Tempt Me: A First Class Romance Collection

by Hawkins, Jessica

  “I know. That’s why I said it.”

  Henn laughs. “I’ll see you soon, Captain. Aloha.”

  I hang up the phone, lie back onto my bed, and stare blankly at the ceiling, wracking my brain for something, anything, I might be missing—some search I could possibly ask Henn to run as a last-ditch effort to find Samantha. When my mind draws a complete blank, I sigh, turn to my laptop, and press the “replay video” button on that fucking Enrique Iglesias song, swearing to myself this will be the very last time.

  18

  Tessa

  I kick the bottom of my (super cute) wedge sandal against the door of Josh and Kat’s bungalow, my arms otherwise engaged with a large cardboard box. I look at my watch. Two o’clock on the button. Damn, I’m good.

  A warm, plumeria-scented breeze wafts over me, rustling my sundress. I close my eyes and take a long sniff of the fragrant air, allowing myself the small luxury of reveling in paradise for a blissful half-second.

  I open my eyes.

  Break over.

  Ain’t nobody got time for that.

  Exactly two months ago, I received a text from Josh, informing me that Kat had said yes to his marriage proposal (no surprise there) and instructing me to “pull together” a “weeklong-destination-wedding-shindig” in Hawaii (the particular Hawaiian island and resort to be determined by me, based on logistical concerns) for two hundred of Josh’s and Kat’s closest friends and family.

  Of course, nothing in Josh’s text would have elevated my heart rate in the slightest were it not for the kicker at the end: Josh wanted all this wonderfulness to occur in exactly two months.

  And, now, here I stand, two months after receiving that crazy-ass text from Josh, and, it seems, I’ve managed to pull off the impossible, exactly as requested. But that doesn’t mean I’ve retained a shred of my sanity during the process.

  Oh my gosh, when this week’s over and Mr. and Mrs. Joshua William Faraday have ridden off into the sunset, this lifelong good girl is gonna finally go rogue. Yep, the minute my work obligations are done, I’ve decided I’m gonna do something I’ve never done before: namely, I’m gonna scour the resort grounds for that yummy tattooed bartender I flirted with for an hour late last night after arriving here—a hottie who made it abundantly clear he’d be more than willing to screw me during my stay. And I’m gonna have myself some no-strings vacation-sex with a complete stranger. Oh my gawd, I can hardly wait. It’ll be my first sexual contact with an actual human in about a year, and, man, oh, man, I’m beyond aching for it.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Sex with a hot stranger is what’s on tap a week from now. Right now, I’ve still got a thousand and one things to do to ensure this week goes off without a hitch. And do them, I shall.

  I grab my phone and tap out a quick text: “Aloha, boss. I’m standing at the door to your bungalow. Remember our 2:00 meeting, Mr. Faraday? I’ve got a bunch of stuff to tell you and Kat before the Morgan group arrives in an hour.”

  Thirty seconds later, I receive a reply from my darling and ever distractible boss: “Sorry, Miss Rodriguez. The almost-Mrs. and I got sidetracked.” Winking emoji. “We’re hopping into the shower now. Come on in and grab some rum punch from the bar and we’ll be out in a Hawaiian minute. JWF.”

  19

  Ryan

  “The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run.”

  “You wanna watch a movie?” Colby asks. He holds up his iPad. “I’ve got The Drop loaded up. Tom Hardy.”

  “Oh, yeah, Dax said that was really good,” I say. “Lemme just hit the bathroom first.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and move up the aisle, high-fiving and fist-bumping every passenger along my route. My glad-handing isn’t nearly as creepy as it sounds, by the way, since I’m flying on a private jet filled exclusively with my immediate and extended family and their plus-ones. But when I get to the bathroom, it’s occupied, so I stand and chat with my cousin Julie and her brand-new husband and stepdaughter, Coco.

  “How old are you again, Coco?” I ask.

  “Eight.”

  “That’s right. I liked being eight—I slayed life when I was eight.” I notice the book on Coco’s lap: Charlotte’s Web. “You like that book?”

  “It’s my favorite. I’ve already read it three times.”

  “What’s your favorite part?”

  “When Charlotte writes stuff like ‘humble’ and ‘terrific’ in her web to save Wilbur’s life.”

  “Yeah, that’s cool. I liked that part, too.” I look at the bathroom door. It’s still occupied. “So, hey, Coco, can I ask you a huge favor? Will you be my partner for chicken in the pool this week? My brother Keane said he and his best friend, Zander, are gonna ‘beat my butt’ in chicken, no matter what partner I choose, so I wanna get a really good one to make sure I beat the crud out of them.” I lean forward. “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to talk to Keane much yet, but let’s just say if he were Wilbur, Charlotte wouldn’t be writing ‘humble’ in her web about him.”

  Coco shoots me a gap-toothed smile. “I know. When Keane was standing here waiting for the bathroom a minute ago, he said he was gonna ‘beat my butt’ in hula dancing.” She rolls her eyes.

  “And what’d you say to that?”

  “I said, ‘There’s no such thing as beating someone’s butt in hula dancing, Keane,’ and he goes, ‘Yeah, keep telling yourself that, small fry—that’s what losers in hula dancing always say.’”

  I laugh my ass off. “Dang, Keane’s full of himself. All the more reason for us to team up and beat his butt, right?”

  She nods.

  “Okay, then, it’s settled: you and me, Coco Puff, we’re gonna take that clown and his best friend down like they’re the Cleveland Browns wearing sparkly crowns in Chinatown.”

  Coco giggles and we shake on it.

  Just then, the bathroom door swings open in front of us, and, speak of the arrogant devil himself, Keane-the-Peen-Morgan appears in all his dimpled glory, his muscles bulging under his tight T-shirt, his eyes sparkling. “Yo, Captain,” he says, patting my cheek. “Hey, Coconut.” He fist-bumps her. “You getting yourself mentally prepared for when I’m gonna beat your tiny booty in hula-dancing?”

  Coco giggles uproariously. “There’s no such thing, Keane. Hula dancing’s just for fun.”

  “If that’s what you think, then you’d better fasten your hula skirt, baby doll, because you’re about to get whooped.”

  “Hey now, I wouldn’t rile the ‘baby doll’ up,” I say. “Coco Puff’s just agreed to be my partner in chicken and we’re gonna take you and Zander down.”

  Keane clutches his heart. “Say it ain’t so, Coco Chanel Number Five. I wanted you to be my partner in chicken. I was just smack-talking you as reverse psychology so you’d join my team.”

  “Nope,” Coco says, jutting her chin. “Ryan and I are gonna take you and Zander down like, um, Charlie Brown riding a merry-go-round at the dog pound.”

  Keane throws his head back and belly laughs at that. “Look at that! She’s already smack-talking like a true Morgan. Awesome!”

  My cousin Julie turns to her new husband, Travis. “Sorry, babe, I warned you.”

  “Bah, don’t worry, Jules,” Keane says, waving dismissively. “We’ll only teach the little brahita here G-rated stuff, I swear.” He swats at Coco’s tiny thigh. “Scooch over, Hot Coco. I’m gonna teach you everything you need to know to be able to rumble in the Morgan jungle like a pro.”

  Coco giddily unbuckles her seatbelt and moves onto her dad’s lap, allowing Keane to assume her seat and commence his utterly ridiculous tutelage of her.

  I watch my brother-the-professor and his enraptured student for several minutes, thoroughly entertained, but when the conversation moves from the highly entertaining topic of “The Art of Nicknaming” to the book on Coco’s lap, my bladder reminds me why I got up from my seat in the first place and I hightail it toward the restroom.

  “What
’s your favorite part?” I hear Keane ask Coco behind my back.

  “When Charlotte writes stuff about Wilbur in her web.”

  “What’s your favorite thing Charlotte writes?”

  “‘Some pig.’”

  Keane laughs. “Funny, that’s exactly what my last girlfriend wrote about me in her web!”

  I slip inside the bathroom, chuckling to myself—fucking Peen—and then I lock the door behind me, unzip my fly, and... promptly freeze with my dick in my hand.

  Oh my fucking God.

  With lightning speed, I finish my business, barrel out of the bathroom, and flag down a flight attendant. “Excuse me,” I say, my heart racing. “Is there Wi-Fi on this flight?”

  “Of course, sir.” She tells me how to access it and I careen back to my seat, a bat out of hell.

  “Everything okay?” Colby asks as I settle into my seat next to him.

  “Everything’s fantastic,” I reply, grabbing my laptop. “I just gotta send out a quick email and then all my dreams will magically come true.”

  “Wow, if only everything in life were that easy.”

  My chest tight, I bang out an email to Henn: “Henn Star! Samantha had a friend at the bar! A redhead named Charlotte. She was wearing the exact same uniform as Samantha, right down to the Delta logo on her scarf. She’s gotta be 27 or so because Samantha said they’ve been friends since second grade. OMFG! I don’t know if you’re already on your flight, but if you happen to get this message before you head out to the airport and can somehow get me Charlotte’s phone number ASAP, I’ll name my firstborn after you, boy or girl, I swear. Thank you!” I press send on the email and look at Colby, my skin on fire. “Captain Ahab’s back, motherfucker.”

  “What’s going on? You look like a madman.”

  “The specifics don’t matter, Bee. All that matters is that I’m on the hunt for my Argentinian whale again and I just figured out how to harpoon her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “The sexiest woman alive.”

  “Aw, come on. You gotta give me more than that. What’s going on?”

  I tell Colby everything, no detail left out, no matter how embarrassing, and when I’m done talking, Colby says, “Holy shit, Ry, you’ve gone completely insane.”

  “I know. But maybe not quite as insane as it appears. I’ve also been working my ass off these past few months on the biggest deal of my life, so that’s kept me busy.” I quickly tell Colby a bit about the deal (the sale of a large industrial complex), and about how my big, fat commission has brought me that much closer to my lifelong dream of opening my own bar, and Colby congratulates me. “Plus,” I continue, “I’m sure these past three months of being a monk have at least in part been about licking my wounds from Olivia. I gotta be honest, I’m pretty skittish these days, brother. God help me if I get myself mixed up with another sociopath.”

  Colby shakes his head. “See what happens when you don’t listen to me?”

  “I’ll never disregard your advice again, Master Yoda.”

  Colby looks thoughtful for a moment. “Seriously, though, this quest you’ve been on seems pretty fucking crazy. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. But it can’t be helped. ‘The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run.’”

  Colby looks at me funny.

  “Moby Dick,” I say, answering his unspoken question.

  “Why the fuck are you quoting Moby Dick?”

  “I’ve been reading it again lately.”

  “Oh, that’s not a sign of insanity or anything.”

  I shrug.

  “Dude. Listen to me, okay?” Colby says. “Whenever you find this girl, as you surely will because you’re the most relentless motherfucker of all of us, I strongly recommend you don’t tell her right off the bat about this crazy-as-shit ‘Captain Ahab’ quest you’ve been on for her. I mean, anyone who knows you would know this crazy search is a once in a lifetime thing, but she doesn’t know you. More than likely, if she finds out you hacked a bunch of airlines to find her, she’s gonna think you’re a total nut job. So, please, just take my advice this time, and, when you finally find your whale, just play your cards close to your vest at first, at least ’til she gets to know you a bit.”

  “How can I do that? When I finally contact her, out of the blue after three months, she’s gonna ask me how the hell I tracked her down. And what can I say to that? At that point, I won’t have any choice but to tell her the whole truth.”

  Colby considers that. “Yeah, shit. You’re right. Bummer. I guess there’s no way around it. Oh well. Hopefully, she won’t run away screaming when you tell her you’re a fucking loon.”

  “I can’t worry about that now. First things first, I gotta find the whale—second things second, I’ll do whatever’s necessary to harpoon her.” I swat Colby’s thigh. “Now start the movie, Old Wise One. Distract ‘Captain Ahab’ from his fucking ‘iron rails.’”

  20

  Tessa

  Whew. I’ve just finished walking Josh and Kat through my detailed itinerary for the coming week—a jaw-dropping smorgasbord of water sports, tours, luaus, booze cruises, and more, all of it cooked up by my amazing activities director and me—and, thank God, both Josh and Kat have expressed unadulterated elation about all of it.

  “Fantastic,” I say, exhaling with relief. “Now let’s move on to the menus I’ve preliminarily approved with the head chef.”

  “I’m sure the food’s gonna be great,” Josh says breezily. “‘In T-Rod we trust.’ What I really wanna know is what’s inside that box?” He motions to the large cardboard box I left sitting by the front door when I came in.

  Kat squeals. “Oh my God, is that the jerseys, Tessa?”

  I put down my iPad. I should have known these two happy-campers would rubber-stamp all my decisions, from top to bottom, seeing as how that’s what they’ve done every step of the way over the past two months. “Yup,” I reply. “The box arrived in the nick of time. There was a last-minute glitch, but don’t worry—I handled it.”

  At Kat’s direction, Josh retrieves the box and opens it, revealing two hundred brightly colored sports jerseys, each of them two-color-reversible with SPF protection and emblazoned with “Team Josh and Kat” across their fronts.

  “I figured they’d be a cute party favor for guests,” Kat says proudly. “And they’re functional, too. We can switch up team colors during volleyball and cornhole and stuff.” Josh begins to express his enthusiastic approval, but Kat cuts him off. “But, wait, there’s more!” she exclaims. “Nicknames!” Kat turns the two jerseys in her hands over to reveal they’re stamped across their backs with Josh and Kat’s respective pet names for each other: “Playboy” and “Party Girl.”

  “I love it!” Josh says. He leaps up, peels off his white linen shirt and pulls his brand-new jersey over his head. It’s a maneuver that reveals Josh’s mouth-watering torso and tattoos for a brief moment and, admittedly, makes my clit jolt as surely as if he’d just pressed a vibrator between my legs.

  Hey, maybe I’ll track down that hot bartender later tonight, right after the opening party, instead of waiting until the end of the week.

  “It’s perfect!” Kat exclaims, beaming at Josh in his bright blue jersey. She leaps up from the couch, her baby bump leading the way, and throws her arms around her fiancé’s neck. Of course, Josh proceeds to kiss the hell out of Kat and for the next minute or so, the two of them get completely lost in each other.

  Ho hum. My boss and his fiancée are practically dry-humping each other in front of me. La, la.

  After watching Josh and Kat kiss for a long beat (it’s kind of hot, actually), I finally force myself to look away, my face on fire and my clit pounding like a jackhammer. Damn. That’s some sexy kissing going on over there. (And, man, do I wanna do that very thing with a hot guy—any freaking hot guy at this point.)

  Finally, when I hear Josh say, “Show me all the jerseys, babe,” I look a
t them again. They’re seated together on the couch, side by side, their limbs intertwined.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, Kat, let’s see the jerseys,” I say brightly, even though I don’t have any desire to see them. I mean, I’m sure the nicknames are cute and all, but I’ve got a mountain of stuff to check up on before the Morgans arrive in thirty minutes, and, as a practical matter, I won’t recognize any of the nicknames. I’ve never met ninety percent of the people invited here by Josh and Kat, after all, and I’ve never scrutinized their guest list, either, since all travel for this week was arranged by the travel agent and wedding stuff by the wedding coordinator. But, of course, since my disinterest in the names is immaterial (and understandably so), the Parade of Nicknames dutifully begins.

  “Suzy B, Issy, Coco Puff, Soph-a-Loph, Perv, Hockey-Makeup, Dripper, Cha-Cha, Lala!” Kat exclaims as she pulls each jersey out of the box and tosses it onto a nearby chair. “Brooklyn Bridge, Silverback, Selina-Bellina, Rocky, Trishy-Wishy, KC, Ketchup, Jacky-V!”

  Gah. I was right—I don’t recognize any of these nicknames. I covertly check the time on my phone and quietly have a heart attack. The Morgans should be here in about twenty minutes. But Kat’s still going strong with the jerseys.

  “Baby Cuz, Cheese, Rock Star, Peen, Captain...”

  Okay, I can’t resist asking about that second-to-last one. “Peen?” I blurt. “Who’s that?”

  Kat giggles. “My brother, Keane.”

  “Is Keane gonna be pissed you’re making him wear ‘Peen’ on his back all week?”

  “Not at all—everyone calls him ‘Peen.’ As a matter of fact, when Keane used to play baseball—he was a star pitcher in the Cubs’ minor league system—his fans would hold up signs whenever he struck out a batter that said ‘We love Peen!’”

  “Really?” Josh says. “I didn’t know Peen had actual fans.”