heel to look at him. “What?” I snap, irritated. What else does he need? What other stupid, fun game can he play with me?

  “Do you still have that movie?” he asks. My heart sinks.

  The movie from the sex shop. I haven’t touched it since we got it. It’s still under my pillow, like a secret tooth ready to be stolen by the tooth fairy.

  “No, I threw it away,” I lie. He smirks. He knows I’m not telling the truth.

  “You should watch it,” he says. His voice is both a plea and a request. My knees shake and I realize I want him to plead with me more.

  “I don’t have it,” I repeat, tugging my arm away and inserting my card. I twist the handle and walk in, but before I shut it, I turn back around, and there he is. He’s looking at me, piercing me through deep into my core, and I can’t help but take in a deep, shaky breath.

  I imagine it all: his naked body, his strong arms, his sloping Adonis V, the gift waiting at the end of it.

  He winks, and it’s a knowing wink. So, with that, I slam the door in his dumb, smirking face.
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  I trudge into my room, pacing and throwing my keycard and bag of phone rice onto the table, running my hand through my hair while I kick off my sandals in disgust. They’re covered in sand and beach water and stupid memories of tonight.

  I almost let my guard down. I hate that I was almost just that weak enough. I hate his rough hand on my arm. I hate his gorgeous stubble. I hate his muscular body with its toned thighs. I hate how feverish my own body is, reeling with my blood pumping deeper down, desperate for release. All due to Ian Chambers.

  My eyes jerk over to the pillow and my heart races faster.

  No. I will not do it. Porn is disgusting.

  I storm over to the pillow and toss it to the side, revealing the movie with its cover depicting actors in compromising positions, body parts intertwined like two octopuses trying to wrestle one another.

  What a sorry way to spend time. How sad to feel like you need to watch random people get it on just to get your kicks.

  I press the movie into the DVD player’s opening and mash the button on the TV to turn it on.

  It’s ridiculous that people stoop to this level of entertainment.

  I see a woman with her arms pressed against the chest of a bulky man. His muscles ripple even through his tight-fitting white shirt. He’s wearing a utility belt and a hard hat. She’s wearing a thin tank top with no bra underneath. His hand goes to her nipple, rolling it in his fingers. I mirror the same movement on myself, lifting my shirt over my head.

  This is such a silly movie. Look at him, saying corny words and pushing her onto the workbench. Do your job, carpenter! You’re fixing her house!

  I lean back on the bed, sliding my hand under my panties and closing my eyes. Carpenters leave my mind instantly.

  I imagine the beach at night and the glow of a flashlight. There’s a tall, muscled, shirtless man hovering over me. His hands are placed on either side of me, centering himself just below my hips. He’s kissing my neck, nibbling my earlobes, and running his hand to my center as his fingers gently slip inside me.

  I can imagine so clearly how he exhales over me, as if unable to contain how much I turn him on. He tells me to open my eyes so he can see me when I release. I oblige.