His teeth flash in a smile. “I can check the pantry downstairs if you like. They keep it well-stocked.”
I shake my head. “That won’t be necessary.”
“No?”
I can tell he is disappointed, but Finn was always a gentleman. “His heart is whole,” my mama used to say of him, leaving the unlike Tucker part unspoken.
The wine has made me mellow, and I’ve been half-slumped in the love seat. Now I straighten. I’m going to regret this in the morning, and possibly for many days to come, but I knew what I was going to do when I accepted Finn’s invitation.
I set my glass down on the patio.
At some point in the last hour, Finn pulled off the ridiculous hat and let it puddle to the left of his feet. I bend to retrieve it now, reaching over him, resting one hand on his knee for balance. I feel his abrupt intake of breath when my fingers make contact, and his absolute stillness when my breast brushes his leg.
His eyes glitter with heat and remain unswervingly on mine as I straighten. I smooth the cap over his hair and wind my hands in the faux dreads. Then I slowly recline, pulling him down to me.
“Oh, Liv,” he says on a groan as his pelvis meets the cradle of mine. “God.”
I couldn’t speak if I tried, too overcome with the welcome weight of him, the warmth of him. It has been too long. A decade. A lifetime.
When he bends to me, an errant strand of fake hair lands between our mouths, and while I laugh, he is all impatience now. One arm comes up and the hat is just gone, whizzing off into the starlight to join the bats and the darting insects. Our lips finally meet.
His mouth is firm and warm. He tastes of rum and Finn and a time when I had so very little but felt so very hopeful. He tastes of home.
What are you doing, Liv? a little voice says. He’s your boss, which poses a whole set of problems. And you’re lying to him. He doesn’t even know who he’s kissing.
But Finn shifts the angle of his mouth and our tongues touch. Something breaks loose in us both. I spear my fingers through his real hair, marveling at how he can be soft in some places, yet necessarily hard in others.
After a time, he ducks his head and nuzzles my neck, behind my ear. My breath is coming in quick pants as he follows a tendon down to my shoulder. He nips me, then uses his teeth to untie the strap of my sundress.
“That silly shoestring has been driving me crazy,” he says, and I laugh, extraordinarily glad I was wearing something pretty when I hopped into rescue mode.
While he’s working on the other strap, I run a finger around the shell of his ear and find the rough spot I noticed earlier. “What happened here? And here?” I gently stroke the bruise on his forehead.
He stiffens momentarily then shakes his head. “Later.” Then his mouth is on me, his tongue laving my nipple, and the stars reconfigure themselves as I go cross-eyed.
As he moves to the other breast, I glide my hands down his back, to where his shirt meets his pants. I tunnel under the fabric, lower still, feeling the smooth skin of his buttocks. His muscles flex as we both seek more friction.
Finn pulls back his head. Most of his face is in shadow, but his mouth is wet and swollen. “Come to bed with me,” he says, in a voice grown hoarse.
“A bed? Imagine that.”
He stands and adjusts an impressive erection before holding out a hand to me. I run a playful finger up his bulge, then place my fingers in his, gasping as I’m abruptly pulled to my feet and upended over his shoulder. The top of a palm tree goes bobbing past, followed by another. In my last glimpse of the rooftop patio, I see the hat lying splayed in the pool like a stationary, Rastafarian octopus.
He is sure-footed on the stairs and then we are in the master bedroom, facing one another in dappled moonlight.
“I want that dress off. Now,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “So impatient.” Since my bodice is already around my waist, it’s but the work of a moment to comply. And then I am naked except for a scrap of lace.
Finn’s eyes say there’s nothing about my fifteen extra pounds that he doesn’t appreciate.
“Your turn,” I say, and go to provide assistance. He starts on his shirt buttons while I grab his belt. I’ve worked the hasp free when a sound permeates the room, making me jump. It’s coming from behind Finn, from his rear pocket.
A ringtone. Big Ben, if I’m not mistaken.
He swears and runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. His expression is anguished. “It’s London. I have to take it.” I nod and he puts the phone to his ear. “Wakefield,” he says briskly.
I sit on the bedspread, but by the short burst of questions on Finn’s end, it’s soon obvious the problem is significant and complex.
I see London, I see France. Liv won’t be shedding her underpants.
“I’m sorry,” he mouths as I slip on my dress and kiss his cheek. It’s some comfort that he looks as miserable as I feel.
I tiptoe down the stairs and am almost out of the house before I turn back to the fridge, for the rest of the Riesling. I can feel the onslaught of a regret hangover already. Might as well commit and make it a physical one, too.
CHAPTER 13
LIV
The following morning, a headache is the least of my concerns.
In the ballroom, we continue in our indoor groups until noon, working on “harmonizing workflow structures, philosophies, and corporate methodologies,” which sounds like total chi-chi BS, but is actually going to have practical benefits. When we go home, I’ll know my counterparts in Head Office, the personnel to call for certain decisions, and the tools and nomenclature they’ll use.
But Tucker is pale and irritable throughout. He wears a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, presumably to cover the absent hemi-brow. It’s a violation of the business-casual dress code and earns him a number of glances from Yolanda. When I whisper as much to him, he snaps at me.
Of course, Yolanda notices that, too.
Tucker has obviously cast my actions last night as a betrayal. At the break, rather than deal with his ongoing hostility, I move seats.
There is no sign of Finn, which theoretically should make things easier. But I spend half my time watching the door. I’m nervous about whether Tucker will openly challenge Finn when they next meet, not to mention how Finn and I will navigate last night’s unconsummated, half-naked interlude.
I’ve already decided last night was a mistake that can’t be repeated. I have no idea how Finn will respond, or even if he’ll care.
Then at lunch, just before I go to change for the afternoon’s outdoor activities, I walk into the ladies’ room and find Georgia hunched over a sink. She has both palms on the marble counter and is staring into the mirror with a hopeless expression. Fat, lazy teardrops roll down her cheeks and splash in the basin.
She jerks upright when she sees me and reaches for a hand towel. “Hoo-boy. It’s so hot out there I have to splash off to cool down.”
Eventually I persuade her to tell me what’s wrong.
“I heard rumors about the challenge this afternoon.” Her eyes glisten anew.
“And?”
“If they’re true, I can’t do it. This one’ll be too much for me.”
“There’s been a hack for every other session,” I say. “We’ll find one here, too.”
But a half hour later I want to eat my words.
On the south-facing lawn, we are greeted by two giant cushions. They are of the variety and size typically used on movie sets for films requiring aerial stunts. Above them, from the hotel’s third floor, a knotted rope dangles from each of two open windows.
As the white team gathers, the only good thing about the upcoming challenge is that the Finn-Tucker rivalry appears to be on ice. And after Finn and I exchange an awkward first smile, there’s no time to be self-conscious.
“Are they asking us to do what I think they’re asking us to do?” Roger asks.
We all look to Finn, who shrugs. “Even if I could
give advice, I’ve never seen this exercise before.”
“Please tell me we’re not going up there,” Kimberly says.
Even Princess sounds discouraged as she says, “‘If I ascend to heaven, You are there.’ Psalm 139, verse 8.”
“You’re just psyched out because we’re outside,” Tucker says. “Think of it like gym class.”
“Exactly my point,” Kimberly says. “I hated gym.”
Georgia is holding both hands to her mouth and shaking her head non-stop. Over her fingers, her eyes are wide and dismayed. “I can’t do it, everyone,” she says in a muffled voice. “I’m sorry. I’m dog-daggone afraid of heights.”
Princess and I put our arms around her shoulders while Finn gives her forearm a squeeze.
“I’m not so fond of them myself,” Kimberly says, craning her neck upwards. “And I have lousy upper body strength.”
“If we can figure out how to reach the rope, we’ll tie a loop at the bottom and haul you up,” Tad says. He addresses Georgia. “Then all you have to do is hang on.”
“Doesn’t matter. I can’t do it,” Georgia says. “I’m telling you right now that if I have to go up, this gig ain’t goin’ down.”
“Looks like you’re not the only one having trouble.” Roger points to the blue team, which is clumped around a stout man in his mid-forties. He is red-faced and bent at the waist, hyperventilating while the others pat his back.
“That’s Sam from Marketing,” Princess says. “I didn’t know he was afraid of heights. In fact—” She frowns and shakes her head. “I thought he went skydiving a few years back. But I’m probably misremembering.”
“Phobias can hit when you’re older,” Finn says. “I was eighteen.”
“Let’s not panic.” I shoot Finn an appreciative smile and try to project more confidence than I’m feeling. “If we stay loose and creative, we’ll come through this.”
A whistle blast comes as if on cue. The crowd falls silent as we turn to face Yolanda, who stands on a raised platform.
Whereas yesterday she had been dressed as if she were one of us, in shorts and a brightly colored T-shirt, today’s outfit sets a different tone. She wears a navy-colored short-sleeved shirt and white puddle jumpers, each pressed to within an inch of its life. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun and topped by a white captain’s hat. Her eyes are obscured by mirrored sunglasses, the overall effect being vaguely military.
“Good afternoon, people,” she says with a broad smile. “Welcome to the final round of the Wakefield team-building competition. If you are not on the navy-blue or white teams, I’ll ask you to take a seat on the lawn to either side of me. You will not be competing today.”
Georgia groans. “Wish that was me.”
She’s not alone in her sentiment. There are plenty of relieved faces among the people sitting down.
“White and blue teams,” Yolanda says, when order has been reestablished, “congratulations. As the two top-scoring teams, you have won the right to vie for the grand prize. The runner-up team will receive—” she draws out the pause “—a spa certificate worth five hundred dollars. You can redeem that here, before the wrap-up party tomorrow, or back in the States at a spa of your choosing.”
Roger and Tad exchange eye rolls. I have to admit I’m disappointed, too.
“The winning-team’s members will receive…a week-long, all-expense-paid trip for two to…Paris.”
There’s a collective gasp, and Princess, beside me, gives a little scream and quick hop into the air.
Georgia looks like she’s going to faint.
I turn and look at the rope. All along, though I’ve gotten into the spirit of competition, I’ve been treating this contest like a joke. Truthfully, I never thought we’d even get this far.
But I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. Always. And with my budget, this could be my one chance. It is possible we can pull this off?
“Now your marching orders.” Yolanda pulls out her now-infamous recipe card instructions, which I have grown to appreciate as being carefully worded so as to provide creative wiggle room.
“Your goal is to be the first team to get all team members inside the overhead room via the open window. Members may climb the rope themselves, or be pulled up by others on the team, or some combination thereof. I repeat, the winning team is the first team to get all members inside the overhead room via the window.” She drops the hand holding the card to her side. “That’s it. Do you have any questions?”
Into the stunned silence, she gives us our two-minute warning.
The white team turns to look at me, hope in their eyes, but I shake my head. I don’t see any loophole. The one thought I’d had before Yolanda read the instructions was to send someone agile up the rope and into the room, to unlock the room door, if necessary. Meanwhile, the rest of us would dash up the stairs. But with her specificity about the window, Yolanda removed that option.
All of which means, assuming we can conquer the athletic challenges—and that’s a big if—winning will come down to which group is first able to get their nervous teammate to climb.
Talk about pressure for poor Georgia and Sam. Could Yolanda really be that sadistic?
I look at her, strutting back and forth on her platform with her clipboard, and decide, Yes. Yes she could.
Nor can it be an accident that our teams are “balanced” by the number of vulnerable teammates. She is fully expecting us to wrestle with this.
Roger claps his hands and reminds us the clock is ticking. “Okay, strategy… Anyone got anything?”
“Our first problem is reaching the rope,” Tucker says. “We can form a human pyramid, but the mat is going to make footing a challenge. And then what will we do for the last couple of people? There’ll be no one to help them up.”
“Maybe we have to get in the room to figure out the next step,” Princess says tentatively. “Like those tests you do in school. You know the ones where you have to read all the instructions first, and on page three you learn you only have to sign your name to get a perfect score.”
We all look at her in astonishment. I think this is the first practical suggestion she has contributed.
“That’s brilliant,” Kimberly says, just as Yolanda gives the one-minute warning.
“Let’s get someone up there quickly,” Finn says thoughtfully. “Maybe there’s a way to lengthen the rope. Curtains or bed sheets, or something.” Then he realizes he’s spoken, against Yolanda’s explicit instructions, and says, “Oops,” while the rest of us grin at him.
Finn’s eyes meet mine for a second, and there’s a moment when they turn from amused to remembered heat. I look away, feeling my cheeks warm, hoping no one else noticed.
Tucker cuts in, as if Finn’s contribution can’t be allowed to stand more than a second. “I’ll go. Maybe I can rig up a makeshift pulley system.”
“See if you can construct a harness,” Tad says. “Or at the very least a loop at the bottom.”
“Whatever you do, make sure it’s safe,” Kimberly says, with a nervous glance at the mat. “I don’t want to fall.”
Georgia moans just as the starting whistle blows.
CHAPTER 14
LIV
We haven’t had time to establish who will help Tucker reach the rope, but Finn, Tad and Roger climb onto the mat with him while Kimberly and Princess gather nearby, on the ground. There’s a period where the men jockey to gain their balance, but soon they’re standing like a level pyramid, arms braced around each other’s shoulders as Tucker climbs.
Maybe it’s my angle, but Tucker seems to be putting undue stress on Finn, whose face shows strain. Then I’m certain Tucker’s doing it deliberately, because as he leaps for the rope, it’s Finn’s head that supports Tucker’s sneakered foot.
I could kill Tucker for that.
But for now, Finn can take of himself. Not only is he capable, there is someone whose battle is personal, and occurring on a far grander scale.
“Listen, my
mom has super bad anxiety,” I say to Georgia. “When she has to do something unpleasant, she uses these breathing exercises her psychologist taught her. I can explain them to you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Tucker pulling himself over the window ledge above. Then the rope disappears inside with him. He must have found something useful.
Meanwhile the blue team is on the mat, struggling to catch their balance, never mind reach the rope.
“You gonna cure me in sixty seconds?” Georgia asks.
I shrug. “I can try.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Georgia says with heavy skepticism.
Tucker’s shoulders and head reappear in the window. He feeds out the rope, which now has a loop tied at the very bottom. It’s just big enough to permit entry of a foot or a hand. I can’t see how that will help, considering the loop’s formation has to have made the rope shorter—ergo harder to reach. Then the rope descends, and descends, and actually touches the mat as the men on our team grin and high-five one another. Tucker has lengthened it by tying two knotted bed sheets together.
Now Roger is climbing up, hand over hand, presumably to test the compound rope’s performance. He disappears into the window in no time. Who knew a pencil-pusher would have so much strength?
The blue team is still struggling to get their first person up.
“So…breathing exercises,” I say, turning back to Georgia. “Not exciting, but do you have a better idea?”
“As a matter of fact I do. How about if I just sit myself down right here—” she points at the ground “—and work on not vomiting? That be okay with you?”
“It’s that bad?”“Yes, girl. I’ve been telling you.” Georgia’s voice is climbing in pitch. “What part of I’m terrified don’t you understand?”
“Sorry,” I say. She’s too agitated to hear anything right now, so I turn and watch as Tad inserts one foot into the loop. Overhead, Roger and Tucker start hauling on the bed sheets. As Tad is pulled upward, he keeps his lanky body close to the rope. Meanwhile, he uses his free leg to push off the hotel’s stucco facade, like a reverse form of rappelling. It’s surprisingly effective. Suddenly we have three people up in the room while the blue team continues to work on their first.
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