I plaster on a smile. “Yep.” I can’t look at him. If I just focus on eating, maybe he’ll forget the idiotic statement. Just because I slept with him didn’t mean he wants to marry me. Heat floods my cheeks. While it was certainly the best sex of my life, I’m sure it’s nothing out of the ordinary for him. I squirm a little in my seat. I’d never had sex in a shower before, but it’s definitely an experience I’d like to relive once more before he leaves. Since I’d never bumped into him back home, it’s a pretty safe bet I won’t see him again. Why would I? He’ll go back to work and start dating some gorgeous supermodel, and I’ll find a cute little studio and work on my books. My throat constricts. I grab my glass of water to wash down the salmon threatening to choke me to death. Swallowing, I blink rapidly to clear the tears forming. Damien leans back in his chair, one arm slung over the back. “Are you going to share what’s going on in that brilliant mind of yours?”
“Why would you call me brilliant?”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a gross exaggeration and flattery will get you nowhere with me.”
“Okay, but I’d just like to know what you’re thinking. Your lips were moving, but no words were coming out.”
After a wonderful day in his arms, I’d rather not talk about anything too serious. I might start choking again, or worse, cry. “Dinner is great. Do you really prefer Broccolini over green beans?”
“Only with salmon.”
“The only time I eat green beans is during Thanksgiving.”
Damien’s plate is still half full. He doesn’t move, just sits there watching me. Hmm. If I could have a superpower right now, I’d choose the ability to read Damien’s thoughts. Not everyone’s, just his. No, I take that back. He’s probably thinking, why on earth did I sleep with this awkward chick and how do I tell her I need to leave early?
His phone vibrates on the wood table, and he reaches for it. “It’s my sister. If I don’t answer, she’ll just keep calling until I pick up.”
I nod and return my focus to my plate. The muffled voice is definitely female, loud, and excited. It’s kinda sweet they actually call and not just text back and forth. Clayton and my parents never call. They prefer to text, opting for brevity and acronyms.
“Fine. I’ll ask her now?” Damien lowers the phone and places it flat against his chest. The muscled chest I now know has a smattering of dark-brown hair across it. “My sister wants to know if you would be interested in visiting her class to talk about your books.”
My agent went to extreme lengths to ensure public signings were prohibited in all my publishing contracts. Hmm. Talking to a group of middle schoolers wouldn’t be the same as signing books with a bunch of photographers just waiting for me to make a fool out of myself. I wish I could meet my readers, but the damn press got in the way and made it a circus at my debut signing. “I’d really like that. But she can’t tell anyone. Otherwise, the press will set up camp outside her school.”
“Are you sure? You can say no.” He pauses to assess me. “I’ll just tell her no.”
“Please don’t. I’d love to meet her students.”
He lifts the phone back up to his ear. “She said yes, but . . .” He holds the phone away from his ear, and I hear his sister yell, “She’s coming. She’s coming. OMG, she’s coming.”
I’m pretty sure my cheeks are bright red because the memory of me yelling the same thing in a very similar excited tone immediately hits me. Seeing Damien’s grin, I know he’s thinking the same. Weird how easy it is to be with him.
Damien growls into the phone, “Lydia, if you don’t stop, I’m going to nix the whole thing.”
“Text me her number so I can coordinate with her. We won’t let the press find out.” After issuing her orders, she hangs up without a goodbye.
Normally I would consider that extremely rude, but even though I don’t know her, it doesn’t seem unusual from Damien’s reaction. The man smiles from ear to ear. Lydia obviously has her brother wrapped around her little finger. I’m looking forward to meeting her.
“What’s your phone number?”
“Huh?”
“Since you don’t have a phone yet, I’ll text Lydia your contact info, or she will bug us all night.” He hands me the phone.
I type in my number. Scrolling down to enter my email address, I hesitate for a split second. Should I give it to him? It might be awhile before I get around to getting a new phone. It took me days to decide on my last phone. Argh. I hate change. Punching it in, I hand him back the phone. “Email is the best way to reach me.”
“Your phone should arrive tomorrow.” Damien taps on the screen, and after a few more taps, he looks up.
“What phone?” I ask.
“I had Michael order you one.”
“Please tell me he ordered one like my old one. I’d hate to have to relearn shortcuts and shit.”
“I’m not sure.”
My blood pressure rises. A voice way back in my head whispers he’s only being nice. Screw nice. I need a man who respects the fact I can take care of myself. Pushing my plate away from me, I cross my arms over my chest. “Thanks, but I’ll buy my own damn phone when I’m ready.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “I was just trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.” I reach for the napkin in my lap and stand up.
Before my chair is even pushed back, Damien crouches down next to me. “Hey, I’m sorry.”
When I’m clearly upset, the men in my life have always automatically said sorry but had no clue what they were actually apologizing for. “For what?”
“For assuming you needed my help.” He puts a hand just above my knees to steady himself. “For not asking you what you wanted. For being a total jerk and acting like a twenty-first-century neanderthal. Forgive me?”
I should stay mad at him. Then it won’t hurt when he leaves tomorrow. But the man actually gets me. I can’t believe I actually met Mr. Right when I least expected it.
Chapter 14
Damien
Irene tracks me as I fold and pack the few belongings I brought with me into my duffel bag. The last twenty or so hours have been surreal. She’s the most complex woman I’ve ever met. Her insecurities and strengths are contradictory but also complementary at the same time. She fascinates me. I’m not happy I have to leave. “I pushed forward my meetings.” In my head, I can still hear the Crestwater team’s grumblings and the Farrington team’s groans, but everyone wants the deal to close, so they accommodated my request.
I zip up my bag and drop it to the floor. “If all goes well, I could come back Wednesday morning and spend the rest of the week with you. Would you like that?”
Please say yes.
After only three days alone with Irene on the island, I’m more relaxed and rejuvenated than I have been in years. To have five more days with her would be . . . She takes off my T-shirt that she’s been wearing since we retreated to my room after lunch, interrupting my thoughts.
Sitting on the bed naked, she dangles the material from her fingers. “You forgot to pack this.”
Fuck, I love this woman. Irene raises up onto her knees, dropping the T-shirt and reaching out to wrap her arms around my neck. I can’t get enough of her kisses. The bursts of endorphins are addictive. Placing my hands firmly on her ass, I lift, urging her to wrap those gorgeous long legs around my waist. My flight leaves in less than an hour, and there’s not enough time.
Irene pulls me in close and whispers, “Fuck me one last time before you go.”
There is no way I can deny her. I reach between us to unbutton my jeans. The back of my hand glides over her soaked pussy when she raises a little to deepen our kiss. Damn, she is hot.
“Hurry, I want you in me.” Irene pulls back a little, skimming her hand down my chest and over my stomach to pull up my T-shirt. She grabs my dick through the slit in my briefs. I need to be inside her, so I pull the last condom left out of my back pocket. Frantically, I tug m
y jeans down and slip the plastic sheath over me before I grab her hips and settle her on my cock.
Her lips round. A seductive oh escapes her as my cock fills her tight, wet pussy.
I dig my fingers into the soft, round cheeks she loves for me to slap. But right now, there is no time for stalling her pleasure. I lift her up and then pull her back down hard, over and over. I love watching Irene’s expressive face. When she looks at me, her pussy clamped around my dick, I connect with her in a way I never have with another woman.
“Harder. No. Slower.” Irene shakes her head. “No. I mean faster.” She’s the only one who can order me around without my ego bristling. I give her what she wants, driving my cock into her harder and faster until she squeezes her eyes shut. She’s close. I’m close. When her pussy starts to spasm, I pull her deeper and come. My dick, snug inside her, twitches. I cover her mouth with my own to capture her screams as she finds her release.
I glance at the door. Michael is probably on the other side, waiting for me and debating whether to knock. I’d love to say screw work and bend Irene over the bed to fuck her all over again.
She wiggles, drawing my attention back to her. “We’ve run out of time. You gotta go.”
I pull out and lower her until her feet hit the ground. Removing the condom, I throw it into the trash can. It’s a reminder to take care of that jerk Clayton as soon as I get back to town. I pull up my jeans, and I’m eye level with her wet pussy. Damn, why do I have to leave?
“Sir.” Michael’s deep voice filters through the door.
Irene giggles and then shouts, “He’s coming.”
I can’t help but laugh. She’s funny as hell. I love how she makes me feel free to laugh at random shit. Although I haven’t even left the room, I miss her already.
Grabbing my T-shirt from the bed, I slip it over her head. She stuffs her arms through the armholes before grabbing me by the shoulders and turning me towards the door. A shiver of dread runs down my spine. She’s rushing me out the door. I swing around, but she shoves my duffel into my chest so hard I stumble back through the door Michael now holds open.
I quickly regain my balance. What the fuck? Irene leans forward and gives me the most platonic kiss I’ve ever had. “Email me.” And then she closes the damn door in my face.
Rage flows through my veins. What just happened?
Michael takes my bag and walks towards the front door. “We’re late. Let’s go.”
I follow him out to the idling car and hop in.
Irene never answered my question about my return. I should call her before I lose service. Except as I stare at her contact info, I remember she never turned on the phone I gave her this morning. Maybe she’s not going to. She said to email, not call her. But why?
The knot in my stomach is never a good sign. Realizing Michael said something, I glance up to the rearview mirror. “What?”
“When are we coming back?”
I shake my head. He asked when, not if. But either way, I don’t have an answer for him. I stare out the side window. “I’m not sure.”
Chapter 15
Irene
The phone Damien left for me to use sits on the bed next to me. He’s only been gone an hour. I spent the first half hour sitting in the luxurious bathtub, soaking and reliving the last two days with him. For the past thirty minutes, I’ve been staring at the damn phone, fighting the urge to pick it up, call Damien, and tell him to come back as soon as possible. But I know Clayton. If the gossip is true and my cheating ex is trying to locate me, he’s using his firm’s resources to track me down. I’m not the most tech-savvy person, and most of what Clayton rambled on about was so far above my head I simply pretended the unique cell-triangulation technology his firm had developed and sold was interesting. But even I understand if he had put a trace on my cell number, he’d know exactly where to find me as soon as I make a call.
Maybe if I texted Damien really quickly and turned the phone off right away, the trace might not pick it up. Who am I kidding? I can’t use the phone until I’m ready to confront Clayton—and I’m not ready. But what if Damien thinks I’m blowing him off? I’d be risking the possibility of being with someone I actually enjoy being around. I pick up the phone and then drop it like a hot potato. Screw it. I power it on and tap on Damien’s name, which someone programmed as a favorite.
He picks up right away. “Hello.”
I press the phone close. “I miss you already.”
“I’ll come back as soon as the Farrington deal is done, okay?”
The phone vibrates in my hand as texts and messages update. “I can’t wait.” My voice cracks a little as I look down and see Clayton’s name appear over and over in the notifications.
“Are you okay?”
To keep him from worrying, I fake yawn and then say, “Yep. Just tired.”
He has a big deal to close in the morning, and neither of us had gotten much sleep in the last two days. Damien must be exhausted and anxious to address the emails he’d gallantly said he’d deal with on the plane ride back home.
“Get some sleep while you can. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Damn him for knowing the exact words to put me at ease. I yawn for real this time. “Alright. Good night.”
Damien’s rough voice whispers, “Good night.” I hang up and power off the phone, placing it under my pillow. Resting my head on top, I pray Clayton doesn’t appear before I leave on Sunday. I need to enjoy every minute of being safely tucked away on Damien’s island before I have to face the reality of the mess I made back home.
The clinking of a glass being placed on the table next to me breaks my concentration.
Chef Eric peers at my sketch. “Thought you might like a fresh glass of orange juice.”
“Who’s going to spoil me when I go home?” I smile and pick up my drink.
“Is that a trick question?”
He frowns down at me. I’m not sure if it’s because of the conversation, or if the sketches have caught his attention. The page is filled with images of my main character wearing an oversized, slanted chef’s hat that half covers the boy’s eye. The eye not winking at the girl across the counter from him.
I’d started a new storyline yesterday, and I’m already halfway done with the illustrations. Apparently, when I’m left alone and I don’t have to deal with phone calls, emails, or people, I can be rather efficient. The frames of the story, which would normally have taken me two weeks to draft, took me two days. I laugh at myself. Who’s the workaholic now? I haven’t talked to Damien, although he has appeared repeatedly in my thoughts and in many of the pages I’ve managed to sketch. No doubt he’s too busy making money to be sitting around daydreaming about me. Damien is probably surrounded by people needing his attention and having dinners with them. At least I have Chef Eric for company, although he never stays to eat with me. He always quietly sets a plate of finger food nearby—very thoughtful—and hovers close, playing a game or something on his phone. I take a sip of the cold beverage and send up a prayer of thanks for him.
I nearly spill my drink when I catch him contorting to see my sketchbook. Turning it around, I hold it up for him to see.
His lips curve into a lopsided smile as he follows the picture story. “Does the girl break the boy’s heart, or does he win her over?”
“I’m not sure yet—you never know with middle school crushes.”
“I had my heart stomped on once. Valentine’s Day in the sixth grade.” He chuckles at the memory, but the ache in my chest is real. Poor little Chef Eric and his broken heart.
I’m a strong empathic when it comes to rejection, so I meekly say, “I’m sorry.”
He grins. “Why are you sorry? You’re not Emily Han, the heartbreaker.”
“Does she know she broke your heart?”
“Nah.” Chef Eric shook his head. “I should probably ask her if she even remembers ripping the valentine’s poem I wrote for her in half and calling it a poor attempt at Shake
speare.”
I’m pretty sure I look like one of my character sketches—mouth open with shock and blinking wide eyes. “Ask her? You still keep in touch with her?”
With a one-shoulder shrug, he says, “She lives next door to me.”
As far as time went, sixth grade was a long time ago, but it’s obvious it wasn’t that long ago for Chef Eric. He reaches into his back pocket and unlocks his phone before handing it to me. “Crestwater called earlier saying your phone was off. I haven’t seen you use it.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” My mind races with questions. “You can’t just change the topic like that.”
All I get in return are two raised eyebrows and a stern order. “Call Crestwater. He says he needs to talk to you.”
“Fine. But I won’t forget about Miss Heartbreaker-Next-Door.” I take the phone as he heads back inside the house, shaking his head the entire way.
I glance down at the phone to see his background is a selfie. In between the icons, I see he’s smiling in the picture. His perfectly even white teeth are highlighted against his naturally tanned skin, high cheekbones, dark slashing eyebrows, and midnight-black hair. Odd. I’d have never pegged him as the type to have a picture of himself as his background. My thumb accidentally scrolls to the next screen, and without all the icons covering the image, I see her—Miss Heartbreaker-Next-Door. Of course, I suppose it could be anyone, but that wouldn’t make a good story. The woman stands in the background beside a front door labeled 2B, her arms loaded down by bags of groceries. She has a deep burnt-umber color brushed across her cheeks. I squint to study her face. Longing. Regret and something I can’t quite name. Maybe it’s pain. Could she be heartbroken, too?
It could just be my imagination—lots of things in my head are fictitious after all. But I’m pretty good at seeing things in pictures no one else notices, and I think Miss Heartbreaker has the hots for Chef Eric. I grab my sketchbook and jot down Emily Han for future reference since she will forever be in my mind Miss Heartbreaker-Next-Door.
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