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

  “Ah, Miss Harrison. You’re looking extra lovely today,” Jared Gaines says when he sees me heading toward him. He’s leaning against the cash desk, his arm propped on the counter’s edge, and he stands up straight as I approach, his appraising gaze raking over me, making my entire body go warm.

  I remind myself the way his compliments and how he looks at me mean nothing. He’s a man whore who thinks he can have any woman he wants just by looking at them. Most of the time I think he looks at me in a certain way and says those sorts of things just to get under my skin.

  And it works.

  I come to a stop directly in front of him, my pleasant smile so wide I can feel the corners of my mouth start to tremble. It’s difficult to maintain the façade when I just want to hurl insults at him and kick him out of the store. But I’d get fired on the spot for doing that, so I keep my instincts in check. “Mr. Gaines. You’re—early.” I say that last word with a hint of disdain, hoping he notices.

  Of course he notices. The man doesn’t miss a thing. “Better early than late, don’t you think?” A single dark brow lifts, and I tell myself an eyebrow can’t be sexy.

  But damn it, his is. Everything about Jared is sexy. His glossy dark brown hair, those equally dark brown eyes, the square jaw and full lips and amazing body that I’ve only ever seen clad in an expensive suit. I bet he looks equally gorgeous in worn jeans and a casual button-down shirt. Shorts and a T-shirt.

  Or hmmm, maybe nothing at all.

  You dislike this man. He represents everything you hate. He’s a player, a user. You mean nothing to him, and he means nothing to you. Don’t forget that.

  I clear my throat, somehow keeping my smile in place. My mental arguments never seem to work when I’m around Jared Gaines. “I’ve set aside a few exceptional items I think you might like for Miss…”

  I let my voice drift, like I can’t remember the woman’s name, but that’s the truth. I don’t remember her name, because he never gives me a name. He shops for a bevy of anonymous women. Women he buys lingerie for at least once a month, sometimes twice.

  Seriously. Who does that?

  Irritation fills his dark gaze, and I swear he practically growls. “Perfect. Show me,” he snaps.

  There are no pretenses, no real pleasantries between us beyond the occasional compliment he offers just to get under my skin. He doesn’t have time for that sort of nonsense— another little something he told me once, after I tried to make small talk while showing him a variety of skimpy G-strings for yet another long-gone mistress. I’d fumbled around with the delicate, lacy things as I spread them across the marble countertop, hardly able to look at him as I rambled on about the comfort and practicality of thongs.

  My boss Marlo gave me a long lecture after he left without making a purchase.

  Something he never did. She informed me we don’t sell practicality and comfort.

  We sell fantasy, remember?

  That particular incident occurred approximately six months ago. For some reason, even after my bumbling attempt at selling him practical thong underwear, he keeps requesting my assistance, which honestly makes no sense. Most of the time he looks at me like I disgust him. It takes everything within me not to sneer back at him like he disgusts me as well.

  Though he doesn’t. Disgust me. Not at all. God, it’s so annoying how disgustingly attractive he is. And he knows it. When he’s at the store, I never see a hair out of place. His suits are immaculate. His shirts wrinkle-free. And his ties are always perfectly knotted and straight.

  I’d love to yank that expensive tie out of place. Haul him closer to me by pulling on that tie, press a lingering kiss on his warm, strong neck and leave a red lipstick smear on his skin.

  I bet he’d hate that.

  “Miss Harrison?” His deep voice knocks me from my illicit thoughts, and I realize I’ve come to a complete stop, fantasizing about him. Yes, fantasizing about him. What’s wrong with me? If he could read my mind…

  “Sorry.” I shake my head and shoot him an apologetic smile, our gazes meeting, but he looks away quickly, like maybe he can’t stand the sight of me?

  Asshole.

  “Follow me,” I tell him, my voice sharp, my heels clicking loudly on the hardwood floor. Mr. Gaines falls into step behind me as I escort him to one of our small, private showing rooms in the back of the store. I can sense he’s following close, can smell his expensive cologne, hear him tapping on his phone before he shoves it into his pocket.

  I’m hyper-aware of his nearness, and I hate it. Hate myself more for being so aware. He doesn’t even notice me. Though I don’t care.

  Really, I don’t.

  “I don’t have all day,” Gaines complains, and I send him an irritated glare over my shoulder before I stop and open the door to the private showing room. He follows in after me, practically at my heels, and I step out of his way before he mows me over. I shut the door with a soft click and take a deep, cleansing breath before turning to face him. He’s already sitting at the small table in the center of the room, his gaze going to mine as I approach. I pause mid-step, taken aback by the unfamiliar gleam in his eyes.

  An almost…hungry gleam.

  No. No, no, no. He barely tolerates me. I despise him. Yes, he’s attractive, but he’s also annoying and rude and the most insensitive man I’ve ever encountered in my life. Who has that many mistresses? Who spends thousands of dollars on lingerie? He doesn’t even have a steady girlfriend. The man clearly has a problem.

  A non-commitment problem. As in, he can’t commit. As in, he doesn’t want to.

  “Did you bring the items I requested?” he asks as I settle into the chair across from him and cross my legs.

  Leaning forward, I tap the sleek black box sitting on the table in between us. He sent a text to Marlo the night before with specific requests for today’s appointment. So. Weird. “Yes, I did.” I smile, but he frowns in return. Like he can’t trust me to get it right.

  “Sheer? Lacy? Bright and colorful?” His words are clipped, and he shoves his jacket sleeve away from his wrist to check his Rolex. Like he’s already wasted enough time on me and needs to leave.

  Annoyance fills me. He’s the one who made the appointment, yet he acts like it’s a big waste of his time. The moment he exits the store, I’m telling Marlo I don’t want to deal with him any longer. He can find another Bliss associate and terrorize her instead.

  “Miss Harrison?” he asks when I don’t answer him.

  Whoops. Caught lingering in my head again. My mother always said I was too much of a dreamer.

  “All of those things, yes.” I rest my hand on top of the box, letting the anticipation hang in the air for a moment. I’d never admit it to him, but every one of these items I chose for his perusal, I would wear. In fact, I might be wearing one of the items at this very moment.

  But that’s my little secret.

  “Go on then. Show me what you’ve got.” His dark gaze meets mine, full of irritation, and I press my lips together to keep back the retort that threatens.

  I’d give anything to stand and drop my skirt. Let him see the panties I’m wearing. That would really show him what I’ve got now, wouldn’t it?

  Instead, I take the lid off the box and carefully push away the pale pink tissue, then pull out a delicate coral-colored, sheer bra trimmed in mint green lace. I move the box aside and lay the bra across the table, my fingers skimming along the lace. “Sheer and bright, just as you requested.”

  He reaches out, his fingers brushing against mine, and I jerk my hand away like he burned me. My hand, my entire arm, tingles from the seemingly innocent touch, and I keep my gaze averted so he won’t see how much he affected me.

  So…odd.

  And unexpected.

  Totally unexpected.

  “Is it bright enough?” He’s holding the bra in his big hands, stretching it out carefully, his expression impassive, like he’s closing a deal versus considering unmentionables for the special—ha ha—lad
y in his life.

  “I think it’s very bright,” I say after a quiet moment. My voice rings in the otherwise silent room, and I bring my fist up to my mouth, coughing as lightly as I can. “The colors are fun, like a ’90s vibe—”

  “So you’re saying it’s not modern enough.” He toys with the bra strap, twisting it around his index finger much like he twists everything I say. I watch, distracted by his hand. His fingers are long, his palm broad. I imagine him touching me, tracing my skin with his fingers, cupping my—

  “It’s modern.” My gaze flies to his. He’s smiling, a knowing glint in his gaze, like he actually could read my mind. God. “Yet with a vintage feel. Both cute and sexy. Fun, even. Does your mistress not like vintage items?”

  “I don’t have a mistress,” he growls, dropping the bra like it’s a dead animal. The sneer on his face tells me he’s displeased. I’m guessing he believes I overstepped my boundaries? Who knows? “Do you have something else to show me?”

  Sighing loudly, I pull a sheer pair of panties out of the box. They’re trimmed in vibrant pink lace, little red cherries randomly stitched across the black fabric. The backside is practically non-existent, with a heart-shaped cutout that would expose pretty much—everything. I planned on showing these to him last, but his attitude is making me impulsive.

  Most likely a mistake on my part, but screw it. The man drives me nuts.

  “What are these?” His gaze flares with interest as I hand him the panties. He holds them up, then flips them around, smiling faintly when he notices the backside. “Very cheeky.” Oh. Did he just make a joke? I didn’t know he had it in him. “Extremely.” “The cherries are a nice touch,” he adds.

  I nod, blatantly studying him since he’s not paying attention to me. “I like them.”

  “The underwear or the cherries?” He’s still not looking in my direction, giving me ample time to drink in his handsome features. He is almost annoyingly good looking.

  “Both.”

  Jared lifts his gaze to mine, his dark eyes practically smoldering. I remain fixed in my chair, my breath catching in my throat the longer we stare at each other. What is happening right now? What are we doing?

  He drops the panties onto the table and spreads them out, his gaze remaining on the underwear as he asks, “What size do you wear, Miss Harrison?”

  Um.

  Say what?

  “What size are these panties?” Right. Must’ve misheard him.

  “They’re an extra small,” I tell him, trying my best to keep my voice even. I feel jumpy. Anxious. His nearness sets me on edge. I can smell him. I swear his body heat is radiating toward me, making me warm. Like, I can feel sweat forming along my hairline. Is it suddenly hot in here?

  “And what size do you wear?” His gaze meets mine across the table, unwavering. “Miss

  Harrison.”

  Oh shit. It’s definitely hot in here.

  I swallow hard. No way should I answer. He’s crossed a line. A line I shouldn’t cross with him because he’s a client, and a rude one at that.

  Yet it’s like I can’t help myself.

  “I’m a small,” I confess, wondering why he’s asking.

  He clears his throat, his gaze dropping to my breasts for the briefest moment before he asks, “What size bra do you wear?”

  Well. This conversation just got weird.

  “Um…” Oh, this is awkward. Isn’t it? I should hate him. I hate everything he represents.

  He’s the last man on earth I would ever be interested in.

  So why are my breaths coming faster? And why do I suddenly feel lightheaded?

  “The woman I’m buying this for—she’s similar in size to you,” he further explains, leaning back in his chair. He studies me with disinterest, like he’s discussing the weather, and I try to compose myself. We’re talking business. And our business happens to focus on lingerie.

  No big deal.

  Right?

  “I’m a thirty-four C,” I tell him, sitting up straight and squaring my shoulders. I can’t let this man unnerve me like this. No other client does this to me.

  Of course, no other client of mine is remotely like Mr. Gaines.

  “Really.” His gaze is on my chest again, and I’m tempted to unbutton the black silk shirt I’m wearing and let him see for himself. “Do these panties have a matching bra?” He dangles the cherry panties from his index finger, the scrap of fabric swinging to and fro.

  Hearing him say panties in that melting, deep voice of his is making other things melt. Like me. Between my thighs. I clench them together, ignoring the sudden ache I feel there. It’s been too long since I’ve had a boyfriend. That’s my problem, I swear. “Yes, they come in a matched set.”

  “I’ll take it.” He rises to his feet, and I stand along with him, noting how tall he is, even with my heels on. Though, I’m a shrimp, so everyone is taller than me. “I’ll meet you at the register.”

  He exits the room without another word and I watch him go, taking a deep, shuddery breath when he’s gone. I remind myself it’s no big deal. Jared Gaines asked for my bra and panty size. He claims his new side piece—oh my God, I sound just like my brother—is about the same size as me. No problem. Nothing strange about our conversation. I’m here to help him. That’s it.

  That. Is. It.

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  * * *

  “It feels so weird, sitting on the other side of the table,” I tell Cassie as she’s tapping away on her iPad.

  “This is good training for me,” she says, all of her attention on the iPad’s screen. “So let’s try and be serious.”

  Dang it, and all I wanted to do was give Cassie a hard time during the entire order process. Act like one of those horrific bridezillas I’ve dealt with in the past.

  Actually, I still deal with them, but not as much as I used to. I have Cassie to thank for that. She wanted to work more hours and Iris and I have been training her to be my assistant in the wedding department for the past month. Iris plans on semi-retiring in two years, and will reduce the amount of time she’ll come into Noteworthy. Which means I’ve taken on the position of store manager, and a year before she retires, I’ll start buying into the store.

  Meaning, it will become mine one day.

  “So we’re just ordering the save the date cards today?” Cassie asks as she pulls out the paper order form. We can’t get rid of it.

  I mean, we do mostly sell paper at Noteworthy.

  “Yes,” I say with a nod, glancing over at Alex who’s sitting in the chair next to me.

  He smiles and leans over, giving me a quick kiss, like he can’t stand to not touch me. Which is sort of the truth. We’re actually pretty annoying, if that sort of thing bothers you.

  “You two are so obnoxious,” Cassie mutters with a shake of her head, but all I can do is grin. She broke up with her code genius boyfriend a few months ago and she’s all down on love and relationships. And I’m not smiling because of her feeling like that, more like I know what it’s like, to feel that way.

  Been there, done that. Found the right man and the rest is history.

  “Which ones do you want?” Alex asks me.

  Cassie taps a few times on the iPad before she turns it so it’s facing us. “She wants that one, I think.”

  The save the date card is the same one that Alex used as our poster. My all-time favorite card. “That’s it,” I tell her.

  “You would pick that one,” Alex says, a teasing glint in his eyes.

  “Of course I would.” I run my left hand over his thigh, admiring my engagement ring yet again. He gave it to me a few weeks ago, out on the back deck at his house, right when the sun was setting. He got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife, and I cried and cried like a baby, overwhelmed with love.

  When I opened the box, it was a different ring. Set in white gold with a single diamond in the center and tiny diamonds around the entire band, it took my breath away.
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  “Same stone as my mother’s,” he told me when he slipped the ring onto my finger. “I just had it placed in a new setting.”

  I love it so much. It’s all mine yet connected to his family, who I love. They’ve all embraced me into the fold, even his grumpy father. I get along with Meredith and her husband, and I love Alex’s niece and nephew. And his little brother James. In fact, we have plans to go golf with James later this afternoon.

  But first, we need to order our save the date cards.

  “When are you getting married?” Cassie asks, her gaze meeting mine. I see the curiosity there. I haven’t really told anyone if we’ve set the date, and they’re all dying to know.

  “September of next year,” I say, sitting up straighter. “I just wanted to give us plenty of time to get those cards and have them ready. I’ll send them out exactly a year from our wedding date.”

  Cassie laughs, shaking her head. “Caroline, it’s only May. You still have plenty of time.”

  “Hey, it’s never too soon. Plus, I’m an ambitious organizer, so sue me,” I say with a little shrug, making Alex laugh.

  We wrap up our order and leave Noteworthy thirty minutes later, walking up the sidewalk to where Alex parked his car, walking hand and hand in the warm sunshine. Giddiness makes my heart light when I look at him, knowing that he’s all mine. That our love is real. I still live with Stella—I’m not moving in with him until we’re married, so there. And he’s still a workaholic, though I’ve taught him how to put down the phone or the laptop and focus on living in the moment.

  We’re not perfect, and sometimes we argue, but never for long, and never over anything major. We’re pretty compatible. Like we were made for each other.

  It just took us a few times to actually get it right.

  “When is Carter coming back into town?” Alex asks as we walk by a real estate office.

  “He told me next weekend. I think you’ve really convinced him to move back here,” I say. Our relationship has helped improve my relationship with my big brother. Carter and Alex have reconnected as well. Having Alex in my life has improved my relationship with my mother as well.