Two for Dinner

by Rachel A. Smith

  The splash of the water filling the tub fills the room and is oddly calming. I glance back at my bedroom door. I’m an idiot. Mr. Merman isn’t the type to hunt me down and apologize. He’s probably clueless why I gave him the finger. How could he know Clayton mocked my constant fear of being wrong or being found lacking? He wouldn’t. I’ll have to apologize. Tomorrow. I settle back in the tub and pop in my earbuds. The lukewarm water calms my nerves. I take a deep breath and turn on my phone. Screw the twenty-one unread texts and thirty unheard voice messages. I hit play, and “Party in the U.S.A.” blasts in my ears. Mr. Merman’s grinning features come to mind, and I skip to the next song and then the next. Geez, I need to download new music, songs that won’t remind me of my ex.

  “10,000 Hours” starts playing, and I give in to the urge to do a quick internet search on Mr. Merman. Even before I finish typing in Crestwater Entertainment, an image of him appears. Damien Crestwater. Ha. The name suits him. After a few clicks, reality hits me. Damien is exactly the type of man I need to avoid. He’s affluent and attracts the media’s attention, representing the life I intend to leave behind. A life that made my skin crawl, and one I hide from. He’s well educated. And from the array of pictures and the variety of women featured on his arm, Damien doesn’t need help in the relationship department.

  I scan the most recent photos, Miss Rebecca Connor, a beautiful redheaded philanthropist, must be Miss Hypergamy. She looks amazing next to Damien—polished, put together, flawless. There is no way Rebecca would show up to an event with pencil smudges on her forehead and her hair in a ponytail. No. The tabloids love women like Rebecca, and they poke fun at ones like me.

  A picture of Damien walking out of the surf as he had earlier has my left hand sliding between my legs. Tanned. His six-pack with his happy trail in full sight makes my fingers move in time to the music. I position my phone so the man in the picture smiles at me. No. He’s smiling for the camera, but a woman can dream.

  Knuckles rap on the door. My heart jumps in my chest as my phone slips into the water. Water sloshes about as I frantically search the bathtub for my stupid phone.

  Damien’s muffled but panicked voice registers. “Irene? Are you okay?”

  The fingers that were between my legs moments ago brush up against the edge of my phone before it slips away. Shit. It’s more slippery than a bar of soap. My phone hits my calf and I grab it. Holding it up high, water drips down the blackened screen. Dead. I grab a towel and pat it dry as I get out of the tub.

  Damien curses on the other side as I pull out my headphones. “Dammit. Irene!”

  I set my phone on the counter and quickly dry off before shrugging into my robe.

  Hauling the door open, I come nose to chest with my host. “What?”

  He straightens and places a hand on the door frame. “Oh. I saw your bedroom light was still on and I . . . well . . . I wanted to apologize.”

  Who is this man? He wants to apologize. Men don’t apologize. They only provide excuses for their behavior. Better to think of him as Mr. Merman than CEO Damien Crestwater. Fictional characters evolve. Real men don’t change.

  “I didn’t hear you knocking. I was in the bath.” Walking back to see how bad the damage is to my phone, I pick it up and water drips down. Shit. I press the power button. Nothing. The screen remains blank.

  “I see your phone went in the water with you.” He grabs it from my hands.

  My robe gapes open at my chest, but he simply walks out with my phone. I follow him into the kitchen. “Are you going to put it in rice or something?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure if it will work.” He reaches for a canister and sticks the phone in. “Sorry. I’ll get Michael to order another one for you.”

  “It’s okay. I was just using it to listen to music.”

  I’m a terrible liar. Always have been.

  Mr. Merman chuckles and says, “And here I was hoping you were just a deep sleeper dreaming of me.”

  He’s on to my fibs. My cheeks are on fire. I’d been fantasizing about raking my hands over the hot body I know is under his tight black T-shirt. Yep. I’d love to run my palms over his six-pack. I haven’t been laid in three months. It was my stupid romantic idea to abstain before the wedding. I should have known Clayton was cheating when he readily agreed without a fight or complaint.

  Mr. Merman reaches into the fridge. He pulls out a bottle of water and offers it to me.

  I scrunch up my nose. “Do you have any wine?”

  He disappears behind the fridge door. “Red or white?”

  “Do you have a rosé?”

  Grinning as if he’d found a four-leaf clover, he holds up a bottle of the pink-colored wine. He opens and closes several drawers, peering into each, apparently someone who doesn’t spend that much time in his kitchen.

  From the back of the house, Michael appears with a deep frown, probably to find out who is making such a racket in the kitchen. “Mr. Crestwater.” Taking the bottle out of Damien’s hands, he asks, “Can I be of assistance?”

  “Where is the damn bottle opener?”

  Retrieving a pocketknife from his pants, Michael deftly opens the bottle, placing it on the counter and scowling in Damien’s direction. “I’ll gladly bring the wine and glasses out to you.”

  My dad always said it was best to stay out of the way of the staff. They were territorial beasts. That’s exactly why I refuse to hire any help despite both my parents claiming I am incapable of caring for myself. Mrs. Baldwin and Mr. Harris, Clayton’s housekeeper and driver, never objected to me doing the laundry or using public transportation. Maybe they knew it wouldn’t last.

  Mr. Merman grabs my hand and pulls me out of the kitchen. “Let’s go back out onto the terrace.”

  I dig my feet in like in the cartoons, and he turns to face me but doesn’t let go of my hand. “What?”

  “I’m not going back outside. I’ll get all wet and sticky again.” When he smirks, I’m guessing he’s not thinking of perspiration.

  “Fine. The living room.”

  Why the hell is he so agitated? Replaying our conversation, I don’t think I said anything wrong. A sigh escapes, and he looks over his shoulder at me as he leads me to the extra-large sectional.

  “Michael isn’t going to quit just because we were hanging in the kitchen.” I tug my sweaty hand out of his and sink down into the soft cushions.

  He sits and rests his arm behind me along the back of the couch. “No. But he loves to put me in my place. After having me in his hair all afternoon, I get the impression we could do with some time apart.”

  “You sound like an old married couple.”

  He chuckles and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, Michael is pretty much the only person who has stuck around and put up with me for longer than a year.” He glances back at me over his shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry about earlier.” Sitting back and taking my hand in his again, he continues, “We don’t really know each other, and I shouldn’t have teased you or called you names.”

  “Look, like I said, we’re not in middle school anymore.” I squeeze his hand involuntarily before adding, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given you the bird.”

  “The problem is, you are one interesting lady, and I was hoping you might consider having me as a friend.” He lowers his gaze to my knees. “And to be honest, I could do with a friend, too. Breakups suck.”

  Mr. Merman wants to be friends, while my mind is rapidly filling up with all sorts of sordid images of ripping off his clothes. I wonder if reality is better than my bathtub fantasies.

  “Friends, huh? So you’re a believer that men and women can just be friends?”

  “Well, I can’t say I have any female friends. And I can’t claim that my thoughts of you have been chaste.”

  He has been thinking about me? Why? And who uses words from the 1800s? I blurt out, “Did you just use the word chaste? Did I get it wrong? Are you really a vampire from another time and not a merman?” Arg
h. Why can’t I carry on a normal conversation without alluding to fiction?

  “I’m not a vampire. My grandma loves reading historical romances, but her eyesight is shot. And since I’m such a wonderful grandson, I read them to her.”

  How sweet is that? He must be extremely self-confident. No man in my life would have ever been caught reading a romance novel, let alone reading one out loud. “Hmm. Okay, I believe you, Mr. Merman.”

  Out comes Michael carrying the bottle of wine in an ice bucket and a platter of crackers, cheese, and grapes. “If you need anything else, please just call me.”

  My curiosity is piqued. As soon as he is out of earshot, I ask, “How long has Michael worked for you?”

  “Six years.” He pours the wine one-handed since he still hasn’t let go of me and hands me a glass. Not that I’m complaining. Friends hold hands, right?

  “That’s way longer than a year. How long were you dating Miss Hypergamy?” I take a sip of my wine. Crisp and sweet, much like the man next to me.

  “Nine months, give or take a day or two.”

  Shit. Three months longer than I thought he’d say. Six months was the average length of my relationships prior to Clayton. “Really . . . and she stole from you all that time?” I take a gulp of my wine and try not to focus on the distant look on Mr. Merman’s face, which appeared as soon as I mentioned his ex.

  “No. Only for about the last three months. My accountants caught it within the first few weeks she began funneling amounts to phony vendors and stuff. But I refused to believe them. When the amounts continued to get larger, I couldn’t deny the evidence any longer and had to confront her. I’ve had a lot of breakups in my thirty-four years, but none like the one with Rebecca.”

  I slide my glass onto the side table. “Arrghhh. Stop with the names. It makes it all too real, and I’m partial to calling your ex Miss Hypergamy.”

  He laughs. “You’re right. It suits her better. So, if I’m Mr. Merman, what do I get to call you?”

  Pretty sure my mouth falls open a little. He can’t be real. Mr. Merman actually gets my humor. He’s waiting for an answer, so I blurt out, “Anything but Miss Know-It-All.” I narrow my eyes and add, “Or Miss Wanna-Be-Right-All-The-Time. Or Miss Needy . . .” I say these names knowing it will push him away. That’s what I do. When I’m one-hundred percent honest and reveal the real me, men run. No one wants to be with a Miss Goody-Two-Shoes who never wants to go out, preferring to stay home with a good book and live in her stories rather than reality.

  All traces of laughter leave his face. Dead serious, he lifts my chin so I’m forced to meet his apologetic gaze. “Hey, I really am sorry.”

  His apology squeezes my heart. For a split second, I almost lean into him to be the one to initiate a kiss, which would be a first. No. A billionaire merman is precisely what I don’t need in my life.

  His eyes widen. Obviously he thinks he has a brilliant idea, and I’m somewhat anxious to hear what it is. Why hasn’t he let go of my hand? Better question, why the hell haven’t I let go? He’s definitely in my personal bubble, and my ordinarily sweaty palms are dry. I should be a jumbled mess with a stranger this close to me, but I’m not. He makes my heart thump, but not out of nervousness. Oh no, my pulse is definitely racing for all the reasons I should pull away.

  Mr. Merman smiles as I eagerly wait to hear what he has to say. Why do I care? I just met the man. But I do.

  Releasing my hand, he stands. “How about I come back tomorrow night for dinner, and you can ask me more of those horrible first-date questions?” He sticks out his hand. “Deal?”

  The devil in me says to take it, but the rational voice in my head screams no deal! No deal!

  I slide my hand in his and stand. “Deal.”

  Then I grab my glass and the wine bottle and head to my room.

  Chapter 8

  Damien

  I glare at Michael in the rearview mirror. His smug I know what you’re thinking expression makes me want to punch something—him. “Let’s spar tomorrow.”

  “Oh no. I wouldn’t want to mess up that pretty face of yours.” He hops out of the car and opens the door for me. “Especially since you might have to rely on your looks to, you know, become friends with our guest.”

  “You know it’s a fireable offense to eavesdrop on your employer.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Michael gives me a shove towards the bungalow. “Miss Gilliard seems nice enough, but very vulnerable right now. I don’t doubt you will do the right thing, but like you said, you don’t really know her.”

  “That’s what’s strange. I feel like I could tell her anything.”

  “You trust her.” He shook his head and went directly to the makeshift kitchen. “She doesn’t seem the type to leak shit to the press, but what had her so jumpy she dropped her phone in the bathtub?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but my gut says it was nothing nefarious.”

  Michael rolls his eyes. “Geez, man, you really need to stop using nineteenth-century language.” He’s more like an older brother than an employee.

  I take the beer he holds out for me. We make our way over to the two hammocks strung up in the unfinished living room.

  Screw him. Irene likes it when I use words from my grandma’s bodice rippers. Her smile was sweet and genuine. She needed a pick-me-up. “What’s something a friend could do for a woman?”

  Michael arches a brow at me. “You wanna do something to make her feel better?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmm . . . let me think. We are on a remote private island with no one around . . .” He takes a drink and then lifts it up in the air like he has just invented sliced bread. “Ah-ha. There is one thing you’re rumored to be able to do to women repeatedly that makes them very happy.” The fool wags his brows at me.

  “I said I’d like to be her friend.”

  “Guess you’ve never heard the term friends with benefits then.”

  “No.”

  “So nothing of the bedroom variety.” He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Offer to give her a foot massage? Nah, that might lead to the bedroom. Make a swan out of a towel?”

  I give him a hard stare. There are no towels in this disaster area, just dust and tools.

  “Okay, that was lame and could totally be taken the wrong way. Ah, what about an origami flower?”

  “Don’t be jealous I know origami and you don’t.” It’s not a bad idea, but there isn’t any paper here at the bungalow. The metallic label of an empty beer bottle on the floor catches my eye. This place is a mess.

  “I’ve got it.” He shifts, rocking the hammock. “Recite a scene from one of your grandma’s pornos to her.”

  “Dude, seriously, get your fucking mind out of the gutter.”

  A sly smile spreads over Michael’s face. “I’m a goddamn genius. You can build her a sand sculpture as big as your . . .”

  “Stop. You know I suck at building sandcastles.” As a kid, it was the one thing my siblings had over me. While Charlie and Lydia built elaborate structures, mine always crumbled into a heap that resembled a pile of shit. “Not sandcastles, genius, but maybe I can have Eric carve a replica of one of her characters into ice?”

  “Where do you think Eric’s gonna get a block of ice big enough for that?”

  “No idea. But he’ll figure something out.” I rest my beer on my chest. “Do you think it’s weird I’m actually trying to be her friend?”

  “Nope, but I worry it means you might actually really care for her.” Michael takes a long swig from the bottle. “While you two were down at the beach, I did a little snooping.”

  “And?”

  “She’s the product of two high-profile, very influential members of society. While she’s successful in her own right as an illustrator and author, she avoids the limelight like the plague. The press wasn’t even surprised by her lack of appearance at her own damn wedding. They inferred this wasn’t the first time she’d disappeared, and they also made some rather n
asty remarks about her being the ugly duckling who turned into a swan and joked perhaps a magic spell had worn off and she’d transformed into an ogre. I’m pretty sure they were trying to be clever and link it to her books, which are all fairy-tale remixes.”

  Fairy-tale remixes. It makes sense. Fairy tales are filled with caricatures, not real people, and isn’t she always fitting me, my ex, and everyone she seems to talk about into a nameless role? Irene thought of me as Mr. Merman, not Damien. Cute at first, but I’m fucking real, and the emotions she triggers in me are definitely not a figment of my imagination. I don’t want to be just another fictional character in her pretend world. I’m going to prove to her just how real I am.

  Michael’s findings fall in line with what Irene told me herself. She didn’t enjoy being seen in public, and especially not alone. Having been in a similar situation growing up, I could empathize. You learned to ignore the nasty looks and the prying eyes waiting to see what you would do next and if they would catch you messing up. Is that why she felt the need to always be right?

  “She won’t want to really be your friend or anything more.” Michael sets his empty bottle on the table between us. “You live a life in the press, and that’s exactly what she avoids. Be very careful. Don’t get too involved . . . and don’t fall in love.”

  “Involved? I said friends. Just friends, fucker.” I take a swig of my beer. “Wait . . . maybe I did say fall in love. Ya know, it’s hard to tell the difference. They sound so damn similar.”

  Micheal throws his arm over his face. “You’re an ass.”

  “Yep. I was wrong, and you were right. Why bother with the whole friends-first shit when I could just admit I believe in instalove? That’s it. I’m in love with the woman. Irene is the one.” I started my sardonic monologue as a joke, but as the words roll off my tongue, the adage it’s not funny unless it’s true rattles my confidence.