Two for Dinner

by Rachel A. Smith

  Irene smiles and answers, “It’s “Party in the U.S.A.” You?”

  “So, you’re not in your thirties.” I lean back and rest one arm behind my chair as I confess, “10,000 Hours.”

  Her smile is worth the humiliation of knowing the pop song. I wrack my brain for another one of Rebecca’s stupid questions. “What superpower would you have if you could choose?”

  “A girl asked you that . . . recently?”

  “Yep.”

  Irene rolls her eyes. “Well, since we’re not in middle school anymore, I’d choose . . .” Her smile fades before a slight frown appears. “Hmm . . . it’s a toss-up between being able to time travel and being able to shape-shift like a chameleon. What did you say?”

  Time travel and fading into the background are way more in-depth answers than mine. “To fly, of course. Deep down, every guy wants to be Superman.”

  Irene’s shoulders bob up and down. She’s laughing at me, and all I can do is gawk at the top of her sun-kissed breasts. Irene is a siren sent to my island to torture me. I clear my throat and shift a little in my seat. “Okay, last one. Will you call me after this date?”

  Her eyebrow shoots up. “Wow. She was brave to ask. I’d be too afraid of the answer to ask, even if the date was going well. What did you say?”

  I lift one shoulder and then let it drop. “What any gentleman would say—yes.”

  “And did you?”

  I inwardly groan at my own stupid actions and confess, “I did.”

  Irene leans back and crosses her arms. “So Mr. Merman, what’s your girlfriend’s name? She sounds interesting.”

  I shake my head. “No girlfriend.”

  “Well, I guess if you had one, she’d be here with you. What happened to Miss Brave?”

  How insightful of Irene. She’d pegged Rebecca perfectly. My ex had the guts to do what most men wouldn’t even dream of trying—steal from me. I hold in a sigh and say, “Not Miss Brave. Miss Hypergamy.”

  “Miss what?”

  “You know, hypergamy. Looking to marry up.” I have my grandma and her historical romances to thank for my nineteenth-century vocabulary. At Irene’s blank features, I add, “Gold digger.”

  “Ah, gotcha. But you have to give her credit for some interesting questions.”

  Huh. So she likes to focus on the positives and forgives others easily. I do neither.

  Irene flips her hair behind her shoulders and then squares them as if preparing for battle. “I was actually referring to first-date questions more like—are there any sexual positions off-limits?”

  My jaw drops. I regain my senses and ask, “You’re joking, right?”

  “Nope. Dead serious. He even asked before dinner was served.”

  She’s stone still, as if reliving the moment in her head.

  I can’t help but ask, “Did you answer?”

  “Aha.”

  She lets me squirm in my chair. I’m an ass for wanting to know the answer, but I wait.

  Irene scoffs. “I told him they were all off-limits since I don’t sleep with guys on the first date. Then he excused himself to go to the restroom and never came back.”

  Appalled the bastard left her, I ask, “What did you do?”

  “I enjoyed my dinner and then had his boxed up and took it home with me.” She twirls her glass and adds, “It’s not the first time I’ve had to eat by myself in a fancy restaurant. My dad was notorious for having to leave unexpectedly. You learn to ignore the rude looks. It’s no big deal.”

  But I can tell she is lying. It was a big deal.

  Chapter 5

  Irene

  Shit. I suck at small talk. Not that Mr. Merman would date someone like me. I’m foolish to even consider it. Why did I open up to this total stranger? Not even Clayton or my therapist of four years knew of my aversion to being seen alone in public places. It was the reason I refused to attend charity events with my now ex-fiancé. The social gatherings where I might have met Mr. Merman were the same ones where Clayton would have left me to fend for myself like my dad had. And even though I claim it’s a non-issue, his intense stare tells me he isn’t buying it. It’s as if he can read every dark secret I’ve spent a decade burying deep inside.

  Needing to break the spell he is casting, I focus on the terrace doors, willing Chef Eric to appear. “Do you expect we’ll get dessert?” And like every time before, no one materializes. Wishes of a fairy godmother’s help or whimsical appearances are for children to believe in, not grown-ups. People don’t magically appear just because you wish or pray for them to.

  I turn my attention back to Mr. Merman, who simply nods. The rush of excitement flowing through me has nothing to do with the fact his heated eyes are still trained solely on me. No, it is the hope of having dessert. I’m a big, fat liar. My flushed cheeks are one-hundred percent because of the way he looks as if he’d like to have me for dessert.

  I cross and uncross my arms. This man isn’t really a mythical creature, able to read minds or send telepathic messages. No, he’s a business mogul used to reading people and negotiating deals. But my panties are soaked through. I squeeze my thighs together at the vivid image of him eating me for dessert. The last thing I need is to get involved with a man who probably runs in the same circles as my parents. I need to date a teacher. Maybe a middle-school teacher, someone who would appreciate my books and their messages. The stories I needed to read as a tween but couldn’t find. And trust me, I tried. I read every book in our local library, looking for that one character I could relate to. I gave up at the end of my senior year of high school. That’s when I decided I’d create the characters missing from the hundreds of books I’d read.

  I jump in my seat as Michael appears to my right. “Miss Gilliard, would you prefer a slice of Eric’s famous cheesecake or a piece of carrot cake?”

  Checking him out as he removes our dishes, I’d say he’s about the same age as me. Definitely younger than his employer. “Please call me Irene, and I’ll have a slice of . . .” A bolt of guilt halts my decision. After taking Mr. Merman’s meal, I’d rather not deprive him of his dessert. “Which do you prefer?”

  “I’m sure there is plenty of both.”

  His husky chuckle makes me consider forgetting my aversion to public displays of affection and launching myself over the table to kiss him right in front of Michael. No. Kissing. Strangers. Gaining courage from thin air, I try my hand at flirting. “So . . . you will share your dessert with me?”

  He turns to Michael, whose arms are full with our empty dirty dishes. “Cheesecake for me.”

  Hmm, we have the same taste in food. New York cheesecake is my favorite dessert, and I’d hate to make extra work for Michael. I prefer not to be a bother to others. “I’ll have the same, please.”

  Michael smiles at me before heading off to the kitchen. He must be thankful I didn’t request the carrot cake.

  I’m still staring after him when Mr. Merman abruptly asks, “What other insane questions are you subjected to by men?”

  Why is his tone surly? I’m the queen of pretending not to notice disapproval.

  I plaster a smile on my face and think. It agitated the hell out of Clayton when I didn’t respond right away. Rushing my answer, I blurt out, “Well, I was once asked if I ever wear makeup.” I wave my hand over my nude face. “And one of my favorites was if drawing comics really pays the bills.”

  His brows crease into a deep frown. “Where the hell do you meet these men?”

  I’m reluctant to admit how socially awkward I really am, but the determined look on his face tells me he won’t let me off the hook. Taking advantage of Michael’s brief reappearance and Mr. Merman’s attention being captured by the creamy slice of cheesecake placed in front of him, I tell him the embarrassing truth. “I mostly go on blind dates set up by my meddling mom. She’s worried she’ll never be a grandma.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Why would I lie?”

  He pops a healthy-sized bite into h
is mouth and chews. Unlike any of the men I’ve dated, Mr. Merman is as comfortable with silence as he is in his own honey-toned skin.

  Hmm. Maybe if I continue having dinner with him, I can practice. Come up with witty conversation rather than let my dates drone on and on about hedge funds or whatever they do to make their fortunes.

  Thinking out loud, I blurt out, “How long are you staying on the island?”

  “Are my dinner manners so bad you need me to leave?”

  “Oh, no. I just had the silly notion maybe you could help me.”

  “With what?”

  “Dinner conversation.”

  “Irene, there’s nothing wrong with your conversational skills. It’s the men you’re dating.”

  That’s what nice guys say. In retrospect, the evening hadn’t been a total disaster, but now I get why his last girlfriend had dared to ask if he would call the next day. He’s a good egg. But if we were on a date, would he want to call me, or would he just call out of politeness? At least he wouldn’t be like the others who called because they were seeking some sort of business deal or connection to my mom or dad. Or would he? Mr. Merman mentioned he attended the same functions as Clayton. The same ones where my mom scouted and found Clayton, tech mogul extraordinaire.

  “Forget it. I might do better online.”

  “I’d planned to stay three nights, and I’d love to have dinner with you again, Miss Gilliard.” He eyes my half-eaten dessert. “Cheesecake not to your liking?”

  “It’s great. I just lost my appetite, that’s all. Would you like it?”

  He pulls the plate across the table. “What’s your favorite TV show?”

  “I prefer books.”

  “Are we practicing so these guys will call you after the date or not?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you intentionally sabotage all your dates?”

  I’ve always answered questions truthfully, although maybe with a little snark now and then. I believe honesty is the best policy, a sentiment my parents don’t share. Why make a guy interested in someone I’m not? On my first date with Clayton, he teased that I wasn’t his usual type, but perhaps that was why he was so interested. Three years later, I’m pretty sure he was anything but honest with me. Shit. I had wanted to believe Clayton loved me, idiosyncrasies and all. Why the hell did he propose? He probably figured I’d never find out about Melissa.

  “I see I’ve lost you.” Mr. Merman pops another bite into his mouth and licks his bottom lip.

  What would those lips feel like on mine?

  Wait.

  One minute I’m commiserating over my relationship with Clayton, which was the sole reason for being on this remote island, and the next I’m fantasizing about kissing a man whose name I don’t even know? I must have heat stroke or something.

  “Sorry. What was the question again?”

  He stands and places his napkin over the empty plate. I soak up the sight of his athletic build—a swimmer’s broad shoulders; a lean, narrow waist; and a six-pack covered by a plain T-shirt.

  “Let’s go for a walk.”

  I blink at his suggestion. A walk.

  Realizing I like the idea, I say, “Okay.”

  Hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, Mr. Merman turns towards the moonlit beach as I follow. We reach the end of the path, and he sits on the rock wall, removing his shoes and rolling up his pants. Slipping off my sandals, I walk out to the shoreline. The feel of the cool sand on the soles of my feet grounds me in an odd way. Over my shoulder, I see him push off the wall. It’s rude to stare. I turn back around and inhale the salty air. Water laps over my feet, and I sink into the sand a little just as he comes to stand next to me. Close. Inside my personal bubble Clayton never breached. Others normally sensed my unease and would casually back away. Except Mr. Merman isn’t moving. With my feet stuck in the sand, I cross my arms and look out at the rolling waves mirroring the calmness settling in my chest. It’s nice to be next to someone and not feel the need to speak.

  Chapter 6

  Damien

  I’m a bastard. All I can think about is kissing the fuck out of Irene. Dammit. She’s here to get over her ex, not jump into bed with me. Not that rebound sex isn’t good, but I’m pretty sure Irene isn’t into casual sex. If I didn’t undress her every time I look at her, I might be able to help her.

  Attempting a non-sexual, friendly gesture, I lower my shoulder to bump against hers. “How long do you have before your mom will set you up again?”

  She sighs. “I’m pretty sure if I checked my email I’d see she’s already lined up dates for next week.”

  “Tell her you’re busy.”

  “Do you know who my mom is?”

  “Mrs. Gilliard?” I shrug. “There’s no Wi-Fi at the bungalow, so I barely had enough time before dinner to dig anything up on you.”

  “You agreed to stay somewhere with no internet?”

  “Yep. No emails. No cell service. No bed. Don’t worry, there is a hammock.”

  “Did you know all of this when you agreed to move?”

  “No. But don’t worry, it’s only for two more days. I’ll survive, and so will Crestwater Entertainment.”

  Her mouth drops open. “Crestwater Entertainment. Doesn’t Crestwater own Harwood Publishing?”

  “It does.”

  She walks away mumbling, “Oh my God. Mr. Merman is like my boss’s boss’s boss or something.”

  I catch up but linger a step behind.

  Irene continues to ramble. “I’m going to kill Allison when I see her. No. I’ll move.” She hikes her dress up above her calves, and I’m instantly no longer interested in what she has to say. Irene swivels, and I’m too close to stop. Grabbing her by the arms, I turn so she falls on top of me as we hit the ground. Instead of pounding on my chest or jumping off me, she simply scowls. “Why did you tell me? Why couldn’t you just be happy being Mr. Merman?”

  “I didn’t tell you anything. I just mentioned the name of the company I work for.”

  She frowns before asking, “Work for? So Poseidon didn’t leave Crestwater to you?”

  Fuck. Irene might pretend to live in a fantasy, but she’s as quick as a whip. I look down to evade the flare of anger sure to come. “He did.”

  “Argh. I suppose the right thing to do is invite you to stay in your own house tonight.” Irene’s hands are on my chest, but only for a split second before she pushes herself up to roll off me. “Can’t boot the boss to the bungalow,” she grumbles.

  I roll on to my side. She lies in the sand, looking up at the dark night sky. Irene Gilliard is stunning. Natural blonde hair. Brilliant blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face. Her eyelids flutter shut. I long for the relaxed, teasing Irene. And the desire to kiss her is only getting worse, but she needs a friend, not a lover. “That would be nice, but I never renegotiate deals or break promises.” I only say this because I’m damn sure if I took her up on her offer, I wouldn’t get any sleep, anyway. I’d be lying in bed waiting for her to creep down the hall and join me, or worse, it would be me creeping into her room.

  Rolling to face me, Irene asks, “So, if you don’t break promises, why break up with Miss Hypergamy?”

  I flop on to my back. “For several reasons.”

  “What did she take from you that has you hiding out here with a stranger?”

  It’s a good question. “I’m not hiding. And Miss Hypergamy took nothing I wasn’t willing to give.” That was the problem. Rebecca wasn’t the first gold digger I’ve dated. She was just the first I actually cared for.

  “She broke up with you?” Irene’s incredulous tone makes me grin as I count the stars above.

  “No. I broke it off.” I clench my jaw at the memory of Rebecca’s artificial tears streaming down her cheeks when I’d confronted her about her scam funneling thousands and then ultimately hundreds of thousands of dollars into her own bank account. For months I assumed the money was providing starving artists with venues to work in and display thei
r talents. But it was all a rouse. I look away and sigh. “She embezzled funds from me.”

  “Ah. So I was right. She took something from you.”

  “I guess you were, Miss-I-Always-Have-To-Be-In-The-Right.” When she doesn’t have an immediate comeback, the frost radiating off of her hits me, freezing my thoughts. I peek up, and the turmoil of emotions on her pretty face makes me sit up straighter as she brushes off the sand from her delightful bottom. Her features are a mix of anger and self-loathing. Having been plagued by both since my breakup with Rebecca, I fully recognize the demonic feelings. She glares down at me and then heads back to the house.

  I roll to my feet, but I don’t go after her. Instead, I yell, “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow?”

  Irene doesn’t turn. She simply raises a hand and uncurls her middle finger. So much for being friends. Fine with me. I already have more than I can keep up with. But as I stare at her curves as she enters the house through the terrace doors, the truth hits me. I’d rather be her friend than have sex with her. That is a first.

  Chapter 7

  Irene

  I have to escape to my room. Mr. Merman is an asshole. I knew it as soon as he said he was the goddamn owner of the island. I should have stayed away. In less than one day, he exposed two of my deepest insecurities. I came to the island to escape and forget about men. Not true. I came to hide and lick my wounds. Not only had I wanted to believe Clayton loved me and not my family connections, but I also wanted to believe in the fairy tale where the awkward, shy girl finds love with a man who adores her quirks.

  Damn humidity. Of course I’m sweating from the short jog—okay, near run—back to my room. I’m certainly not sweating from fear and humiliation. I need a bath. Checking that the door to my room is locked, I strip out of my dress and slip on my silk night robe before retrieving my headphones and phone from my purse and heading over to the free-standing tub in the bathroom. Yes, a nice long soak would put my mind at ease. At the very least, I hope I can banish the charming grin and all-knowing eyes of Mr. Merman from my thoughts.