by Serena Bell
But as he cursed that stupid, old-fashioned bathing suit, and its unexpected effect on his brain and cock, he knew one thing for sure. He wasn’t ready to have Elisa Henderson walk away from him for good, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to walk away from her.
6
SHE LAY ON the bed in her room. Decompressing. She had slipped into her nightgown to get out of her travel-worn clothing, and because the cool breeziness of the fabric felt good against her hot skin.
There was still a little light in the sky, and she could see the ocean through her open sliding glass doors. She’d consumed most of the room’s gift basket, passion fruits and kiwis, in a frenzy of stress-eating that she’d had to follow up by drinking the orange juice from the minibar.
She’d tucked herself under the bed’s lightweight white quilt and plumped herself up on a stack of feather pillows. So this was how the other half lived. She’d grown up in a small ranch house and shared a bedroom with her sister, their mother running her accounting business out of the other bedroom. Her mom had worn sweats 80 percent of the time, changing only when clients came to the house and did business at the kitchen table. Elisa had never learned to tell a salad fork from a shrimp fork, much less slept under Egyptian cotton sheets. She was hardly the poster child for someone who should be trafficking in image, celebrity or luxury.
But she kind of liked it—the horizon pool, the overeager staff, the flowers and tropical fruit, and white-tiled hotel room floor. She could get used to this, provided Brett behaved and the rest of the weekend went as planned.
She used her smartphone to clean out her email in-box and listen to her voice mail. There was a message from one of her clients, a third-grade teacher. Elisa grinned as she heard Savannah’s giddy voice. “Oh, my God, it was such a good date. I really, really like him, and he kissed me, and seriously you are my fairy godmother. I can’t wait to see you on Tuesday and tell you the whole story. I’m totally not telling it now, because I will clog up your voice mail, but we had such a good time and you were totally right. A jazz club was a way better choice than a movie. We could talk, and he kept leaning close to tell me funny things! Thank you, thank you! See you Tuesday!”
That was what she loved. The joy in Savannah’s voice. The rib-crushing hug Savannah would undoubtedly give her at her next appointment. The details Savannah would dish over tea and shortbread cookies. And good first dates often led to good second dates and on down the line. Elisa couldn’t start writing Savannah’s wedding toast yet, but she’d been to nearly thirty client weddings now, and almost all of those couples had had great first dates. Elisa liked to save the voice mails to replay for her clients when they came in to display their engagement rings. She saved the message, then switched over to read an email that popped up.
It was another Facebook friend request from Brett. She’d refused at least five of his in the past two years. Each one had been an unpleasant tweaking reminder that he still existed. Somehow, despite her refusals, he remained stubbornly optimistic that she’d want to be “friends.”
She deleted the request. She was softening toward him despite herself, and the last thing she needed was to see his face and his news every day.
She texted her sister, Julie. You won’t believe this. Guess who Celine picked up en route and brought to the Caribbean?
george clooney?
Hint: The one topic we never discuss.
Long pause, then, brett???????????
Elisa’s phone rang.
“How does that even happen?” Julie demanded. Her sister’s voice, warm and familiar, was a welcome comfort. It was a miracle that what had happened with Brett and Julie had not poisoned the sisters’ relationship. Elisa thanked God for it all the time. And she thanked God she’d told her sister, that night before Julie had gone out with Brett, “Whatever happens, I don’t want to hear about it. Not a word.” Because she knew there was no way in hell she could stand it. It was only the not-knowing that had made it possible for her and Julie to go on as if nothing had happened.
“I think I’m being punished,” Elisa told Julie.
She explained the whole situation, from the long moments of worrying that Celine hadn’t made the flight, to the drinks date going on in the resort bar at this very moment.
“Does he know how important this is to you?”
“I think so.”
“Tell him if he screws this up for you or Celine, I will kill him.”
Elisa loved her sister’s ferocious protectiveness and wished for the ten-millionth time that Julie lived in New York with her and not on the other side of the country in Seattle. “I’m not worried. Brett’s on board. He’ll finish up with her, and then I’m going to take over, and we’re going to have so much fun she’s going to be too busy to get into trouble.” She knew she sounded like she was trying to convince herself—she was trying to convince herself—but she had to stay positive.
“If anyone can do this, you can. I wish you’d been a dating coach when I was a teenager.”
Julie had spent most of her high school years throwing herself recklessly into relationships with popular older boys and then weeping and sulking through dinner when, inevitably, things didn’t work out for her. Elisa had rarely been able to use the home phone because Julie always tied it up crying to her friends. It was beyond Elisa how Julie could make the same mistake over and over again, but the pattern had continued to the present day.
It was possible, Elisa sometimes thought, that she’d become a dating coach partially to alleviate the frustration of watching helplessly as Julie flung herself against a brick wall, but of course she’d never told her sister.
“You just say the word, Jules. I’ll drop everything and work with you.”
“You’ve got bigger and better things going on.” If there was any hint of sadness in her voice, it was overshadowed by her clear pride in Elisa’s work. “Next week, your phone’ll be ringing off the hook.”
“Your mouth, God’s ear.” She was tempted to knock on wood.
Julie sighed. “I should let you go. You’ve got a long evening ahead of you, huh?”
“Yeah. Glad you called, Jules.”
“Good to hear your voice, Lise.”
“Love you.”
“You, too.”
She set the phone on the night table and collapsed back on her throne of pillows. For the first time today, she was alone and not desperately trying to fix this star-crossed weekend. The lack of imminent disaster felt glorious. Across the resort, Celine and Brett had met for their fake destination date, and that would close the door on all this silliness. Brett would fly home, and she and Celine would do their boot camp weekend, and maybe, just maybe, everything wouldn’t fall apart. This could still become a victory for Rendezvous.
Her business was so new. She had a great start, but her ambitions were even grander. Eighteen months ago, things had been different. She’d been a cog in a wheel, a senior “relationship guru” at a matchmaking franchise. She got a salary, and in exchange, she followed rules. This many matches per week. This many dates per month for each client. This many new clients. Numbers were the point, regardless of whether the matches made sense or the dates were meaningful or the clients were admirable human beings.
She’d followed the rules at first, but after a year, she’d started to see how those regulations made things worse for women who’d been through dating hell. Meaningless dates translated to more rejections. Bad matches led to more breakups. Elisa did better—meaning she made more women happier—when she followed her own guidelines, setting up dates only between people she genuinely believed would like each other and pushing for ongoing contact only for couples she truly thought had a future. The number of solid-looking marriages that came from her work—the only measure that mattered to her—was better than anyone else’s in the company.
Maybe
the franchise owner was jealous of Elisa’s success, or maybe she’d just drunk way too much Kool-Aid, but for whatever reason, she cracked down on Elisa with full force, putting her on notice. The owner told her that she had to make her quota in the last ten days of the month. There was no way Elisa could do that without sacrificing her clients’ happiness, and she told her boss so.
Her boss fired her without notice. Elisa left the office with only her contact list—partly because no one had told her that she couldn’t take it with her, but mostly because she would have died before she’d leave her clients hanging. She planned to call every one of them to let them know she’d left and to apologize for having to abandon them while they were still single.
Only it hadn’t worked out that way. Every client she’d called had begged her to take them with her.
At first she’d laughed. It had seemed like a crazy joke. Of course she couldn’t take them with her. She didn’t have a job, and there was no way she was going to start making matches out of her living room.
But that’s what they wanted. They pleaded with her. They told her that they’d meet with her in a coffee shop, the park, their own living rooms, if that was what it took. They said she made them feel good about themselves. She boosted their confidence, offered them control of their destinies.
She convinced them they didn’t have to date jerks.
The outpouring of support made her cry, and then it bolstered her. Why couldn’t she do it? All she needed were clients, a telephone, an office and maybe—down the line—an assistant. That wasn’t so much, really. She’d taken out a loan to get the office space, set up a business and gradually transitioned her title from “matchmaker” to “dating coach,” bringing in new clients and adding services. Evening and weekend workshops and classes. Boot camp outings. Boot camp weekends.
Things were looking good, but she dreamed of offering her services to a wider audience, of evangelizing the notion of hiring a dating coach. If she could grow demand, if she could increase her own reach....
Six months ago she’d been grateful to still have clients. Now she wanted more.
She’d confessed her ambitions to Julie, who’d been incredibly supportive. “Not more, bigger. Celebrities. Because if you do that, the idea of hiring a dating coach enters the popular consciousness. And if you’re the dating coach that all the big names have, you’re the person everyone wants. They know, if you’re good enough for Mila Kunis, you’re good enough for them.”
“But how do you get into that market? You have to have a celebrity to get the celebrities, right?”
Julie had puzzled over that for a minute, then said, “I know someone who knows Celine Carr’s publicist.”
And two days later, Haven had returned her call.
“Celine’s not easy,” Haven had said. “And she’s made more of a mess of dating than just about any other aspect of her life.”
Elisa doubted that, because she knew Celine’s brief stint in rehab had been followed not a year later by a term in an eating disorder clinic, or so the tabloids and entertainment magazines had said. But maybe that wasn’t true. Look at how news was born—by crazed, aggressive paparazzi. It was a wonder anything factual ever got printed.
“We’ve got image consultants, we have all that stuff going on,” Haven said. “You can focus completely on the dating stuff. I’ve heard great things about you. But I’d like to meet you before I make a decision.”
Haven had arranged a meeting, and Elisa and Celine had immediately hit it off. Or at least Elisa had been charmed by Celine, and Haven had told Elisa, “You’re amazing with her. She listens to you. If anyone can get her to shape up, you’re my gal.”
Since then, Elisa and Celine had met almost weekly, working on Celine’s self-image, talking about what the star wanted from a relationship and discussing strategies for a healthy approach to dating.
Which was why it was a bit of a mystery to Elisa why Celine was still picking up strange men in drugstores. Elisa would have to address that one with Celine later tonight.
Elisa had aimed for nonchalance when she’d told Brett about her phone conversation with Haven this afternoon, but it had been a little tenser than Elisa had let on. Haven had been pretty riled up when she’d heard about the paparazzo on the plane. She’d been torn between staying with her mom in the hospital and flying to St. Barts to check out the situation for herself. Elisa had reassured Haven a million times that the situation was under control, but Haven kept saying, “You don’t know Celine.” Finally Haven had said she’d take a look at what, if any, photos or other material had made it online and would decide based on that whether she thought Elisa needed reinforcements.
Elisa would have to make sure that everything else went smoothly from this point on. When Brett and Celine were done, Celine’s evening with Elisa would start. If Elisa and Celine wanted to make the most of the setting, and generate useful promo footage, they probably wouldn’t go to bed ’til 2:00 a.m. or later.
What an exhausting thought. Julie had been right when she’d said Elisa had a long evening ahead of her.
She let her eyes fall closed. She’d have a cat nap. Just enough to take the edge off.
But she was restless, and she knew why. Brett. He’d had on a T-shirt at the pool, but it had cleaved to his shoulders and chest. And under his board shorts, his hips had been narrow, his legs gorgeously muscled.
Thou shalt not covet thy client’s date.
Oh, but she did. She coveted. When he’d stood over her on the plane, at the pool, she’d been reminded of his size and strength. Of the way he’d overwhelmed her that night on her couch. Stolen her breath out of her body.
You can’t have him. Even if he weren’t Celine’s date, even if this wasn’t a gigantic mess, you can’t have him. He doesn’t want to be had.
Her libido didn’t care. It just remembered the rush of pleasure she’d felt when Brett had kissed her. The surge of liquid heat, the slickness between her legs, the way the craving expressed itself in her fingers and toes and eyelashes and freckles.
Her breathing quickened, and casually, as if she might fool herself into thinking she hadn’t done it on purpose, she eased her hand between her legs, over her nightgown and panties. She could feel her heat through the layers. The fabric dispersed the vibrations, the tease more provocative than a sterner touch.
A knock at the door startled her.
“Go away,” she whispered.
Her mind raced. It couldn’t be Celine or Brett. Maybe it was someone from the hotel, checking to make sure she had everything she needed. Or her videographer. Or a reporter. In any case, she had to get up. She dragged herself off the bed and peeked through the peephole.
It was Brett. Without Celine. And he looked worried. That was not good. She couldn’t remember ever having seen Brett look worried before.
She swung open the door, then remembered she was wearing her nightgown. She felt exposed, standing there in the doorway, her nipples taut under the thin fabric. She was hyperaware of what she’d been up to only moments before, of the wet heat that had gathered between her legs, of her own shame and excitement. His gaze dropped to her breasts, just for a second. She should excuse herself, run to the bathroom, and put on a bra and a T-shirt. Despite her concern about Celine, she suddenly wished for a reason to linger here, under his gaze.
Wanting that pissed her off. She knew exactly how little that gaze of his meant, and she still craved it. Him. She wanted him to look at her breasts again, and she wanted to slam the door in his face, in equal measures.
She forced herself back to the moment. “Where’s Celine?”
“She’s doing karaoke with the paparazzo from the plane. Steve. Steve Flynn. He introduced himself and asked if she wanted to get up there with him. I tried to intervene, but short of physical restraint, there was no way.”
Elisa�
��s heart sank. “Oh, shit.”
Brett nodded. “And she’s pretty drunk.”
“You left her alone?”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I left my cell in my room, and she wasn’t interested in listening to me. It was faster to just come here than to go back to my room and call you. I figure she’ll listen to you.”
Elisa’s mind ran rapidly over the contours of the scenario. “Morrow is down there?”
He looked at her blankly.
“Videographer,” she explained. “Short, bald, speaks in very short sentences, and last seen in a heinous aqua polo shirt?”
“Yeah.”
“Filming?”
“I think so. Where’d you find him? Nice guy, but not chatty.”
She laughed, despite her worry. “He came highly recommended from a bunch of people, and I loved his work. He’s the best freelance videographer for promo in New York. Were there other photographers down there?”
“That blond woman. And there was another guy with a camera—didn’t recognize him.”
“Crap. We’d better get back down there.” She was about to follow him out of her hotel room when she remembered what she was wearing. “Let me go change.”
He caught her wrist in one hand. “I don’t know. You look pretty great in that.”
Maybe it was all the adrenaline already surging through her body, maybe it was the smell of ocean air and sound of surf, or maybe it was the echo of her fingertips brushing over her swollen sex through her clothes, but his compliment sent a rush of heat into the pit of her belly. A matching flush warmed her cheeks. What was he doing?