The Essence of Fate

by Alison E. Steuart

  Staring out the window, I laugh at myself. Be more at ease around him… Cut yourself some slack, Charlotte. How can I be more at ease when we go from off-the-charts hot, flirtatious, and charming to sex master and arrogant jerk, then strategic ambush commander to manipulating bastard? And then to thoroughly confuse things, he showed up last time as a deeply intense, passionate artist that presents a stunning portrait in lieu of flowers and drops little poetic bombs like you’ve cast a spell on me!

  Now that I think about it, Ian has more personalities than I do. I’ve only got Sibel; he’s got freaking Don Juan, Napoleon, and Monet!

  Just then, the door opens and Jackson walks in looking handsome, as always. A genuine smile stretches across his face, and I realize I’m very happy to see him. Walking toward him, I smile and reach up for a friendly hug. “Good morning, Jackson.” Letting go, I finish with, “It’s great to see you.”

  “And good morning to you, Charlotte. How are you feeling today? From the looks of you, like a million bucks.” He gives me a charming wink that makes me laugh.

  “I’m doing much better, thank you. Everything is set on our end. I’ve been down to see Chef Michael. The kitchen is in full swing.” I give him a thumbs up as we turn and head toward the rendering of their proposed building.

  “Wonderful! I have no doubt it’s going to be outstanding. I was very impressed with Michael. You’re lucky to have him.”

  I nod. “Don’t think I don’t know it. He’s an artist, and I make sure he is a very happy one. It’s the food that keeps ‘em coming back, ya know.” I give him a quick wink and a smirk.

  He laughs. “Uhhh…I think we can both agree that there is a lot more to The Clara Sea Resort and Spa than just terrific food. You should take more credit than that, Charlotte LeFay.” He gives me a stern look with a raised eyebrow. He’s so fatherly, I truly adore him.

  The noise of conversation and chatter stirs outside the Garden Room, so we head that way. I need to get back to my office to prepare for a few other scheduled appointments, and these guys have an awesome project to sell. Once outside, we mingle about with greetings and small talk, then Jackson and I depart with a quick goodbye.

  Before I can make my way fully out of the crowd, I turn and almost run straight into a firm, broad chest that smells of expensive cologne. Oh Lord, not again. I look up to find an extremely attractive man smiling down at me. I assume from the dark skin, hair, and eyes that he is with the Brazilian Novas Alturas group. He confirms my assumption with his greeting.

  “Pardon me, ma’am. I do apologize, I should watch where I am going.” His voice is deep and accented, his smile beyond charming. “My name is Gabriel Azeveda, and I am with Novas Alturas. Are you here with the McAlistair group?”

  Reaching to shake his hand, I respond, “No. I’m Charlotte LeFay, the general manager here at The Clara Sea. Welcome to Miami, Mr. Azeveda.” His hand is warm, his grip politely firm, and I can’t help but notice the spark of interest in his eyes. Great. Just what I need.

  “It is very nice to meet you, Charlotte. Your resort is quite impressive. I’ve never seen gardens put to such use. It is true artistry.” He turns toward the windows at the seating area overlooking the garden and bird habitat, hand raised in its direction. “They are so alive! It’s absolutely spectacular.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Azeveda,” I respond with pride.

  “Please, Charlotte. Call me Gabriel. You see that old man over there?” He laughs, pointing to an equally striking man with white hair, clearly his father, but more weathered than old. “You may call him Mr. Azeveda.”

  We both laugh at his exaggeration. “Okay, Gabriel it is, then.” He is easy to chat with, and I can tell he is being somewhat flirtatious; I don’t feel like everything about him will swallow me whole like I do when I’m around Ian. To continue the conversation, I mention today’s menu and its Brazilian inspiration, which I know he and his associates will thoroughly enjoy. I guess that was his cue to throw on the charm, because he reaches down and takes my hand in his, never taking his eyes off mine as he slowly brings it to his lips where I know he intends to place a kiss. None of this would have been a big deal, all things considered, but the familiar sound of Ian walking toward us suddenly made it seem like a very big deal, indeed.

  How I know it’s Ian—once again, simply from the cadence of his walk and the wave of heat and tingling nerves that come over me—is disconcerting and intriguing all at once. It’s the same bloody sorcery I remember from the very first time I laid eyes on him. Yet, in this moment, it has me on the defensive. Literally like I need to defend myself, because the tension that is slowly approaching with every tap of his goddamn shoes on the granite floor is making me feel like I just got caught with my hands in the cookie jar, to put it mildly.

  Making matters worse, Gabriel’s lips are lingering awkwardly on my fingers, which may be standard protocol in Brazil, but that in combination with Ian’s death vibes has me wanting to eject myself from the scene before I crash and burn, then peacefully drift to safety somewhere far away under my parachute.

  Ian is closing in, and Gabriel has not let go of my hand. I’m trying to be normal and not appear as awkward as this is making me. Ian approaches with an outstretched hand and obviously forced pleasantries. The tension he’s emitting is enough to fill the whole damn corridor, and it’s suffocating me. When I finally bring myself to look at him—as he offers me a manufactured greeting—something inside me softens and I just want to stare at him, absorbing everything about him that I find so damn appealing. But he quickly douses that momentary lapse in judgement with an ice-cold bucket of water as he feigns concern with a reminder that I almost fainted because of him, then refused his courtesy. The look on his face says he wants to say more, as if it were even his place to do so.

  His audacity and my insecurities were enough to bring Sibel out of hibernation, and she’s feeling kind of bitchy. Little does Gabriel know, she’s decided to use him as the needle in Ian’s voodoo doll. Laying on the charm, Sibel calls him by his first name, then references their brief conversation as if it were part of some long-established relationship. That definitely had the effect she was looking for, because Ian just shut the whole thing down with a blatant attempt to get Gabriel away from me. Except it didn’t work, and now Gabriel and I have paved the way for a friendship that may have a different meaning for him than it does for me. Thanks, Sibel! Always there to lend a helping hand.

  Throughout the rest of my day, I picture Ian as he turned and walked away after I accepted Gabriel’s clear advances. Everything happened so quickly, and now I’m a little off by my decision to have it play out in Ian’s face. It really was a bitchy move, and knowing there is a side to Ian that isn’t the devil incarnate, but quite the opposite, I feel kind of guilty….and maybe a little embarrassed to have been so tactless and immature. It can’t be simple with Ian, can it?

  Needing a distraction and to get it off my chest, I decide to text Erika.

  Me: Hey! Flirted with one of the Brazilians…right in Ian’s face today. May have even insinuated I’d go on a date with him. The Brazilian, that is…ugh!

  * * *

  Erika: Well that’s one way of getting rid of him. Ian, that is…

  * * *

  Me: Yeah. Except now I feel like ignorant trash that thinks it’s cute to play games.

  * * *

  Erika: It is a little out of character for you. But you are trying to get rid of him, right? If he judges you on the way out, it doesn’t really matter if the mission was accomplished.

  * * *

  Me: Okay, Yoda. Do you have any other sage advice?

  * * *

  Erika: Yes. Go watch a hilarious cat video, laugh your ass off, and get back to work.

  * * *

  Erika: And you’re not ignorant trash. Stop overthinking it. Love you!

  * * *

  Me: Love you…thanks babe!

  Okay, I’m not sure if I’m much better off. But she does have a point.
If my end game is to rid Ian and his sanity-twisting, emotional-knot-tying self from my life, then I guess I should relax. She’s probably right. I overthink everything when it comes to Ian. It’s one more thing to add to my long list of reasons why he’s no good for me.

  A knock at my door jolts my nerves…again. Dammit! “Come in!” I’m a little impatient, thinking it’s Tracy for the fifth time today. The door opens as I start to tell her something— “I forgot to tell you…”

  I stop cold as I look up and see Ian standing in my doorway, that godforsaken perfection making my stomach do flips. What does he want? I’m instantly nervous, and I hate it. “Oh…I’m sorry. I thought you were Tracy.” Standing to give myself something to do, I ask, “How was your meeting? Should we be expecting that amazing vision of yours down by the Bay in the next few years?” That flowed well…I think.

  “Three.” That’s all I get. That and blazing eyes accompanied by intense predatory vibes. Ugh! He’s doing it again.

  “Three?” I repeat with a silent…and?

  “Three years. The project’s scheduled completion.” He clarifies with a one-sided smirk that creates a dimple I don’t recall seeing before. Really?

  “Oh! Yes, of course. Sorry, it’s…it’s been a long day,” I say, trying not to sound as silly as I feel. “Congratulations, then! That’s great news for you and your team. Everyone must be thrilled!”

  “Thank you. I would say everyone involved is thrilled. It will be the premier location in this area and will likely sell out well before completion.” No shortage of confidence where Ian McAlistair is concerned. I wish I found it irritating and not a total turn-on.

  He takes a few steps closer as he continues. “I wanted you to know that lunch could not have been more outstanding. Chef Michael outdid himself, and I just stopped by the kitchen to tell him so. He is quite an asset, as I’m sure you know. The rest of your staff performed with the utmost respect and professionalism as well.” His eyes soften a bit as he takes another step toward me, causing my heart rate to ratchet up several beats. “I’m very impressed with how you manage this resort, Charlotte. It’s not an easy job. I’ve encountered seasoned GMs that couldn’t hold a candle to you, and you’re only what…?”

  He wants to know how old I am. Why does that seem so personal with him?

  I pause, “Twenty-eight.” There’s that dimple again. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  “Twenty-eight,” he repeats, and why in God’s name it sounds delicious coming off his tongue is beyond me. My eyes zero in on his mouth with those magical lips, and I have visions of kissing him while he repeats…

  Stop! I can’t do this. I go to turn around and head back behind my desk for protection when he stops me.

  “Charlotte, wait.”

  I stand there for a second too long with my back to him. On a deep breath, I turn back around.

  “Before you sit down, I wanted to ask if you would please join me for lunch tomorrow?”

  Even I have to admit that came out a little fast. There’s no way in hell he’s nervous. But the expectant look in his eyes tells me he might be, and after Sibel’s games earlier, I’m suddenly feeling obligated to say yes. However, yes doesn’t get me to an ending where Ian goes on his merry way and I’m no longer at a loss for which way is up.

  An awkward amount of time passes without giving him an answer. He saves me from fumbling through my words by saying, “We started on the wrong foot, and it’s entirely my fault. Perhaps someday I can give you an explanation for the stupid choice I made the first time we met. But if I tried to right now, you would probably still think I’m an asshole, and I’m trying very hard to get you to see that I’m actually not.”

  That was a little cryptic, but at least he acknowledges some of the truth. I can tell he’s outside his comfort zone when he says, “I thought if we got to know each other better…at a pace you’re comfortable with, then maybe we could open the lines of communication, be more at ease. I don’t know…see where it takes us.”

  Why does that tighten my chest and make my stomach hurt?

  “Ian…I’m not sure.” I do turn and walk back to my chair this time, needing the safety of the desk between us. “I appreciate you making this effort, but I just…” I don’t know what to say, and everything in me is telling me to run in the other direction. “I guess you could say I have trust issues, and you really haven’t given me a reason to trust you. I’m sorry, but that’s not a good way to start off. Especially for someone like me.” I hope that wasn’t too much information.

  He comes to stand in front of my desk with his hands behind his back. I know he’s holding back, not wanting to say the wrong thing. There is something kind of endearing about that.

  But when I look in his eyes, I can see how hard it is for him to say, “Charlotte, even if you decide to hate me for all eternity, I can accept it, if you just give me a chance—give us a chance—to get to know each other first. At least then we won’t be left wondering, potentially regretting what was left on the table.”

  What do I say to that? He does have a point, and I really don’t want to be a complete bitch, but at the same time I don’t want to get hurt. I’m terrified of it. Putting my head down, closing my eyes, and mustering up some courage, I pop back up, open my eyes, and let out the breath I was holding. “Okay, Ian. Lunch. That’s it.” Holding up my finger to his triumphant smile, I add, “In a crowded restaurant, on land, no privacy and no ulterior motives.”

  His smile abruptly disappears, brows drawn in, and his head tips slightly. “Damn, Charlotte. You really don’t trust me.” With a subtle straightening of his spine, he quickly shakes off the disappointment and shifts back to being conciliatory. “But, I get it. So a crowded, land-based establishment it is, and I will leave all my ulterior motives at home.” I can tell he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t, and the expression it creates is seriously cute.

  “You can laugh, Ian. Believe it or not, I actually do have a sense of humor,” I say on a laugh of my own. This little exchange takes the edge off agreeing to have lunch with Sir Fucksalot and going against everything I’ve been committing myself to for the past week. So much for being a strong, modern woman.

  He’s smiling now, and it’s such a stunning transformation of his face. Wow. It’s like the universe dumped all its perfection on him and left nothing for the rest of us. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and starts typing something. Without looking up he says, “What’s your cell number so I can text you when I’m done investigating what restaurant in Miami will be the most crowded at noon tomorrow?”

  Oh, he is smooth. Little trickster.

  “Ian…I…” How do I say I don’t think it’s a good idea to give him my number? And why don’t I think it’s a good idea? It’s feels like I’m giving him a key to my front door or something.

  “Charlotte.” He raises one eyebrow. “It’s your cell number. That’s how people communicate nowadays. If I lose all sense of dignity and become a nuisance, calling and texting all day, you can always block my number.” His tone is slightly impatient, as if he’s dealing with someone who isn’t all there. Well…he is dealing with someone who isn’t all there, at least whenever he’s around. I think my brain cells are exploding as we speak.

  Not wanting to appear silly or immature, I, once again, give in. “Okay. I’m sorry. That was unnecessary.” Looking up at him, I use his same words. “Perhaps someday I can give you an explanation for my hesitance, but if I tried to right now, you would think I’m crazy.” In an attempt to lighten the vibe, I purse my lips on a smirk and wink at him.

  That was a bad idea. The effect it has is palpable as his eyes turn black, his nostrils flare, and his fist clenches. All of which, in turn, detonates an arousing sensation that rushes through my core, tightening my nipples, and forces my legs to squeeze together involuntarily to add pressure to the slight throbbing of my clit. I think I’m in shock as I stare at his eyes, unable to look away. My heart is pounding and I’m starting to get tha
t falling sensation, which is exactly why I want to run as far away from him as I can, not give him my cell number or join him for lunch!

  I snap out of it, and my tone is curt and impatient as I reach up and say, “Okay. Give me your phone, I’ll put my number in.” He slowly hands it to me, and I add it to his contact list. Handing it back to him, I don’t meet his eyes as I say, “I will look for your text and see you tomorrow. Sorry to cut this short, but I still have some work to do.” Taking another deep breath, I say, “Congratulations, again, on landing the deal, and I appreciate you choosing The Clara Sea as the venue for such an important meeting.” With a stamped smile, I add, “We look forward to working with you and your team in the future.”

  He is not happy. Evident in the flexing of his jaw muscles, the slight squinting of his eyes, and the electrical charge that has taken over my whole office. The masochist in me wonders what would happen if he were unleashed. If I stood up and walked over to him, put my hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him into a passion-filled kiss. What kind of damage would he do? What kind of pain would he inflict? How much would I enjoy it? Thankfully, the sound of him walking away snaps me out of that random S&M fantasy.

  I don’t think I start to breathe again until he closes the door behind him. He left with a terse nod and “Good evening.” Things between us are so hot and cold, it wipes me out. Physically, mentally, emotionally. This is why I don’t want to start seeing him, even for an innocent lunch date. It’s like we can’t even have a basic conversation without it turning into some invisible sparring match that neither of us will ever win.