Take Me To The Beach

by K. L. Grayson, Karina Halle, A. L. Jackson, Marni Mann, Monica Murphy, Devney Perry, Kristen Proby, Rachel Van Dyken

  I take the camisole, examining it. Stella and I have different body types. She’s taller and leaner, with a dancer’s body, while I’m shorter and curvier. “You think it’ll fit?”

  “Give it a shot.” She waves a hand at me, her eyes going wide. “Hurry up. You’re running out of time.”

  I shed my jeans and top, standing in just my underwear while Stella flaps her hands and tells me to speed it up. I slip on the camisole first. It’s tight, and I don’t have big boobs, so I can only imagine how it would fit if I wear bustier. What I meant by curvy is my waist and hips and butt. Up top? I’m pretty average.

  “I can’t wear a bra with this,” I whine.

  Stella rolls her eyes. “You’re not supposed to.”

  “Where did you get this camisole anyway?”

  “From Sarah. It was on clearance at Bliss.” The lingerie store our friend works at. “I think it was made wrong, and that’s why they clearanced them all.”

  “Clearly it was made wrong. Look at it.” I point my index finger at it, shocked yet again at how tightly it stretches across my front.

  “Still looks good on you,” Stella says. “Now put the dress on.”

  Damn, she’s bossy.

  I pull the dress on, twisting the waist tie into a sweet little bow before I turn and fully face Stella. “What do you think?”

  She comes at me with the intensity of a mother prepping her child before prom night. She plucks at my neckline, adjusting its position, then reaches for the camisole and tugs at the lace trim.

  “I feel like we’re having an intimate moment,” I tell her solemnly.

  She shakes her head, but otherwise says nothing. When she’s finished, she slowly backs away from me, her gaze sweeping from the top of my head to the tip of my toes, before she finally smiles her approval.

  “The camisole totally works.”

  Glancing down, I check my chest, and sure enough, my nipples are hard. A bra would minimize that look for sure. “This isn’t going to work.” I point at my nipples poking against the fabric.

  “It will totally work. You’ll be like Rachel and Monica from Friends.”

  Those two walked around with stiff nipples for the majority of the series. I always thought it was kind of odd, especially when I was a kid.

  “I feel exposed.”

  “Think of how exposed you’d feel if you didn’t have the camisole.” She’s back in my closet again, digging through my shoes until she finds the ones she wants. “Here you go. I think you’re ready.”

  I don’t bother protesting. I take the nude stiletto sandals from her and slip them on, thankful I know how to walk in heels.

  “Your legs look like they go on foreverrrrrr.” Stella drawls the last word. “Alex Wilder won’t know what hit him.”

  “Nothing’s going to hit him. This isn’t a date.” I open the tiny jewelry box I’ve had since I was a kid and pull out my favorite necklace. It’s a delicate gold chain with a thin crescent moon charm, and the clasp is borderline broken, but I don’t care. I’m taking the risk and wearing it tonight. For luck.

  “Aw, the finishing touch.” Stella is now beaming like a proud mama ready to send her daughter off to prom. And why do I keep making mental prom references? “You look beautiful, Car.”

  I grab my phone and take a mirror selfie, then post it on my IG story without a caption, just a couple of heart GIFs. When I see the time on my phone, my stomach feels like it just bottomed out.

  He’ll be here any second.

  “Is he going to meet you up here?” Stella asks.

  “I told him to text me when he arrives and I’ll meet him outside.”

  She shakes her head. “Not ready for him to see the greatness that is our private sanctuary?”

  “That’s not how we usually do it and you know it.” We’re not big on letting guys see where we live. We’re downright vague when we tell them our apartment is downtown. They can never quite figure out where it’s at, and we like it that way.

  Unless we fall for them and want them to hang out with us all the time. It’s only happened for me once. For Stella, she’s brought a couple of guys to our apartment.

  I take my tiny neutral beige purse that looks like it’s Gucci but isn’t, and shove my phone inside before grabbing my favorite lipstick and slicking it on without using a mirror. I rub my lips together, making a satisfying popping noise and I’m dropping the lipstick back into my bag when my phone dings.

  It’s Alex.

  I’m here. Parked in front of Sweet Dreams.

  Okay, I sort of told him we lived in an apartment directly above the café/bakery so he knows where it’s at, but for some reason I feel like I can trust Alex better than any of those other guys I’ve dated. Maybe because I’ve known him since I was a kid?

  “He’s here.” I go to Stella and wrap her up in a big hug. “Wish me luck.”

  She pulls away from me, her smile huge. “Have fun on your date,” she sing songs.

  “It’s not a date,” I say for what feels like the fiftieth time. “I’ll probably be home early.”

  “Uh huh.” The doubt in Stella’s voice is clear. She follows me out into the living room. “Wanna make a bet you’ll be doing the walk of shame in the morning?”

  I’m shocked she’d even say it. “I will not,” I say indignantly.

  “We’ll see.” That smug look on her face is super annoying.

  I go to the door, flip her the bird to make her laugh, and dash out before she teases me again.

  As I race down the stairs, I can’t deny the giddiness bubbling inside of me. I’m excited. Nervous. This dinner could mean nothing.

  But then again, it could mean everything.

  Chapter 17

  “I hope you weren’t lying when you said you liked seafood?” Alex sends me a concerned look as he maneuvers the car so that we’re headed east.

  “No lie, I love it,” I reassure him. He’d texted me yesterday to confirm the time we’d meet, where and if I liked seafood.

  Lucky for him—and me—I really do love it. I’m curious where he’s taking me. I may work and live in Carmel, but I don’t eat at too many of the restaurants, considering how expensive they are. I’ve gone on a few dates at some of the finer dining establishments in the area, but for the most part, the guys I’ve went out with in the past are more the beer and chicken wings type.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

  “Have you been to the Flying Fish?” Alex asks as he turns right on Mission Street. The town is small, we probably could’ve walked since the restaurant is just up the street, and maybe we should’ve, considering how parking is on short supply.

  But he finds parking with ease—almost unheard of on a Friday night in Carmel-by-the-Sea—and slips the sleek black BMW he’s driving into the spot with expertise.

  Me? I can’t parallel park for crap.

  “I haven’t been there before, though I’ve heard of it.” Nothing but good things, too. Nerves had combatted my appetite for the most part, so I really hope it comes back soon, especially for this place.

  Alex opens the door for me like a gentleman and I climb out of the car as un-awkwardly as possible, praying I don’t flash him my panties or twist my ankle when my foot hits the curb. Luckily, neither thing happens, and as we walk to the restaurant, the cool spring breeze washes over my skin, making me shiver.

  “It’s a gorgeous night,” he tells me, his gaze appreciative when it lands on me. “And you look gorgeous in that dress.”

  “Thank you.” My cheeks feel warm and I want to roll my eyes at myself. I’m blushing like an innocent school girl.

  He’s flirting with me, right? That compliment felt like flirting.

  We enter the restaurant a few moments later, Alex holding the door for me yet again. It’s quiet and dark, the lighting dim, the wood walls giving the room a warm glow. The hostess leads us to our table, a redwood booth, and I slide onto the bench opposite Alex as the hostess rattles off the even
ing’s specials before handing us our menus.

  “I’ve heard you have to get a reservation here at least a month in advance,” I say as I open my menu.

  “Not if you know the owner,” Alex tells me, his head bent over his menu.

  Wow. I’m sort of used to dealing with rich people, since many of the clients at Noteworthy are wealthy. But what’s that like, to just call up the owner and say I want a table Friday night? “Are you saying it pays to have connections?” I tease.

  He lifts his head, his mouth stretched into a smile. “Definitely.”

  I’m a little breathless as I keep watching him. He is so incredibly handsome, and I am so glad I followed Stella’s advice and wore a dress. He’s in a suit, I’m guessing he came to pick me up straight from work. Black jacket and pants, crisp white shirt and a black and white subtly striped tie, he looks like he walked straight out of a men’s fashion magazine.

  “What do you recommend?” I ask as I peruse the options, feeling a little overwhelmed. Some of it sounds absolutely amazing, and my appetite is slowly making a comeback, though I’m still nervous. A little jittery even. The prices on this menu are a smidge high and though I can guarantee I’m not the one paying for my dinner tonight, I still feel like I should walk into this scenario like an independent woman who can take care of her own damn self.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have an appetizer.

  “The California Tower is a great appetizer,” he says, his gaze intent as he skims the menu. It’s like he can mind read and he’s trying his best to convince me appetizers are the way to go. “Anything tempura here is delicious too.”

  “Hmmm.” Yeah, I’m definitely hungry, but I’m considering jumping right into the main entrees. “I think I might have the grilled chicken.” The menu description makes it sound delicious, but that’s kind of boring considering all of the seafood choices.

  It’s one of the cheaper items on the menu though, and most likely the one that will fill me up the best. Nothing worse than eating a fabulous meal only to wind up hungry two hours later.

  “Are you sure?” He sounds skeptical. “I’ll order seafood for our appetizers then. We can share.”

  He ends up ordering a bottle of wine, the California Tower and tempura, plus pan fried oysters. And that’s just to start.

  Aren’t oysters an aphrodisiac? I’m pretty sure they are…

  Within minutes the server brings us a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and we go through the entire process of tasting the wine before offering our approval. Alex goes first because I have no idea what I’m doing. I mean, I love wine. I drink it a lot. But I’m not the sniff and sip type of wine drinker.

  Alex clearly is, and he gives his approval quickly. I sniff and sample as well, mimicking everything he just did, and the wine is crisp and cool, with a delicate fruity taste. It’s so good, I drank half a glass in only a couple of swallows.

  Dangerous.

  We make idle small talk about the weather and how our workdays went, but eventually I’m dying to get right to the gist of it. My curiosity can no longer be contained.

  “So I’m guessing you sent me flowers because you heard about Tiffany showing up at Noteworthy a few days ago,” I say once the server has left our table.

  He has the decency to look embarrassed as he ducks his head. “I can’t believe she did that,” he says to the table.

  “How did you find out?” Finally I’m going to get answers.

  “We were arguing a few nights ago, and she made an off-hand comment about having a little chat with you, but that was all she said. So I called Noteworthy and spoke to your boss, Iris,” Alex explains.

  I swallow hard, my gaze snagging on my wineglass. Would it be uncool if I drained it right now? Probably. “You spoke to Iris?”

  “Yes, I did. And while she wasn’t a witness to the incident, she did tell me exactly what happened, as per your and another employee’s description. She also mentioned that you filed a police report.”

  Oh God, he’s probably offended that I did that. We’re talking about his ex—yet recent—fiancée after all. “I filed the report at Iris’s urging. She was so upset over what Tiffany did, she wanted to press charges for vandalism, but the cops told her there wasn’t enough damage to the store.”

  “I understand why you filed. What Tiffany did was completely uncalled for,” Alex says as he lifts his head, his deep voice soft, his gaze sincere when it meets mine.

  The understatement of the century. “She’s crazy,” I say with a slight shake of my head. Wait a minute. I should probably rephrase that. “What she did was crazy,” I amend.

  “She shouldn’t take her anger out on you, or on your workplace. Her emotions should be directed at me,” he says firmly.

  If she took her anger out on him, then her chances on getting him back would be ruined forever. I may not be a crazy person, but I understand—somewhat—why she’s behaving this way. She doesn’t want to necessarily provoke him, but she’s trying to prove a point.

  And for some reason, I’m involved in the point proving she’s doing.

  “I spoke with Tiffany after I got off the phone with Iris,” Alex says as I reach for my wineglass. “I told her to leave you alone.”

  “I’m sure that conversation went well.” Screw it. I grab my wineglass and finish the rest of it. “Does she hate me?”

  “Of course not.” His expression is impassive, telling me that he’s lying. Fibbing? A polite white lie, let’s call it.

  “There’s no need to protect my feelings.” I shrug.

  “Then yes, she hates you.” He sits up a little straighter, shrugging out of his jacket. I watch in fascination as his muscles strain against his shirt with the movement. He tugs on his tie, loosening it from around his neck before he pulls it completely off, and he shoves it into the pocket of his jacket before setting it on the bench beside him.

  That minor strip show was rather…enjoyable.

  “For some reason, she believes we’re involved.” When he frowns, I say more. “With each other.”

  “She hates the fact that we knew each other, that you’re a part of my past. She’s…” His voice drifts and he shakes his head. “Odd sometimes.”

  I want to talk more about her, but that’s weird considering we’re out on this non-date. I’m sure he doesn’t want to enjoy his meal while chatting about his bat shit crazy ex fiancée. I should probably change the subject.

  But I don’t need to change the subject since our server shows up with two of our appetizers, another server right behind her with the third one. The table is covered in food as they set the plates down, and when they leave, I start to laugh.

  “Appetizers are funny?” Alex asks with a slight smile.

  “You ordered enough food to feed ten people,” I say, reaching for a tempura vegetable—pretty sure it’s broccoli—and start nibbling on it.

  “Dip it in the sauce. Makes it even better,” he encourages and I do as he suggests, dunking the other end of my tempura in the sauce before I take a bite.

  “Oh wow,” I say, my mouth full. I bet the women he goes out with don’t speak with food in their mouths, but this is so freaking delicious.

  “Good right?”

  We start shoveling it in, though I avoid the oysters at first. I don’t need any aphrodisiacs—that’s just asking for trouble, what with the way I’m downing the wine. The California Tower is delicious, like sushi but not in a roll, and I keep picking at that, to the point that Alex gently slides the plate closer to me, making me laugh.

  “How’s Carter?” Alex asks once we’ve slowed down on the appetizer devouring. “We’re friends on Facebook, but that’s essentially meaningless, since we really don’t communicate. Plus he doesn’t post much.”

  “He’s what I call a Facebook spy,” I say, wondering if I can eat any more. We haven’t even ordered our main course yet. “Checking up on people, but rarely sharing anything about himself.”

  “I’m the same way,” Alex says with a chuckle. �
��He’s still selling real estate?”

  “Yes, and doing very well. He lives in Los Angeles, so we don’t see each other much. We don’t talk a lot either, he’s a busy guy,” I admit, hating the shame that washes over me at the confession. We’re not a close family, and we never really have been. More like once we were able to, we scattered to the wind. I can’t remember the last time all three of us—me, Carter and our mother—were in the same place together. “Last time I called him it was on his birthday. In January.”

  “He looks good,” Alex says. “From what I see on his Facebook posts.”

  My brother loves to show off. His expensive car, the shiny Rolex on his wrist, the houses he sells, the vacations he takes, and the beautiful women who accompany him.

  I sometimes wonder if it’s a façade. Is he really that happy? Or is it all just for show?

  “He’s very successful at what he does. He should be, he’s a total workaholic,” I say.

  “I can relate.” Alex reaches for the bottle of wine and pours more in my glass and then his. “I work a lot.”

  “I know.” My lips twitch as I try to contain my smile. He notices though, and is smiling in return.

  “What’s up with the smirk?”

  “Your ‘I work a lot’ statement is downplaying the truth.”

  “What do you mean?” He seems genuinely perplexed.

  “I knew from the moment you walked into Noteworthy that you were a workaholic. You were far more interested in your phone the morning we met about the invitations than what we were actually discussing,” I point out.

  “I was right in the middle of an important merger,” he tells me, which makes me burst out laughing. All he can do is frown. I don’t think he likes not being in on the joke. “What’s so funny?”

  “You were in the middle of an important merger with Tiffany as well,” I point out, making him chuckle.

  “You’re right,” he says. “I guess that should’ve been a sign.”

  “A sign for what?”

  He sobers up. “That my impending merger with Tiffany wasn’t that important to me.”

  Here’s my chance. I have to ask him, right now, before I lose my nerve. “Then why were you going to marry her?”