wind gusts, blowing strands of hair into my face, and before I can tuck them behind my ear he does it for me. A strangely intimate gesture that makes me hold my breath. Then again, we’re still holding hands so he’s just being helpful. It’s all rather bizarre.
His fingertips graze my earlobe and I gasp as a bolt of unexpected longing shoots through me. They drift lower, along my neck, my jaw, tracing the curve of my cheek. It’s like he’s trying to commit me to memory, which is ludicrous. I’m far from memorable.
His fingertips are roughened, calloused almost. They prickle my skin, setting nerve endings alight. My breathing becomes laboured, shorter, as he steps closer and I can smell him. Not aftershave exactly but a clean, crisp citrus blended with something subtler. Body wash? Shaving cream? Whatever it is, I want to devour it. Him. Whatever.
This is so wrong. I need to step away. Now. I swear my brain computes the instruction but my feet don’t co-operate. So I try a few deep breaths. Wrong move. Catastrophic, as that citrus blend fills my lungs, sending messages to the rest of me, messages like ‘you need to taste him now’.
I will him to move away, to be the sane one for both of us. Instead, he edges closer and I’m gone. Falling headlong into a monumentally stupid decision I know I’ll regret but I’m powerless to stop.
I step even closer.
Filled with a daring I rarely possess, I eyeball him. I can’t read his expression. The angle of the moon has cast his face in shadows. But he hasn’t moved, his hand still cupping my cheek, and I know I have to do this before I chalk it up to yet another regret in my life.
Standing on tiptoes, I press my lips to his. Gently. Tentatively. Testing him. Me. I have no freaking clue.
He angles his head and I can’t hold back. The alcohol has loosened my usual constraints and I’m a woman possessed.
I plaster myself against him and start to kiss him in earnest. Our mouths open and the first touch of his tongue on mine makes me moan. He takes control, deepening the kiss to the point where I can’t breathe. I don’t care. I want more.
His hands caress my back in a long, slow sweep, like he’s exploring every bump of my vertebrae, before he squeezes my ass. It makes me a little crazy. I hook a leg around his waist, eager to get closer. My head’s spinning a little, whether from the alcohol or his expert kisses I have no idea.
His hand slides from my ass along my thigh. My maxi dress has hiked up and when he grazes the skin behind my knee I tremble. It makes me pause. What the hell am I doing, making out with Hart Rochester on a beach, flinging myself at him like I’m more than ready to lie down on the sand and spread my legs?
It’s a sobering thought, screwing up a campaign I need to go well, and I’m not sure if he senses my reluctance or I pull away first but suddenly we’re apart and I’m smoothing my dress down, heat making my cheeks burn.
‘That was unacceptable on so many levels.’ My voice is husky and I clear it. ‘I’m sorry for being unprofessional.’
I expect him to say the same. Instead, he says, ‘Let’s head back.’
There’s no inflection in his tone, no hint of annoyance or anger. Like the last few minutes never happened.
Regret, quickly tempered with mortification, makes me turn away before he can see how his curt dismissal adds to my embarrassment. Crazy, because it’s not his fault: I flung myself at him. But with him behaving like that make-out session never happened I’m thrust back into a familiar role of taking whatever is dished out. I don’t like it.
So I break into a jog, desperate to get away and nurse my humiliation in peace.
He calls out, ‘Hey, Daisy, wait up,’ but I don’t stop. I keep going.
I’m done looking back.
Hart
I SHOULD GO after Daisy. Smooth things over, placate her, give her a spiel about how the kiss meant nothing, to forget it.
Instead, I stand here with a dumbass grin on my face.
I know why I deliberately provoked her into that kiss. I’ve done it my entire life, since my dad dumped me in the foster system: push people to the edge so they can hate me first.
With Daisy, it backfired, big time.
I’d had a hard-on since I first saw her sprawled on the sand, her ass in the air. It’s why I accepted her invitation for a walk even after she revealed her identity and I knew we’d be working together.
For me, our transient working relationship is perfect, because even if I do fuck her like I want to—the insistent throb in my dick won’t let up—it won’t mean anything. Just the way I like it.
So I needled her, accepting her invitation for a walk when I knew she’d hate me for it because I should know better considering our impending working relationship. I expected her to bristle, to push me away, to be appalled. The part where she reacted by flinging herself at me? Not in the plan.
Fuck, she was a turn-on. A confident woman not afraid to go after what she wants, even if that happens to be me, the guy working alongside her for the next few weeks.
I should go after her and try to salvage the wreckage of this unexpected night before we meet in the morning. Put her at ease. But then I remember the way she devoured me, the way she felt me up, and my damn face feels like it’s going to crack with my smug grin.
I’m rock hard, my balls throbbing. If all my blood hadn’t drained south I’d use half a brain cell and go after her, if only with the intention to invite her back to my room to finish what we started.
I watch her fleeing up the beach until she reaches the resort gates and enters. Only then do I follow at a sedate pace.
My grin fades the closer I get to the resort, the weight of what I’m facing in the upcoming weeks making my feet drag.
I’m nobody’s saviour, least of all Pa’s. But this hotel business is his legacy and, for reasons I can only blame on declining health, profit margins for his pride and joy have plummeted.
I need to change all that.
It’s the least I can do before I fuck off again.
Several couples stroll past, so wrapped up in each other they don’t notice me. A family, husband and wife, with twin boys about seven, are laughing by the water’s edge, kicking at the incoming waves, sending sea spray high into the air, drenching each other.
It’s late, the kids should be in bed, but as I watch the family having fun with a complete disregard for so-called society norms on child-raising, an ache starts in my chest and spreads outwards.
The complete innocence of the boys disarms me; their complete trust in their parents. I had that once. An expectation that the adults responsible for me would be dependable; an illusion ripped away the first time I got whacked across the side of the head for taking the last piece of bread, age three.
And
