Soaked (The Water's Edge #2)

by Stacy Kestwick

Hell, no. I was busy. Days upon days of makeup sex followed, where my flexibility and loud enthusiasm became legendary at the marina we docked at. A winning lottery ticket extended the spur-of-the-moment trip indefinitely, and we eloped a month later under a tropical, starlit sky, complete with a towering Krispy Kreme doughnut wedding cake, after which we had more days upon days of history-making honeymoon sex. I gave Gumby a run for his money, had enviable thigh gap, and became multi-orgasmic.

  I sighed.

  Three miles later—yes, on my own, stupid conscience—I captured the requisite proof on my phone and collapsed on the mats, breathing hard.

  Nick’s concerned face appeared above me, sweat dripping off his chin and on to me. I blinked in surprise, and, wrinkling my nose, scooted farther back. “You’re getting me all wet!” Okay, yes, I was already damp from my own workout, but him dripping on me like that was just plain gross.

  “Finally. You admit it.” He ran his gaze over my panting body, lingering on my heaving chest. “Looks like I’ve stolen your breath too.”

  I rolled my eyes, but accepted his outstretched hand and let him pull me to my feet.

  Holding on to a nearby weight machine for balance, I tucked my foot up to my butt and stretched my quads. “You’re still here.” Two points for stating the obvious.

  He smirked. “I’ve been enjoying the scenery.”

  I ignored him and switched legs. If watching me jiggle was the best view he could find in this resort, he needed an eye exam. And a new line.

  Opening up Theo’s email again, I scanned the list of exercises he’d sent me. This gym didn’t have a wall of mirrors like I was used to, but I didn’t need them to check my form. Instead, floor-to-ceiling windows faced the ocean, giving the whole workout area more of a Zen-like vibe.

  I hefted a light set of weights and commenced punishing my triceps for my indiscretions at the dessert table yesterday. Arm day sucked.

  Thirty minutes later, stretching my exhausted muscles one last time, I glanced around. Two other people were powering through their workouts, matching looks of sheer joy on their faces. Ugh. They were those kind of workout people. And Nick was still there, his expensive camera pointed right at me.

  I yanked my earbuds out and reflexively put my hand over my face, blocking his shot. “What are you doing?”

  He lowered the camera, switched it to display mode, and handed it over to me. “I would’ve thought it was obvious.” His grin was positively roguish.

  Scowling, I flipped through a couple dozen shots of me. He’d captured tight close-ups, much like I’d taken of Grady the day before. The sleek flex of my arm. The strong line of my spine as I bent over for triceps rows. The curve of my throat as I’d tipped my face up to catch my breath.

  And I looked . . . hot. More than hot, I looked strong, toned . . . sexy.

  I was stunned. This was not what I saw when I looked in the mirror.

  “I’m good, aren’t I?” He loomed over my shoulder, looking at the images with me. His ego ruined it.

  Turning, I shoved the camera at him, catching him in the stomach. “I didn’t give you permission to take those.”

  “I didn’t ask.” He raised his eyebrows and looked amused.

  I rubbed my arm across my forehead, sweat dripping down my body. I felt gross and sticky. I knew I smelled. It was like his pictures had captured an alternative reality, where I glistened and followed a Paleo diet and got an appropriate amount of sleep every night. It was pretty, but it wasn’t real.

  “Not cool, Nick. Do we need to set some basic ground rules here?”

  He looked at his camera, then me, through eyes that downright shone with mischief. “I’ll tell you what. Next time I take sexy photos of you, it’ll be because you asked me to. Is that good enough?”

  I laughed. “And what makes you think I’d ever do that?” I drained the rest of my water bottle and wiped my neck with a towel.

  He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Because I think you like the way I see you. And you like the way it makes you feel knowing I see you like that. Hot, damp—”

  I smacked him with my hot, damp towel and narrowed my eyes.

  He chuckled. “Meet me for breakfast in thirty minutes. Today’s lesson involves food.”

  BREAKFAST WAS SERVED buffet style, and after Theo’s workout, I piled my plate high—although I avoided the pancakes because they made me think of West and the time he’d made them for me.

  I settled into the chair next to Nick, who was already digging into a veggie omelet, and a waitress set a glass of orange juice and coffee down in front of me. I turned to refuse the juice but she was already walking away. When I faced the table again, Nick was looking at me oddly.

  “What?” I asked.

  He pointed to my beverages with his fork.

  A small, folded paper plane was tucked between my orange juice and coffee mug.

  He started to reach for it, but I snatched it up, glancing at it long enough to confirm that West’s handwriting was scrawled across the paper, and shoved it into the pocket of my khaki shorts.

  “Did the waitress bring this?” I glanced at him, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.

  He shrugged around a mouthful of eggs. “I guess? It wasn’t here when I sat down.”

  How did they know how to find me? How did he arrange this? I bit my lip and looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  “He’s good.” Nick’s words drew my attention back to him.

  “Who’s good?”

  “Him. Paper airplane guy. That’s a slick move there.”

  “How do you know it’s from a guy?”

  He leveled an exasperated look at me. “Who am I supposed to think it’s from? Your fairy godmother?” He snickered.

  I ran my hand over my pocket, feeling the paper crinkle.

  “Is it from the idiot? The one we talked about on the plane? The one who was stupid enough to let you go?”

  I nodded once then shoved a bite of French toast in my mouth, not even tasting it.

  Nick raised his eyebrows. “Maybe he’s not as big an idiot as you thought.”

  “Can we not talk about him? I’d like to at least attempt to enjoy my breakfast.”

  “Ooooh, touchy.”

  “Didn’t you want to talk about food?”

  “Yes. I did.” He regarded me silently for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to press the issue of the plane. Whatever he saw in my face must have convinced him to drop it. “The assignment today revolves around the sensuality of food and eating and capturing the moment, but not making it look like a cow chewing on cud. There’s a fine line.”

  “Assignment?” I put my fork down, smoothed my napkin across my lap while I took a deep breath. “Am I some sort of charity case here? What’s up with the lessons and assignments? I thought we’d both already been hired to do a job?” My voice rose toward the end along with my temper.

  Nick took a long swallow of his coffee. “We have. And you’re right, normally I wouldn’t work with a colleague this way. But I see hidden potential in you—raw talent that needs some refinement. What you do is good, very good in fact. You have a great eye, but your emotional range is a little stunted. Everything you do is bright, cheery, soft. There’s so much more to explore. Shadowed, dark, moody, seduc—”

  “What’s that got to do with food?”

  “Seriously? If you don’t see the connection between food and intimacy, we have more work to do than I thought.”

  My eyes narrowed in warning.

  “Look at the buffet behind me. Take the bread for instance. Notice how the baguettes are displayed upright, with the smaller, round rolls in front. Cocks and balls.”

  I choked on the coffee I was sipping.

  “Check out the fruit. If you don’t see the ripe curves of breasts within that arrangement, you’re blind.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at my mouth.

  “And the thick sausage links—they’re bratwurst size. That�
��s some thick meat. You think that’s a coincidence? Not one bit. The whipped cream they’re so eager to top everything with? Should I continue?”

  “Does everything go back to sex for you?”

  He paused. “No. It’s not a me thing. It’s human nature. We’re wired to respond to sex on a primal level. It’s natural to crave it, be drawn to it, respond to it. What’s smart is using that to your advantage, employing it either subtly or overtly to hold someone’s attention, even if they don’t realize that’s why something is aesthetically pleasing. It’s the most basic, and effective, of marketing strategies.”

  “So you’re telling me my lessons with you will somehow or another all pretty much revolve around sex?”

  He grinned. “Absolutely.”

  THE REST OF THE week settled into a rhythm. A paper plane found its way to me every morning, whether I ate in the restaurant or ordered room service. I had seven now, a veritable fleet parked in my dresser drawer. I worked out every other day per Theo’s instructions, although I never saw Nick in the gym again. I guess he was getting his workouts in some other time. After breakfast, I usually met with Nick for an hour or so, and I had to give him props, he took the mentoring role seriously. Sure, he flirted outrageously when we shared a meal, but when we had our cameras in hand, he meant business and I had picked up some invaluable tips.

  I ran two different family-centered campaigns by Grady and he seemed pleased, greenlighting both ideas. And we were finally, finally improving in our dance lessons at night.

  Rue had shot back an email three days later about the pictures I’d sent her. While she said she was impressed with the quality of the shots, she had to question my choice of models. Couldn’t I find anyone better? When I pointedly told her not that fit her tastes so perfectly, she hadn’t responded again. Mmhmm. That’s what I thought.

  I’d been working with an adorable family with three daughters throughout the week for one of my campaigns. The girls were all blond ringlets and big, cornflower blue eyes and matching dimples. When the youngest one went down for a nap Monday afternoon, I put away my camera for the day.

  I was past due for some down time.

  After making my way down to the water activity cabana, I stared at the available choices listed on the sign. Jill, the relentlessly cheerful activity coordinator who’d been trying to get me out on the water all week, sidled up next to me.

  “You finally ready to take some paddleboards out?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”

  “Yay!” She clapped her hands in excitement and I half-expected her to do spirit fingers. “The water’s perfect today, super calm, small waves. Let’s grab some equipment and get out there before you change your mind.” She became a whirlwind, collecting what we needed and shoving it at me before practically pushing me into the surf.

  I’d admitted my fear of the water to her the day we met, and she’d promised to go out with me when I worked up the courage. I guess she didn’t want to give me a chance to back out.

  The ninety-minute lesson blew by. Being able to see through the clear turquoise water went a long way toward allaying my fear of being attacked by hordes of angry sea creatures. And once we paddled out, I wasn’t actually in the water—I was on the water, giving me further confidence that I wasn’t in imminent danger. While I wasn’t quite as comfortable as Jill, who tried to entice me into joining her in some yoga moves on the boards, I had a fabulous time and promised to meet her again tomorrow afternoon.

  By the time we finished, a late afternoon storm was blowing in, the kind that would roll through and be gone after an hour or two, so I headed back up to my room to clean up and change clothes before dinner, wondering if I had time to sneak a nap in before I met Nick and Grady at seven. After stepping off the elevator, I was halfway down the hall to my room when a door in front of me flew open. An older woman with dark, messy hair stepped out, looking flushed. She glanced at me vacantly, a satisfied smile stretched wide across her mouth. Her top had slipped off one shoulder, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  Pausing, I turned to watch her saunter to the elevator. She was humming as she pushed the button.

  Someone had a good afternoon.

  When the elevator had whisked her away, I spun back toward my room. I took two more steps and the same door opened. Nick stepped out.

  I came to a stuttering stop, looking between him and the elevator behind me. Facing him again, my eyes widened and my eyebrows rose to my hairline. “So that’s where you’ve been getting your workouts?”

  HIS FACE WAS blank. “She’s a client.”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “So you’re an escort too?”

  “What? No! Not that kind of client.”

  “That woman—” I jerked my thumb toward the elevator. “—had just orgasmed. She was still fucking glowing, Nick. You’re not claiming responsibility for that?”

  He smirked and adjusted the front of his pants, not even trying to hide it. “She took care of herself. I watched but didn’t touch.”

  I’m not sure why that shocked me, but it sounded so . . . dirty. More so than if he just admitted to fucking her. Maybe it was because she had decades on him? Could a guy like him—young, attractive, successful—really be aroused by her? She was old enough to be his mother.

  Maybe he had Oedipus complex. Of maybe he just liked cougars.

  “I have no words.” I stared at him, my mind churning to understand.

  He held up the camera in his hand. “It was a photoshoot. Boudoir. Dark, sexy, hot—”

  “Is this for your campaign? Are you appealing to the horny retirement crowd? I hear that segment of the population has one of the highest rates of STD’s these days.”

  He laughed, loud and long. “No. This is just a side project. Word gets around that I do these sessions, and as long as I’m discreet, Grady turns a blind eye. It seems well-satisfied vacationers are a little looser with their wallets.”

  I glanced down. A slight bulge still pressed against his zipper. “Just took pictures, huh?”

  “That?” He grinned, unashamed. “There is nothing sexier than a woman confident in her body. At any age. A woman willing to let go and give in to the moment, and just fucking own it and go for it—that’s hot as hell.” His bold gaze ran down the length of me, pausing where my wet bikini top had soaked through my T-shirt, plastering the cotton to my chest. He pointed. “Kind of like that look you’re rocking right now.”

  I ignored his lecherous perusal. “I’ve done boudoir photoshoots.” I thought of Aubrey and the photos of her I found in West’s nightstand. “None of them have ever ended in a client looking like that.”

  “Maybe you weren’t doing it right then.”

  I huffed out a breath. No, things definitely hadn’t gone right with her. “Lemme see, hotshot. Impress me.” I reached for the camera in his hand, but he snatched it away, holding it out of reach.

  “What happened to customer confidentiality?”

  “What happened to professional courtesy?” I countered without missing a beat.

  He tucked the camera behind his back. “I’ll tell you what. You want to see what my photos in this setting look like, I’ll shoot you. No charge. You can even keep all the images.”

  I chuckled. “You wish.”

  “I do.” His eyes darkened as he met my gaze, then dipped down to where my nipples had beaded against my wet shirt in the air conditioning.

  “I’ll let you know if I change my mind on that one, but don’t hold your breath.” I patted his arm and moved around him to head down the hall. “Don’t you have something to take care of before dinner?” I waved my hand in the direction of his crotch.

  “Worried about my junk now, Sadie? I think I’m making progress. Try not to think about me during your shower.” His voice grew louder as I moved farther away. I blushed as I slipped into my own room, my pulse a notch or two higher than normal, as I unwillingly thought about what it would be like to
do a shoot like that. Be totally uninhibited, wild, bold . . .

  I could never do that.

  I’d be too embarrassed, too awkward, too stiff. My body wasn’t terrible—hell, it was better than his client’s—but I didn’t have the confidence.

  Fuck.

  Was that it?

  Confidence. Was that the difference between me and Aubrey? Was that what it boiled down to on a fundamental level?

  I slid down the door until my knees touched my chin, the tile cold under me.

  Did I lose to her—or did I lose because I let her take what was mine? Because I didn’t think I could compete with her, did I leave room for her to slip in and sink her gel-manicured claws into him?

  I was not okay with that.

  Not at all.

  I PONDERED THOSE questions over the next few days. Examined all my past encounters with both West and Aubrey in painful, excruciating detail. Then went over them again.

  She’d intimidated me more times than I cared to admit. And I’d let her. I’d fucking let her. But, even worse, so had West.

  He’d stepped away from me after that breathless first kiss in the pool house—when she came into the room.

  He’d let her touch him for that stupid ass picture under the palm tree at his grandmother’s house, that bold hand on his chest staking a claim without words.

  He’d let her climb in his truck at the drive-in, as if she had a right to be there by his side.

  He’d fucking let her stay at his house for the night after the BBQ instead of calling a cab and kicking her ass out.

  And those damn pictures of her were in his fucking nightstand.

  But when I showered, I remembered how he took care of me when I was sunburned.

  I thought of him when I saw the pancakes at the buffet in the mornings.

  When I shivered at night, I remembered him slipping through my window to spoon until the break of dawn, his warmth surrounding me.

  The old beat up maintenance truck on the resort rumbled and rattled like his.

  The kids’ area at the resort boasted an air hockey table, like the one at the Wreck. Same colors even.