Two for Dinner

by Rachel A. Smith

  I stop when Mr. Merman says, “Pshaw.”

  His elbows are firmly planted on the table with his chin resting on the tips of his fingers. He shakes his head, but his eyes never leave mine. Even when he picks up his fork and scoops up some eggs. “I must have had dinner with someone else last night because the woman seated opposite me offered to share her dinner. Pretty sure she asked for my help with dating, and I got the impression she didn’t like to be alone. Yeah, you don’t relish being in the spotlight, but that’s entirely different.”

  Holy shit. Mr. Merman had been paying attention to me. Raising a slice of bacon to my mouth, I take a healthy bite and chew, not sure what to say next.

  He pops a piece of juicy red watermelon into his mouth. I’m mesmerized by his tongue as it pokes out at the corner and then slides across his bottom lip. Yep, the fantasy of him going down on me pops up once again. Why I’m convinced that Mr. Merman would be extremely well skilled in the oral sex department, I have no clue. I ignore the fluttering sensations between my legs and remain firmly seated.

  He swallows, and before continuing to eat the massive meal in front of him, says, “I promise to get out of your hair after breakfast. I hear introverts need time alone to recharge their batteries.”

  “Who told you that?”

  He taps his fork against his pursed lips, and instantly my pussy twinges. I’ve never been a huge fan of oral sex since I suck at giving it. No pun intended. But I was raised to give, not receive, which meant I never asked, and none of my previous exes were into giving. Yet I get the impression Mr. Merman wouldn’t object, and I’m definitely willing to do whatever necessary to have his head between my thighs.

  “Okay, so you’re calling my bluff.”

  I blink. He said bluff, not muff.

  He has a great smile and lips I can’t stop fantasizing about. Chuckling, he clears his throat. “Maybe I read it somewhere. Anyway, I’ve decided to help Michael get the bungalow done. Well, at the very least, install an AC unit and assemble a bed in one of the bedrooms.”

  “Didn’t sleep well?” I try to make my voice light and teasing, but the guilt of having kicked him out of his own house and no doubt a very comfortable bed makes it sound more like an apology. To my relief, his smile remains and may have even widened.

  He brings up his napkin from his lap and places it on the table. “I’ve never been the camping type. And while napping in a hammock for an hour or two is doable, I’ll admit I miss sleeping in a bed.”

  My heart thumps as my mind focuses on the words doable and bed. I rarely have sex on the mind all the time. In fact, my thoughts tend to be rated PG, but he definitely makes me think things that would have a solid R or maybe XXX rating. Thank goodness the back of my thighs are now stuck to the chair, or I’d be squirming in my seat. How do I get rid of him so I can retreat to my room and take care of the ache definitely not going to go away on its own?

  Since the sun is behind me, Mr. Merman squints at me. “Everything okay? You’ve hardly eaten.”

  I might be shy and awkward, but like every other woman on this planet, I’m not going to pass up an opportunity to take in my fill of eye candy. Nope, eating is the last thing I have on my mind. I twirl my fork and ignore the moisture building between my legs. “Just feeling guilty. Why don’t you just sleep here with me tonight . . . I mean, not with me . . . but . . .”

  “Don’t freak out, Miss Assiduous. I know what you meant.”

  I can’t believe my ears. Who is this man, seriously? His vocab turns me on. “Did you just call me an ass?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I said Miss Assiduous, as in someone who is hardworking and reliable. At least that’s how I intended to use the word. My sister raved on and on about you and your books last night.”

  My attempt to tease and flirt fails once more. “I know what the word means. It was a lousy attempt to flirt with you.” The cool sea breeze bites into my heated cheeks. “I thought . . . wait, you said you didn’t have cell service out at the bungalow.”

  He snaps back like I slapped him with my question. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  It’s my turn to shake my head. “No.”

  Mr. Merman leans forward on one arm while casually draping his other arm behind his chair. “I walked out to the farthest point on the dock without falling into the water. It was spotty, but I got the message your books are the best and super important for kids going through those awful tween years.”

  He speaks clearly, punctuating each sentence. And I think I literally just fell in love. Mr. Merman said my books are super important. No one, not even my agent, has given me such praise. With that simple comment, he moves up in the ranks of my favorite people. Top five, easy. He might even be number one.

  Old habits die hard, and I eagerly redirect the conversation away from me before he dies of boredom. “How old is your sister?”

  Pride shines on his face at the mention of his sister. “She’s twenty-eight and teaches middle schoolers—seventh grade. My sister believes teachers can be most effective in . . .”

  Chef Eric appears with a deep scowl. “Crestwater, your request is impossible.”

  I place my hand over my plate as he attempts to take it away. “My mom said I shouldn’t waste food, and you went to the trouble to make it. I’ll eat it.”

  “Miss Gilliard, it isn’t you who’s being troublesome.” His dark brows drawn down, he slants his head towards Mr. Merman. He’s either angry or very frustrated at his boss right now. “Would you like a glass of orange juice, coffee, or tea?” His features are still mottled, but his voice has lost its edge.

  It’s probably wise to stay on the man’s good side. “Oh, orange juice sounds perfect.”

  “I’d like a glass too,” Mr. Merman says, holding out his empty plate for Chef Eric. “And do you have an alternative idea to the watermelon?”

  “Alternative? No, I don’t have an alternative. I’m a chef, not a magician.”

  I flinch at his cutting tone. Mr. Merman simply arches a brow in response to the outburst.

  All the anger drains from Chef Eric’s face, and he bows his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Miss Gilliard. Crestwater requested I create a replica of one of your characters. The only thing I had on hand was a watermelon, but you are a very talented artist and my carving skills . . . well, they’re not suited for fruit. I wish I could order a block of ice large enough . . . but it wouldn’t arrive in time and . . .”

  “Stop.” The forceful command comes from my lips. From me. I never snap at people, and never at strangers who are being so extremely kind and thoughtful. “Sorry, Chef Eric. I didn’t mean to be rude. Thank you.” I peer up at him and smile. “Thank you for the wonderful compliment.” I turn back to Mr. Merman. “Thank you for such a thoughtful idea. But 2D images are very different from a 3D rendering.” I switch my attention back to Chef Eric. “Thank you for trying. It really was a kind gesture.”

  His cheeks are bright red. I made the man blush. Maybe I’m not the only one on the island who doesn’t know how to react to compliments.

  “I’ll just go get those orange juices.” He makes a hasty retreat.

  Alone again. Mr. Merman’s eyes bore into me like I’m a work of art he’s puzzling together in a museum. His intensity makes me regret not packing my favorite vibrator.

  “I wasn’t planning on leaving until after dinner tomorrow.” His voice lowers as if he is conspiring with me on some big plan. My inner-thigh muscles clench in response.

  He adds, “I’d love to have dinner with you before I head home.” Mr. Merman wants another dinner date.

  My stomach flutters, and I return his smile. “You sure you want to make plans this far in advance?”

  He leans back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head and sticking out his legs to cross them at the ankles. “Aha. I’m a planner, and I never go back on my word.” His relaxed pose, so contrary to his tone and words, makes me giggle. He might pretend to be Mr. Laid-back on the island, bu
t Mr. Workaholic is stamped on his worry-lined forehead.

  I push the food around on my plate. If he can pretend, so can I. Curling my lips into a grin I might have practiced a time or two in front of the mirror, I say, “Okay, I’ll have dinner with you, but only if you are up to answering more crazy dating questions.” Well, I’m still breathing, and he hasn’t run off to the bungalow—yet.

  He chuckles. “You know, your mom will never know if you don’t eat everything on your plate. I won’t tell her. It can be our secret.”

  I look down at the cooled eggs that had looked scrumptious earlier but were now just a blob of yellow. Concentrating on spearing a piece of cantaloupe, I don’t know how to deal with the teasing, fully engaged man sitting across from me who had artfully avoided my artless attempt at flirting. “If you need to go help Michael, you don’t have to wait for me to finish.”

  “Oh, I’m not going anywhere. I’m eager to see you eat those eggs now that they are cold and nasty.”

  He isn’t in any rush and wants to stay. He even made up a silly excuse to stay. Why did Mr. Merman seem to know exactly the right words to say?

  Saved yet again by Chef Eric, who places two glasses of what looks to be freshly squeezed orange juice and not the stuff out of a carton in front of us and scoops fruit into two bowls that had magically appeared. With a scowl directed solely at Mr. Merman, he whisks my plate away as he leaves.

  Mr. Merman yells at the man’s retreating back, “You might like Irene more, but I’m the one paying you.”

  Chef Eric just shakes his head and enters the house. Mr. Merman shifts to face me. He picks up a clean fork and spears a large piece of watermelon. “What are you going to do today?”

  I really hadn’t thought about what I’d do on a remote island when I jumped on the plane to jilt Clayton. “Since I don’t have a deadline, I think I’ll take the opportunity to sketch out some ideas that have been rolling around in my brain for a new series.”

  “Interesting. Do you outline your stories and then draw the illustrations, or vice versa?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Definitely. But it looks like you’re not used to talking and eating . . . so how about I ask yes or no questions so you can eat?”

  Dammit. Mr. Merman is smart, kind, interested . . . and leaving tomorrow.

  “Okay.” I pop a juicy piece of honeydew, my least favorite melon, into my mouth.

  “Let’s see.” Drumming his fingers, I can see he’s truly putting effort into this conversation about me. “Nod if you outline first.”

  I keep chewing and smile. He frowns. “Nod if you don’t outline.”

  I swallow, and my heart flips in my chest. For some odd reason, he really cares. “The pictures come first. Mostly I see a scene I have to break down into frames, and then I go back and add the dialogue and frame quotes.” I pick up my glass and take a sip. Fresh-squeezed juice—my favorite.

  “Is it like a movie in your head you have to capture on paper, or does the book unfold slowly? Sorry, that’s not a yes or no question.”

  No one ever bothers to ask detailed questions about my work. Most guys think it’s a hobby, something I do to occupy my time. But it’s more than that. I’m no trust-fund baby. My parents came from solid middle-class families, but both are money- and fame-hungry. The amount my parents spend on appearances and hiding their wealth from each other is ridiculous. I prefer to fend for myself, and I’m super grateful I’ve had enough book sales to allow me to live a very comfortable life. When I moved in with Clayton and offered to help pay for household expenses, he just laughed and said, “Keep your pocket change. Use it to buy something nice for yourself.”

  I stab a piece of watermelon, picturing Clayton’s face on the fruit.

  Glancing up, I expect Mr. Merman to have moved on, but he’s sitting back patiently waiting.

  “Umm . . . no one has ever asked me how I come up with my stories before.”

  “Try.”

  How do I explain to a suit my creative process? I wrack my brain for an answer and simultaneously attempt to block out the handsome man sitting opposite me who I might just be falling for. He’s not fidgeting or looking to be the least bit put out by my taking my time to respond. Mr. Merman is definitely thinking of something. The slight curl of his lips tells me he is. But what? Does he use silent, intense looks on his business associates to get them to agree to his terms? The image gives me my answer.

  “Okay. So. Before a big meeting, I’m guessing you visualize how you’d like things—negotiations—to go. Then you walk in and meet the players. That’s when you realize it’s not going to go exactly how you planned, but it’s close. My process is similar. I picture a scene, but then when I’m finished sketching, it’s close to what I originally envisioned but not precisely the same. Normally, it’s better. Some days I can knock out three or four chapters, and other days, nothing inspires me. My work schedule is rather . . .”

  “Fluid.” He runs his thumb over the outside of his glass and then rubs the moisture from his thumb with his forefinger. It’s making me wet. I’m constantly in a state of arousal from the simplest of actions by this man.

  When I finally manage to stop staring at his fingers, he says, “You mentioned deadlines.”

  Writing and publishing. I know this. This is what I do. Focus on the topic. Do not fantasize about those long fingers doing wicked things to me. “Yeah, I normally sell a concept, and then the publisher gives me a hard deadline to have a draft ready by. With the wedding, my agent thought it best we didn’t start querying my next book until I got back. Maybe I should email her and let her know . . .”

  His brows scrunched in concentration now arch as he says, “Wait. How many books have you written?”

  My ego takes a hit. I’m no Stephen King, but I have landed on the bestsellers’ list a time or two. Harwood Publishing might be a small, insignificant portion of his business, but it’s one of the top five publishing houses in the world. I’m probably just one of the millions his businesses employ. Unimportant and irrelevant. Except in this moment, Mr. Merman’s full attention is on me. I prefer not to draw people’s notice—avoid it like the plague. I bask in being invisible. Liar. This man’s interest and attentiveness are addictive.

  I’m not a bragger, so I count on my fingers like a five-year-old and stall by mumbling, “Let’s see.” I’m not really counting the number of books but calculating how many series I’ve released and how many books are in each.

  “Okay, just tell me how many Harwood has published.” I get a slight glimpse of corporate Mr. Merman, and while I can totally see where others might find him intimidating, I can tell his impatience is driven by concern for me, not selfishness.

  Smiling, I answer, “Oh, that’s easy. Maybe twenty or so.”

  He doesn’t even bat an eye at my response, probably doing twenty deals a month himself. But with each book I create, I pour my heart and soul into it. Each contains a bit of me. The sound of the waves crashing behind me is a reminder of why I’m here—to hide and escape from reality. Mr. Merman doesn’t seem like the type to run and hide. No, he’s definitely the seize-and-take-charge type. Exactly the opposite of what I need. Despite what my family and friends think, I’m not a live-in-the-clouds or stick-my-head-in-the-sand type. I’m actually a realist. Life is not an oyster. For people like me, we have to make the best out of what we have. So what if I give everyone nicknames or approach life like it’s a frame or scene from a book? It’s my way of coping.

  Mr. Merman’s features soften. “Do you need the advance to get your own place?”

  I can see clearly in his lopsided grin he wants to fix my problems. I don’t need a man to fix me or my problems. Adopting his no-nonsense pose from before, I clasp my hands together, placing my elbows on the table and resting my chin upon my knuckles. “No.”

  Not usually the aggressor, I falter a little, no doubt spoiling the effect by smiling. The need to look down and shrink back into my seat is still
there, but the surprised look on his face gives me the courage to ignore my natural response. Instead, I stare directly at him and say, “Actually, I have a ton of savings. Clayton paid for pretty much everything, which I hated. But now that I think about it, I should probably look for a place to rent and make a list of the shit I need to deal with when I go back.” I’m surprised by my take-action thoughts and no-nonsense tone.

  Mr. Merman’s lips twitch into a lazy smile, and his face lights up. I wasn’t flirting, but the glint in his gaze tells me he’s a little turned on. It’s his turn to shift in his seat. I suppress the urge to pump my fist to celebrate getting under his cool facade.

  Lifting his glass, he lets the rim rest on his lower lip but then pulls it away. “You’re welcome to the laptop in the office. And if you need to stay here a while longer, you can. There are no bookings for the next two weeks. Free, as my guest.”

  His lips are moving, and I’m left wondering what they would feel like on mine. I blink. I’m pretty sure I heard stay, two weeks, and my guest. And like Allison does when she reads a fortune cookie, my brain adds in my bed.

  I lean back a smidge and roll my head slightly to the right and then the left. Infusing my voice with steel, I say, “That’s a generous offer, but . . .”

  “No one has it booked.” He places his glass on the table and spins it round and round before adding, “It’s not like I need the money. Stay . . . if you want.”

  He is clearly unsettled. Maybe Mr. Merman is not used to women refusing him. But I’m no longer willing to let others make the decisions I need to make for myself. “It’s a tempting offer, but I think it would be better if I acted like an adult and got my shit straight. I wonder if Clayton threw out my stuff.”

  “Why would he do something petty like that?”

  “Since his place was already furnished, he suggested I sell all my stuff so all I had to move into his place were my clothes. I stupidly did, so it would be easy enough for him to throw my stuff into a few garbage bags and put them in the dumpster.”