Still So Hot!

by Serena Bell

  “With this.” She gestured at him, at them—but of course, there was no them. That was the whole point.

  “I can’t do this. Be your friend.”

  He set down the white takeout boxes of pancakes and moo shu and came toward her. “Elisa, what are you talking about?”

  “I don’t think we should be friends.”

  “Elisa, I was drunk.”

  “It’s not about that.” Because what else could she say? She couldn’t beg him to feel about that kiss the way she’d felt about it. She couldn’t make him want her with the same ferocity she’d wanted him.

  He held up his hands. “Okay. Let’s calm down here. I knew you were gonna be mad about the Julie thing.”

  He moved as if to pat her arm, but she jerked out of his reach. “Don’t touch me.”

  Or I will cry. Or I will tell you everything. Or I will beg you to love me.

  She had seen how that story ended, with crying and stupid too-late laments. And long phone conversations with friends who would say, I don’t know why he doesn’t love you, when in fact anyone could have seen the writing on the wall. He doesn’t love you because he’s a commitment-phobic asshole.

  “Lise, come on.” His forehead was all wrinkled-up bulldog concern. “If you’re mad about Julie, you don’t have to be. We—”

  “Stop.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want you to talk about Julie. Or anything.”

  She was seconds, millimeters, away from telling him how little Julie had to do with the way she was feeling. But what would be the point of that? So she could lay her raw feelings bare, and he could very, very gently tell her he didn’t feel that way about her, and then their friendship would be over anyway?

  “That’s not the point,” she said. “The point is that you treat women like they’re dispensable. And I can’t get past that any more.”

  If he’d gotten mad, the whole mess might have been washed away in the heat of a good, thorough fight. The truth might have come out, the words spilling from her lips, for better or for worse. I need you. I need more of what we did. I need all of what we could be.

  But he didn’t get mad.

  He laughed. It wasn’t even a real laugh. It was his mellow-guy Isn’t she cute? chuckle.

  “Get out,” she said.

  “Elisa, come on.”

  “Just leave.”

  “Lise. Seriously.”

  “Get out!”

  He backed toward the door, his hands up again. She gathered up the food, shoving it into the bag. She thrust it all toward him, but he wouldn’t take it. “It’s yours. I brought it for you.”

  How could one man be so nice and such an asshole at the same time? It was completely mystifying.

  “At least take the movie,” she demanded. “I don’t want to have to return it.”

  He took it. His eyes were concerned now. “We’ll get together soon, when you’re feeling better.”

  Oh, no, no, no, he hadn’t just said that. Her feelings weren’t a disease.

  She flung open the door and pointed into the hallway.

  He hesitated a moment before he stepped out. “Call me?”

  But of course she hadn’t. Nor had she returned his calls or his emails. At first it had been hard. Every one had been a huge internal battle—her craving for his company, her longing to see his smile and hear his banter versus the knowledge that she was doing the right thing for herself. And maybe for him. Maybe, just maybe, he’d see how it wasn’t okay, what he’d done to Julie or any of the others.

  It had gotten easier over time, but there had still been a terrible moment when she realized the calls and the texts and the emails and the friend requests had stopped. She was surrounded by silence, and in her life was a Brett-shaped hole.

  That was the moment she knew it was really and truly over.

  9

  ELISA DRAGGED HERSELF up through layers of sleep. She had dozed only in fits and spurts, no more than forty-five minutes at a stretch. Her whole body ached from the thin mattress on the rollaway bed the bellhop had delivered last night.

  She’d awakened over and over with a confused sense of anticipation and dread. That kiss. Would it happen again? It couldn’t. And she had done everything in her power to make sure it couldn’t. Yet—

  He’d asked her, half in jest, if her dating coach skills meant she was a dating superstar. If only he knew. She’d dated plenty of men in New York, sure. She knew how to get a first date and a second date and a third date. She loved those third dates. The flowers, the romantic dinners, the poetic speeches, the seduction scenes and the thousand little moments of truth that followed: Would his apartment be clean? Would his bed be made? Would he bother with kissing or go as quickly as possible to the main event? She loved the main event.

  But relationships?

  Two since college. Both under six months in length and none in the past two years.

  She knew she couldn’t blame Brett Jordan for all of it. She was a big girl and had to own her romantic failures. She was a dating coach, and if she’d been her own client, she would have given herself a big lecture about being too picky. “Lose the list,” she’d have said, as she often did to her clients who had pages of criteria for a mate. “You can keep one deal breaker, but that’s it.” Yet she’d been unwilling to lose her list, hiding behind smart, well-educated, good earner, at least five-ten. And that was her problem, hers alone. She also knew—

  For almost a decade, she had been waiting for a third date that would merit a fourth. And last night, Brett had kissed her, and she’d known. That was what she’d been waiting for. Him. Her deal breaker had always been not Brett Jordan.

  It was a tug-of-war of emotions. He wants me, after all. Then, I’d have to be crazy to let him touch me again. He’s a one-man wrecking machine, and I’m a building that’s already been demolished once.

  She dug her face out of the pillow. Sunlight poured around the edges of the drapes, and the big bed was empty, the covers thrown back. She listened for the sound of movement but heard nothing either on the balcony or in the bathroom. She got up and checked both locations, but Celine was nowhere in the room.

  She grabbed her phone and texted Celine, then called. It rang and rang before going to voice mail. “I need to know where you are, Celine. Call me as soon as you can.” Don’t freak out, she told herself. She could be getting breakfast downstairs. She could be sitting at the pool.

  It was almost ten. At five o’clock she had told herself she’d stay on the cot ’til six, then get up and go swim laps. Apparently her exhausted body had had other ideas.

  Haven was scheduled to arrive on St. Barts just before noon. Elisa had two hours to find Celine—plenty of time if the actress wanted to be found.

  Elisa got up and dressed quickly in khaki capris and a plain pink T-shirt. She hastily pulled her hair back in a ponytail, brushed her teeth, smoothed on lip gloss, frowned at herself in the mirror and went out.

  Celine was not in the resort’s breakfast room, a big white room with floor-to-ceiling windows. Neither was she tucked into a corner of the bar where some resort patrons were beginning their day early, although Elisa found the bartender from last night, drying glasses with a towel. He was a rough-faced man in his late thirties or early forties with early morning shadow.

  “Did you go to sleep last night?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Yeah. I just got in a few minutes ago. Bad scheduling. I feel like a wrung-out rag.” He demonstrated, then tossed the towel somewhere behind the bar and took out a fresh one.

  “Me, too. Hey, you know the girl who fell off the bar last night?”

  “Sure. Celine Carr, right? Love her show.”

  Of course he did.

  “Have you seen her? Or,
you know, any fuss that would indicate she’s been around?”

  “Nope.” He hung a glass on the rack above his head. “You want me to give her a message if I do?”

  “Call Elisa ASAP.”

  “I can do that. Hey, have you checked out the pool? That’s where most people end up when they get lost.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Elisa’s footsteps picked up with her heartbeat, and she jogged out to the pool. The sun poured down, and the fragrance of flowers was stronger than it had been yesterday afternoon. There were stacks of pristine white towels in rolling carts at both ends of the pool, but no Celine.

  You are not her keeper. You are not even her publicist. You’re not in charge of her safety.

  “No,” she muttered to herself, “but my reputation and personal happiness depend on her not doing anything outrageously stupid.”

  She took out her phone. She should call or text Haven, because maybe—maybe?—Celine had checked in with her. But Haven was on a flight from New York to St. Maarten at the moment. And just in case Elisa managed to locate Celine before Haven landed, maybe it wasn’t worth getting Haven all riled up.

  She tried Celine one more time. No answer. She left another message.

  She made herself walk slowly to Brett’s room. She did not want to arrive out of breath and panicked.

  She knocked, and he answered right away.

  Oh, holy—

  It was like taking a body blow—all the air went out of her.

  He wore a pair of cut-off black sweats and nothing else. His shoulders were broad, his chest gorgeously defined, his hips narrow, his well-muscled legs covered with brown curls she wanted to brush her hand across.

  She raised her eyes and saw that she’d been caught staring. He was grinning, predatory, but she couldn’t be his prey. She was here to boot Celine Carr’s butt into twenty-first-century-dating shape, and she couldn’t let Brett Jordan’s physical perfection distract her.

  With effort, she fixed her eyes on his face and her thoughts on the problem she’d come here to solve. “Celine’s missing.”

  He grew serious. “How missing? Missing from the resort?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not eating in the breakfast room or the bar. She’s not at the pool. I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Did you text her?”

  She glared. “Yes. And called. She didn’t answer.”

  “Do you guys have a contract? Can you threaten legal action if she doesn’t show?”

  She frowned. “I guess I could. If I thought it would work.”

  “I didn’t know she could get around on that ankle.”

  “That’s what worries me. She must have had some help.”

  “Steve?”

  She nodded. “Haven’s going to be here soon. I don’t want to have to tell her I lost Celine to a paparazzo.”

  Unconsciously he rubbed his palm over his chest. She wanted to follow his hand with hers over the contours of his picture-perfect pecs.

  But she also wanted him to put a shirt on.

  “Can I help look for her?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  He grinned. “I can think of some better ways we could spend the morning. But no, I don’t mind.”

  She couldn’t tell if the sexy significance in his words was deliberate. He could have meant they should get some chocolate croissants and sit by the pool. But intentional or not, the suggestion in his voice curled itself around her internal organs.

  She took a step back. Another foot of distance wouldn’t do anything to staunch the flood of pheromones, but at least it would put her out of scent range. She guessed he hadn’t showered yet, because musk had won out over Pert Plus. Maybe that was her problem. If he smelled like soap and shampoo, generic and clean, she’d be saner. But he smelled like man and, worse, like no one but himself.

  God, she was lame. A little male sweat and she was done in.

  She had to get herself out of here before she shoved him back into the room and followed him down onto the bed.

  He surprised her by laying his hand on her cheek. It was warm and strong, and all she wanted at that moment was to turn her head and press her lips into his palm. His fingertips moved lightly, gently, over her skin. “I know I said you could turn this all around today. I believe you can, if that’s really what you want. But are you sure it is? To spend your Caribbean weekend chasing after a spoiled superstar who doesn’t really want your help? My best friend used to say, ‘If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.’”

  All she could think about was his touch on her cheek and the last thing he’d said. His best friend. She shouldn’t care, had spent years trying not to care, but she did. All these months, it turned out, what she had truly wanted was for him to find her and tell her that she was too important for him to lose. “Was I? Your best friend?”

  His fingers moved into her hair, and his left hand came up to her other cheek. His face was very close to hers. She could see the roughness of his beard shadow, the softness of his mouth. She could feel his breath moving over her face. “You are. You never stopped being.”

  She was breathless. “I haven’t been a very good friend.”

  “You can make it up to me.”

  His lips came down on hers. She didn’t have time to protest. His mouth was hot and open, no preliminaries. His tongue swept in, owning her, and she grabbed his arms to steady herself, a low moan escaping. He made an answering sound, a growl she could feel like a vibration in his chest.

  This was what she had always wanted, all those years when she had sat on his dorm room floor or his apartment couch and listened to the stories of his latest conquests. This was what she still wanted, what she had been trying to protect herself from. She should put a stop to it as soon as possible if she didn’t want to find herself broken and washed up on some emotional shore. She pushed against his arms, but feebly. She couldn’t stop herself.

  Still, he let go, stepping back, dropping his hands from her face.

  “You’re Celine’s date.”

  He shook his head, obviously frustrated.

  “That’s why you’re here.” She didn’t let her eyes drop from his face, afraid if she saw that he was hard under those loose shorts, she’d abandon her resolve.

  “Elisa—”

  “I can’t. I’m her dating coach, for Pete’s sake. And there’s a whole history between you and me. I can’t forget that.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face, mussing his hair again. “I’m sorry about your sister. But I want another chance. I want to start over, and I want it to be like this—” He gestured, encompassing them, the kissing, the heat. “And this time I won’t do anything dumb like that. Like going out with your sister.”

  “I’m Celine’s dating coach,” she repeated, because it was the safest argument against what she really wanted, the safest way to make herself behave. “And I need to go figure out what the hell she’s up to.”

  His hand made one last pass over his face, rubbing at his temple. “Okay. Let me put on some clothes. I’ll help you. But soon—later—I’m going to convince you to give this another shot.”

  They’d see about that. She had a job to do and ethics to be true to. No promises would make her believe things would be any different this time around.

  He closed the door between them, but she couldn’t help thinking about what he was doing in there. Letting the soft black sweatshorts drop to the floor. Pulling on underwear—two years ago he’d worn boxer briefs, which she knew because they were draped over every surface of his dorm room and, later, apartment. She wondered if, like some men, he took an extra moment to settle himself in his shorts, a moment she’d always savored when watching her lovers dress. Then he’d pull on slacks and a T-shirt, or maybe shorts and a T-shirt, the T-shirt clingi
ng to the muscles in his torso like a second skin. She was partial to plain tees with a little bit of elastic in the knit.

  She had to stop. She was getting turned on thinking about him getting dressed.

  It might’ve been better if he’d decided to be a genuine asshole and push his luck. But he hadn’t. He’d listened and snapped into action to help her. She remembered not just that he’d defended her to Steve and to Celine, but all the years in the past when he’d been a good friend to her. Fixing her computer problems and copyediting her résumés, playing her wingman in bars, giving her pep talks, shooting hoops with her. It was easy to forget about all the good stuff, especially when she’d made herself walk away, but until the end, until she’d realized that he’d never, ever see her as anyone other than his good bud—he’d done well by her.

  He came out. Unfortunately, he was wearing the same black sweatshorts and a heather-gray T-shirt with just enough elastic in the knit to cling to every muscle in the upper half of his body. He must work out. Reporters didn’t have enough physical labor in their everyday lives to look that good on their own. She swallowed hard, and said, “Should we split up?”

  “Sure. What do you want me to do if I find her?”

  “Text me. And stop her if she’s doing something crazy.”

  “You seem to think she’s with Steve.”

  “It’s my worst-case scenario,” she admitted. “I mean, I know you gave him money, but—”

  Brett shook his head. “I didn’t give him money.”

  “What?”

  “He refused it. I meant to tell you, but things got so busy.”

  “But—but—he disappeared.”

  “It wasn’t the money,” Brett reiterated. “He said he wasn’t going to do anything with his photos yet, but he wouldn’t take the money.”

  “Is that all he said?”

  “He said that he just wanted to make sure that Celine got treated right.”

  She bit her lip. “You think he means it?”

  “I do, actually.”

  She sighed.

  “That’s completely impossible for you to fathom, huh?” he said. “Why? Because he was obnoxious on the plane?”