Bad Business

by JC Harroway

  I secure the board, pretending I didn’t notice the skittish way she snatched her hand away from mine as if I have cattle prods for fingers. It’s okay if she wants to ignore our mutual attraction. It’s probably for the best even though hunger settles in the pit of my stomach like a rock.

  When I look up, she’s no longer relaxed, her posture more rigid, arms clasped across her waist.

  ‘I should let you finish packing up...’ she says in lieu of a direct no to my invitation of a drink.

  I shrug, hiding my disappointment, my imagination rampant to know how her letting go would multiply her potent magnetism.

  ‘But...thanks for the offer,’ she says, stepping away and putting another slice of beach between us so the earlier hollowness inside me re-expands.

  Looks like I’ll never know.

  ‘No problem.’ But, for the first time in my life, I regret inviting her for a drink, because I’d settle for just her company over spending the rest of the week watching and wondering from a distance. ‘I just figured as we’re the only two sad, lonely people here, we could get to know each other.’

  Who am I trying to convince? Her or myself? I don’t normally give a shit about being alone. I’ve been practically alone most of my life. It must be a reaction to the near constant state of worry over Grandma’s health. Every time I pick up my phone, I’m almost too scared to look at the screen in case what I see changes my life in the most definitive and devastating way.

  ‘I’m fine being here by myself,’ she says, her eyes glowing bright with a hint of challenge that boosts my desire to unearth the secrets of Grace Metcalf. To see the side of her shielded behind the straight back and the stiff shoulders that she only seems to allow out to play when she smiles or laughs.

  I hold up my hands in supplication. ‘Hey, I didn’t mean anything by that—there’s nothing wrong with being single. I personally wouldn’t be any other way. But a guy needs to save face after a beautiful woman turns him down.’ I grin, aiming for levity.

  She looks away, turning her face to the sea, a frown pinching her forehead. ‘Sorry—I... Perhaps I’ve been too isolated since I arrived. You’re probably better off without my company.’

  It’s only what I’ve just told myself, so why does it leave me cold? Why am I pushing, rather than walking away?

  She seems to shake herself, new resolve glittering in her extraordinary eyes. ‘I should definitely try out the paddleboarding.’

  ‘There’s that word again—should. But I agree. You should. There’s no feeling like it.’ With clothes on. ‘So, tomorrow at nine, and if you change your mind about the drink, no strings,’ I add to reassure her I’m not a creep, even though my thoughts are far from friendly. ‘I’m in that bure at the end there.’ I point to the most luxurious of the accommodations jutting out into the lagoon and connected to the sand by a wooden walkway.

  Grace raises her eyebrows, impressed. Her mouth opens and then closes again. I can practically hear her mind working—how is a lowly paddleboard instructor staying in the resort’s most exclusive suite and not bunked up with the other staff? But for some reason she doesn’t ask. If I were a gentleman I’d explain, but I clamp my jaw shut. We might be trapped here in paradise, but it seems we’re not going to know each other, even as friends.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ I say and saunter away. My back muscles twitch with unfathomable tension. My toes scrunch the sand, each step full of resolve, as if, left to their own accord, my feet would turn tail and return to the enigmatic doctor. What the hell is wrong with me and what will it take to feel like myself again?

  One last look?

  I stop. Turn.

  She’s where I left her, staring at my retreat.

  Her eyes lock with mine, widen, the only move she makes.

  My restlessness returns with a vengeance. I continue towards my bure, pick up the pace. The attraction is irrelevant. Now I know the doc and I aren’t going to be on intimate terms, I can refocus on work as a distraction. It’s never let me down in the past.

  But as I round the bungalow and catch sight of the sunset strike the water, regret clings like the salt drying on my skin. These solitary moments are the only downside to a life of determined bachelorhood. My nothing serious rule stops me inviting a date when I travel—wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression. And, in my experience, no matter how openly I declare my stance on relationships, some women refuse to accept they can’t change me, magically turn me into marriage material.

  But not the guarded doc. She couldn’t get away quick enough. It’s a small island. The newly-weds aren’t going to be very good company. It makes sense for us to get to know each other...

  My dick pulses at that remembered slice of toned thigh, the curve of her breast above the cup of the shocking red bikini, the frangipani flower in that beautiful hair...

  Yeah, I want to get to know her, all right.

  I head to my bungalow’s private pool area where there’s also a Jacuzzi and an outdoor shower. There’s something magical about being so close to nature, to swimming at dusk, showering outdoors, the water on my back as I watch the last rays of sun kiss the horizon.

  I snort; I’ll be quoting Shakespeare next. But already I calculate my investment in this place tripling.

  An image of Grace naked in the pool, her hair floating in the water, her nipples breaking the surface, drags my thoughts from work... A frustrated groan breaks free. I need to get laid.

  I toss my T-shirt onto a lounger and turn on the shower. I shove my shorts down my legs, kicking the fabric aside and reaching for the body wash.

  I squirt out a measure, lather up and perform my washing routine on autopilot, my mind free to wander back to other business. Bad business. Grace.

  She certainly eyed me like a woman interested in the contents of my shorts, despite her rejection. I can still feel her stare sliding down the length of my body, the subtle rise and fall of her chest on a tiny sigh, almost of longing, the way her spangled eyes clung to mine. Searching...

  As I rinse the sand from my hair, my body energises in anticipation of the morning’s lesson. Hopefully I can coax out that sexy smile of hers, that playfulness hovering behind the reserve and hesitation she seems to use as a shield.

  Then I remember she’ll likely be wearing another stunning bikini, those delicious feminine curves on display...

  I close my eyes and grip my semi-hard cock, offering it a few lazy tugs. Tomorrow I’ll determine her interest, once and for all. Figure out if her hesitation is shyness, or indifference. A shame, because we could definitely have some fun while we’re both here at Lailai.

  My fist grips tighter, my jerks pulling a little harder to uncoil the tension of my inconvenient attraction to my island doctor. I brace my free hand on the tiles above my head and focus on the images behind my eyelids. The evening sun strikes my back and I succumb to the presence of Grace in my head as I climb the slope towards release.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Grace

  WHAT NOW? DO I chase after the hot stranger?

  Instead, I’m frozen with indecision where he left me with a shrug of those beautifully broad and bronzed shoulders, the memory of his manly scent and the warmth of his strong fingers a call to action blaring in my head.

  Why did he have to look back?

  I was prepared to walk away, to stick to my decision, telling myself I imagined the way he looked at me, the heat in his playful, sea-blue eyes. Lying to myself while the taste of regret soured my tongue.

  And then he looked back, and I wavered, because the expression on his face hadn’t been cocky or roguish, the way it had been when he’d teased me, his smile doing things to my insides. He’d looked...lost.

  No. I must have imagined it. Professional hazard; I’m always trying to fix people.

  I hear Neve and Brooke’s reprimand ringing in my ears.

&
nbsp; The Pact.

  I’m supposed to be making my girls proud. Not moping around feeling sorry for myself among the honeymooners and trying to forget that I was meant to be one of them.

  ‘Shit!’

  I had a perfect chance to go for a drink with a handsome work colleague, and I blew it. Easy-going Ryan with his sexy smile and his friendly banter offered the perfect antidote to being alone on an island full of in-love couples.

  I scrunch my eyes closed, wincing at my knee-jerk refusal, my stupidity, my fear. I’m so rusty the offer of a drink, some mild flirtation and the touch of a hand freaks me out.

  I may as well be a bloody nun.

  Well, I’m not here just to hide from the consequences and wallow in guilt.

  When I open my eyes again, Ryan has disappeared around the side of his bungalow taking his spectacular toned body out of sight but not out of mind. My mouth may as well be full of sand, I’m so desperate to know what’s at the end of the trail of dark hair from his belly button dipping below the waistband of his shorts... How much of the visible bulge under the wet, clinging fabric is his penis? And am I brave enough to find out the answers?

  Oh, God, I want to be brave enough.

  I can do this, be true to myself, go forwards with courage, and demand more from life. Prioritise passion and adventure. Embrace more than work and obligation and live for all the moments Bryony couldn’t have. Starting with a drink with a stranger and followed by learning to paddleboard.

  With determination dragged up from my toes, I trudge across the beach after Ryan.

  My reassuring self-talk slows the fight-or-flight impulses firing in my brain as I rehearse what I’ll say to the sexy Irishman.

  I would like that drink after all...

  When you said drink, I thought you meant coffee...

  I’m crap at this so can we just run through our conversation one more time...?

  Or perhaps I’ll be honest about my feelings. Mmm... A little holiday flirtation with a man who looks like Adonis and sounds like Aidan Turner with laryngitis. Keeping schtum and not rocking the boat hasn’t worked out. My fresh start should be the complete opposite.

  Hi, Ryan, sorry about my freak-out earlier, but if you still want that drink I’d love to. And if you fancy me as much as I fancy you, perhaps we could...

  Could what? I’ve never had a one-night stand. How do we travel from strangers to shagging? I bet Ryan knows. My blood pumps harder just thinking about it. About him. About being intimate with anyone other than my ex...

  Nausea and excitement battle for control of my body, but I forge ahead with renewed energy. I’ll have a drink with him and see what happens. Easy. And at least I’ll have something more to confess to Brooke and Neve than the books I read while working on my tan and staying hydrated.

  Pathetic, Grace, real pathetic.

  I step off the sand onto the wooden walkway, practically vibrating with anticipation as my bare feet pad along the sun-warmed timber.

  This heady rush is the feeling I hoped to capture all those months ago when I’d woken up to my two-dimensional, mediocre relationship. This clarity is what I longed for when I experienced an epiphany after losing my patient—the fleeting fragility of life, the reminder of my beloved Bryony losing her final battle and how I most definitely wasn’t living my fullest version. If Bryony had survived beyond twenty-three, if she hadn’t died waiting for a heart transplant, there’s no way she’d have lived such a safe and sanitised life.

  She’d have trampled me out of her path to go for a drink with a man like Ryan, if she’d had the chance.

  Well, I can trample. I owe it to her and myself to find that courage of conviction.

  The delicate scents of frangipani and honeysuckle hit me as I skirt the side of the bure, every nerve electrified by adrenaline. I’m momentarily blinded by the horizontal rays of the setting sun, and then I round the corner and jerk to a standstill.

  Suck in a gasp.

  Freeze.

  Ryan is naked under the outdoor shower, one hand braced on the tiles overhead, every toned muscular plane taut, his right arm bulging and flexing with a jerky rhythm that can mean only one thing.

  He’s masturbating.

  My breath catches, wave after wave of longing coursing through my veins, burning me alive.

  I should look away, tiptoe back the way I came on silent feet to avoid embarrassment, both his and mine. But it’s not shame causing my heart to bang at my ribs. It’s lust. Excitement.

  Every inch of me incandescent. Bold. Alive.

  I moisten my dry lips with the tip of my tongue, my stare raking his wet body—his thick thighs spread, his tight arse, every muscle delineated and bulging, an anatomist’s dream, as his hand works between his legs—his male beauty barbaric, primal, brutal.

  My unblinking eyes burn. This is wrong. I’m trespassing, invading a private moment, perving unseen in the shadows, but my feet may as well be glued to the walkway.

  My throat grows tight, my mouth flooding with saliva and my aroused nipples graze against the fabric of my bikini top. I press my thighs together to ease the fierce throb that has taken up residence in my ravenous clit.

  When was the last time I had sex...? The final months of my relationship with Greg were barren, our excuses of fatigue and stress and apathy mutual.

  Panic flutters in my veins as the seconds stretch. I worked myself into a frenzy with all those thoughts of one-night stands and by drooling over Ryan’s sexy dimples and washboard abs, and now he’s going to turn around and tell me to piss off...

  I must make some sort of noise, a whimper maybe, because Ryan’s head whips around and our eyes meet, his fierce with arousal, as if he expected my sudden presence, and mine dragged half closed by the most erotic sight I’ve ever seen, even as adrenaline spikes to every cell in my body.

  My face flames at being spotted invading his privacy, as I try to battle the arousal taking control of my body. But anyone could have walked around this corner. He wanted to be caught, or perhaps he just doesn’t care who sees him naked and aroused.

  What now?

  Don’t look down.

  What would passion-seeking Grace do?

  The old me would run like a startled rabbit, mumbling an apology. The old me would deny her feelings, shoving them down into a sterile version acceptable for others. But no more.

  I look down. I can’t help myself.

  He’s still tugging at his cock, which is long and thick and every bit as magnificent as I’d imagined. My stare lingers, mind blank, core pulsing with need—his big hand, those warm fingers that made me shiver pleasuring himself, albeit with less brutality now he has an audience.

  Was he thinking of me as he jerked off?

  ‘Oh, my God.’ I must actually say this aloud, because he chuckles, drawing my eyes back to his, which are sparking with mischief and challenge, brows arched.

  ‘Care to join me, Doc? Or are you happy just to watch?’ Gravel infects his deep voice, which curls around me, sensual fingers teasing, touching and taunting. And I want it. I want his touch on me as much as I want to watch him touching himself, the shock blinding me to reason and sense.

  But join him? In broad daylight where anyone could see, not under the covers with the lights out, missionary style...?

  ‘Perhaps you should shower inside, if you don’t want to be caught.’ My skin tingles, my nipples sensitive to the point of pain against my bikini top, a million feelings pounding me like the waves crashing against the reef beyond the lagoon. My body has disconnected from my overthinking mind, taking over, leaving me no choice but to stand here braced on the knife-edge of a delicious, dangerous decision.

  His mouth twists, his smile slipping from cocky to downright sinful. ‘Who says I mind being caught?’

  Blood thunders in my ears.

  Why not take him up on
the offer? Be honest. Don’t play it safe, always doing the right thing, the responsible, cautious, considered thing.

  My whole body sags with relief as I admit that I want him and there’s not a reason in the world I can’t have what I want. I inch closer, drawn by forces almost too strong to resist doing something so unlike me. Unlike the old me.

  But the new me? The me I came here hoping to nurture... I know what she’d do.

  His hand slows, barely stroking, although he’s as hard and proud as ever. ‘You’re free to leave if my show offends you,’ he says with his trademark self-assuredness. I can tell he’s expecting a repeat refusal from me by the challenging curl of his mouth.

  ‘I’m not offended.’ Turned on to the point of delirium. Sick on my wild, unexpected thoughts. So tempted to take him up on his offer, but not offended.

  But I’ve just met him. He’s clearly a man of the world and I’ve slept with one person in my entire life. He’ll see through me, see that I’m unadventurous, a charlatan. A woman who belongs in a nice neat couple, not a ‘wildly passionate one-night stand’ kind of woman. A ‘watching someone jerk off’ kind of woman.

  My thoughts turn jagged, risky, caution crumbling, letting go of all the self-imposed constraints holding me captive. I followed him not for a drink, but for what might come after.

  I want the kind of passion I see in his stare—raw, hungry, undeniable.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Then you won’t be offended to know that you’re the inspiration for this.’ He looks down to where his hand now caresses his erection with slow, twisting tugs that make my internal muscles clench and my entire body go up in flames. Why is that the hottest thing I’ve ever heard? That I’ve inspired his flagrantly male display. That he couldn’t wait to indulge in a Grace-themed fantasy. That he’s not afraid to tell me, a complete stranger, that I turn him on, when I struggled to admit to my long-term partner what I wanted.