Thrust Under

by Michelle A. Valentine

  Obviously, I’m wrong.

  “My reputation isn’t that bad,” I say. Milo groans. He names a bank—a big one—then asks if I know who its CEO is. After I tell him that I don’t know or care, he groans.

  “Maybe you should care. Sierra Foster’s his new wife.”

  Oh. Well, fuck. The last time I saw her was a year ago, right after my condo finally sold in Portland. She’d stopped by while I was packing, wearing nothing but designer panties under a coat and using terrifying words like “back together” and “rings at Tiffany” and “love.” I might have gotten over it—maybe—but then she went full-on belligerent once I told her I’d call her.

  I still remember assuring Sierra that, while I appreciated her reminding me about how much money her daddy had and that she was a very in-demand Instagram model, I still didn’t give a shit nor was I interested in continuing to see her. She’d responded by dragging garden shears across the back of my ten-thousand-dollar leather sofa.

  I sigh. “Then go with a different bank, Milo. We both know you’re the best at what you do.”

  “Working on it, but it doesn’t look good. Investors want someone who’s stable and grounded. They’re afraid you’re going to take off and give up on O’ahu Elite.”

  “And the fact I’ve used my own money to make this place what it is today isn’t stable or grounded enough for them?” I snarl. “By the way, I’ve never given up on anything I truly wanted.”

  “You’re marketing Elite as a family resort. The investors want a family man, Gabe. One who isn’t punching reporters in the face or banging every island girl within a ten-mile radius.”

  There’s no point reminding him that I haven’t punched a reporter in the face since my days as pitcher, so I grind out, “What should I do?”

  “Find a desperate woman and settle down immediately.” My brow wrinkles as he has a good laugh at his own joke. He’s talking about something else now—moving up the free baseball camp I normally host at the batting cages in Kapolei over summer vacation—but I can hardly hear what he’s saying. My thoughts have pinged to a woman.

  A desperate one.

  A desperate woman I can find just by walking through the lobby of my building and going right out the fucking front door.

  “I’ve got an idea,” I interrupt. Milo remains silent, waiting for me to divulge more details. “Give me a day or two, but I think I know how to turn this around.”

  “You’re not going to share?” he asks in an annoyed voice.

  I move my feet off my desk and walk toward the door of my office. “When I have what I want, you’ll be the first to know.”

  5

  Maggie

  “How bad is it?”

  I’ve officially been home for three days, but this is the first time I’ve confronted my mother. It’s been hell not asking the question that’s haunted me ever since Lani told me about my parents’ financial situation. Every time the words started to fall from my lips, I’d stopped myself from saying anything because I hadn’t wanted to ruin my reunion with Mom and Dad. They were too happy about me choosing to return home.

  This is the start of a brand new week, though.

  The fact that it’s almost noon, the mail man just dropped off what looks like a stack of bills, and only a quarter of the rooms are booked for the night, is absolutely terrifying. When this place opened, we were always booked to capacity, even during the off-season in autumn.

  “Mom.” Toying with the ink pen that’s attached to the guest book, I lean against the side of the curved front desk where she’s working, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. “The hotel … how bad is it?”

  She plucks at the collar of her crisp white blouse. “What are you talking about, sweetheart?”

  I swallow down my impatient groan. If we don’t have this conversation now, she’ll keep avoiding it until things escalate to the point of no return. “We’re operating with a skeleton crew. The room service menu has been cut in half and Dad sounded like he was about to cry the other day when he thought the pipes burst. And that electric bill”—I point to the top of the mail stack—“says it’s the third notice. I just want to know what’s happening so I can help. I get why you didn’t say anything before, I promise I understand, but let me help you now. Please.”

  She slides the entire stack of mail into one of the slots of the file organizer. “We’ll manage, we always do.” When I just stare at her with my jaw clenched, she tucks in her upper lip, holds it in for a pause that makes my chest ache, and then releases it along with a shallow breath. “We need plumbing work down here in the lobby and on the first floor, updates to all the floors, a kitchen upgrade, and a few other repairs.”

  “How much?” I’ve always been thrifty. I’d stashed away most of my earnings during high school and had even held on to tooth fairy money when I was a kid. Since I had already made up my mind that I wanted to separate from the Army and move back to Honolulu, I was especially cheap during my final deployment, buying only the necessities. I’ll give every penny in my savings account to my parents in a heartbeat if it will ease the burden.

  Squeezing her eyes closed, Mom shakes her head, but I’m determined to see this through. I’m not letting it go. I won’t, even if that means hounding her twenty times an hour.

  “How much will it take to make things right?” I ask.

  “Eighty, maybe ninety thousand.” When my head jerks back, she sends me a sad smile. She quickly changes that expression to a cheery one as a housekeeper bustles by, the wheels of her cart squeaking loudly over the lobby music. Once the elevator dings, and we’re alone again, a shadow comes across Mom’s face.

  “You’re twenty-four, you should be out with your friends and thinking about colleges for the education you earned. Not worrying about these types of things.”

  Of course, I’m worried. Even more so now that I know I don’t have enough for the repairs. “No offense, but when you were my age, you had a three year old, a husband, and had already moved to two duty stations. Please … don’t shelter me.”

  “Maggie—”

  “I have half of that amount saved and my housing allowance will kick in once I start school. Maybe we can get a loan for the rest after we get quotes from contractors?”

  Her brow furrows and she focuses her attention back to the computer screen. She’s silent for a long pause, nibbling on the inside of her lip while she contemplates whether to tell me everything. Finally, she mumbles, “We’ve already borrowed too much, and banks can be so finicky. They see us as a bigger risk with your dad’s…”

  I hate when she does that, but at least I can take a guess at what she was prepared to tell me. The way she lifts her chin and glances past me, toward the O’ahu Elite, says it all. They see us as bigger risk with your dad’s illness and the competition right next door.

  She presses her hand to her throat and when she meets my stare, I flinch at the pain behind her brown eyes. “We can’t do this much longer.”

  Can’t. That’s never been a word in my parents’ vocabulary and it’s worse than the lack of guests and past due bills.

  My parents had taken the plunge and bought the Hawaiian Bungalow ten years ago just after Dad was diagnosed with MS. It had always been their dream—to own a little piece of O’ahu since this was where they met and fell in love—and I still remember the pride on their faces during the ribbon cutting ceremony. Their vision was simple, a no-frills escape right on the beach. And when we moved here, the hotel next door was the one that was failing and falling into disrepair.

  And now…

  I splay my hands on the desk in front of me and stretch my lips into something I hope is optimistic. “We’ll manage, Mom,” I say, repeating her assurance from just a few minutes ago. “We always do.”

  Even though I have no clue how that will be possible.

  Between helping where I’m needed around the hotel and dodging Ryan’s attempts to get in touch with me, I spend the next eighteen hours coming up w
ith ways to help my parents. I crawl out of bed at the crack of dawn the next morning to go out on my board before work, exasperated with myself for tossing and turning all night just to hit a roadblock with every idea.

  And for fantasizing about the prick next door.

  Gabe Carter is a world class asshole. It pisses me off that he’s outrageously good-looking and knows how to make me come like no one ever has before. I wish I hadn’t allowed him to touch me, because now, no matter how hard I try, whenever I think about him I get turned on. Damn my stupid body.

  I lay back on my board, grateful I don’t have any distractions in the form of my tall and tattooed neighbor this morning as I allow the gentle ripple of the waves to rock me. I close my eyes. This entire situation is fucked up on so many levels. The money I have saved will help, but what happens if the upgrades made with that aren’t enough? A few more months with my parents’ finances hanging out in the red and we’ll all be searching for a new place to live.

  “Deep thoughts?” The sound of what’s becoming an annoyingly familiar voice dances across the water in my direction.

  I shield my face from the sun and peel open one eye. He’s straddling an expensive board that he obviously bought at Blue Flame—the only place on the island that sells that particular Australian brand. I feel a pang of envy since it’s my dream board but that takes a back seat once I get a good look at the rest of him. Slate gray board shorts mold to his strong legs and beads of moisture trickle down his sculpted V-line. My focus wanders higher—to the most epic eight-pack abs I’ve ever seen—and then all the way up. Past his chest and to his hazel eyes and wet, disheveled black hair.

  “Not particularly.” My voice sounds funny thanks to my sudden case of dry throat.

  “You sure?” He smiles broadly down at me. Ugh, that look. It’s a crime for him to look that good, to make every inch of my body overheat and every thought in my head scatter all over the damn place. He’s mastered the art of turning a woman to mush with just a twist of his lips, and he has no problem showing it off.

  What a dick.

  “What do you want, Carter? I thought I made it pretty clear several times.” I struggle to keep my stare directed on his face and not on the tribal tattoo covering the left side of his ripped chest. I manage, but the temptation to ogle his body is strong. “You and I? We’re not friends. We’re not anything.”

  “That’s not what you were saying last weekend when you were coming all over my hand. I seem to remember you moaning the words ‘magic fingers.’”

  Screw him and his magic fingers.

  “I’m going to be late for work,” I growl as I sit up, readying myself to paddle back to shore. “Goodbye, Carter.”

  “Wait.” He holds his palms up and out. “Maybe that’s crossing the line a bit, but you have to admit we were hot together. That we’ll be good together.”

  I roll my eyes, but my nipples harden beneath my bikini. I pray he doesn’t notice. That he doesn’t sense that my heart is speeding out of control. Tucking a wet strand of hair behind my ear, I cast him a sardonic smile. “We were hot together—right up until I found out who you really were. That’s why we won’t be good together.”

  He glowers. “For the last time, I didn’t try to deceive you, Maggie.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, huh? You can’t think of anything better to say because you know what I’m telling you is true. And why would I go out of my way to trick you? It’s not like I knew you either and you kissed me. Not the other way around. For all I knew, you were just another groupie fan, wanting to one-night me for bragging rights.”

  Groupie fan. As soon as he tosses that shit out, red dots my vision. “Bragging rights? What do you think you have, a golden dick? Who would—” I halt myself mid-sentence. Truth is? I don’t necessarily disagree with him—not completely. The man has major sex appeal. He’s the walking, talking epitome of the tall, dark, and ridiculously handsome men I read about in all the romance novels I pored over while I was deployed. And on top of that, he’s an ex-pro athlete. With lots of money.

  I’m sure he has tons of women willing to line up around the island just to sleep with him for those reasons alone, so I guess I can see why he said that. Doesn’t change the fact he’s a douche.

  “Look, Carter, I’ve never, ever, slept with a man for bragging rights. That’s not me.”

  His lips twitch. I’m expecting a smirk and another smartass comment, but then he tilts his head to one side and smiles. Almost apologetically. “I know it’s not. You came onto me the night of the party to make that other guy jealous.” The only thing I can do is blink at him. For the first time since I met him, Gabe Carter doesn’t sound like he’s giving himself a pat on the back for being God’s gift to pussy everywhere. It’s shocking. “So did it work?”

  I could sit here and pretend that I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I have a feeling he’ll see right through it. Honestly, I just don’t have the energy to lie to him. I’m exhausted and being so close to him is … draining.

  “He saw,” I admit.

  “And?”

  I lift my shoulders and don’t bother to call him out for the way he briefly dips his gaze to my chest before drifting it back up to my face. “He’s definitely not a huge fan of yours,” I say. “Trouble—that’s what he called you. Oh, and he tried to make me promise to stay away from you.”

  He paddles so close to me that his leg brushes mine, sending a thrill through me. When I shiver and lock my thighs more securely around my board, he cocks his head. “Cold?” he demands.

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Fuck, you’re so feisty.” He leans closer, his minty breath fanning my face as he asks, “So did you?”

  “Did I what?” I breathe.

  “Promise to steer clear of me? After all, I am trouble.”

  “At least you acknowledge your shortcomings.” I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip. “But I don’t owe Ryan anything, so no, I didn’t promise to do that.”

  “That’s what I figured.” He gives me another crooked grin that makes my pulse stutter. “Besides, you like trouble.”

  My eyes whip down to his chiseled chest. Not even a week ago my hands were all over that tattoo, splaying over those taut muscles. My face heats up at the memory. Gabriel Carter is undeniably trouble—the kind I wouldn’t mind going a round or two with.

  If he were anybody else.

  “I’ll take this display of silence as a yes.” My mouth snaps open to argue with him, but he hastily cuts me off. With his finger. His thumb presses against my lips, and my body becomes a full-fledged traitor—throat tight, stomach churning, core tingling traitor. When I release a whimper against the pad of his finger, he chuckles and lowers his hand. “I have a business proposition for you that may be a little bit dangerous but will have mutual rewards for us both. If you’re feeling a little adventurous and want to get into some more trouble, come to my place—tonight, around eight.”

  That’s just enough to break me out the trance. “What kind of business proposition?” If he plans to offer me a job working at the Elite, I swear I’ll lose my shit. “Gabe?”

  He lies down on his board, turns his head to look at me, and flashes me a dazzling smile that probably had baseball fans everywhere swooning during his career. “See you tonight.”

  I stare off after him as he paddles toward his side of the beach, wondering what in the hell he could possibly want from me and trying like hell to catch my breath.

  6

  Gabe

  For the rest of the day, my sole focus is Maggie. The way she looked this morning, dark hair clinging to her bare, golden skin and chest heaving as she spoke to me. The flash of irritation in those green eyes when I pointed out, again, that I wasn’t trying to pull one over on her the night we met. And then the way her lips parted in surprise when we touched. She can lie all she wants, but I know she felt it—the electricity between us. Just as palpable as the night we met, before she found out who I was
.

  The more I think of her, the more I realize how fucking brilliant my idea is. I want Maggie Kinsella. More than I’ve ever wanted any woman. She’s beautiful, that’s for damn sure, but she’s also ballsy. She’s got no problem giving me a piece of her mind. That’s why I’m useless all day, doing something I’ve never done in my thirty years on earth: worrying over a date. For all I know, the woman’s convinced herself she hates me so much that she won’t show up.

  And that she’ll leave me looking like a fool.

  I’m relieved that I must have piqued her curiosity because at eight on the dot, she’s in the Elite lobby. She’s dressed in a sexy black sundress that hugs the curves I’ve been desperate to touch ever since she teased me that night on the beach. It grants me a flash of her tan thighs as she walks, and the effect is powerful enough to stop me in my tracks when I step off the elevator. I’ve never been the jealous type—women come and go, and I’m fine with that—but I can’t help but hate every man who’s touched her up until this moment.

  “Look at the tits on the bitch in the black dress.”

  I swivel my glare to the motherfucker who came off the elevator with me, hoping like hell he’s not talking about Maggie. He’s with a group of shitheads, and sure enough, they’re all ogling her. “Plenty of titty bars nearby. I’m sure the front desk—or your Uber driver—will be happy to point you in the right direction,” I respond, putting space between us before I grab him by the preppy collar of his Abercrombie polo and stuff him into the nearest trashcan. “The woman in the black dress is my future wife.”