Page 29 of Secret Offer
“Whoa, there,” I say, holding her up gently as she tilts to the side again. “You okay?”
“Mmm,” she says, and the sound of her half-moan makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. “Too many Sky Juices. They were strong.”
Our bodies are so close that I can feel the heat of her skin radiating into me. Perfume, gin, sunscreen, that foreign cologne, and I swear I detect a hint of pussy—the combination has my senses overloaded, and the wolf comes out. I’m almost dizzy with lust, with the primal urge to take her right here against the wall. It would be so easy, pulling the stretchy fabric of her bikini to the side, ramming into that sweet cunt as I bury my face in her neck.
Christ, I should walk away right now. Or show her to her room first, make sure she’s tucked in for the night, and then walk away. I shouldn’t act on all the dirty thoughts that have been in my head since seeing her in the restaurant. I shouldn’t feel satisfied that I never washed her off of me from earlier today.
“I’m about to call it a night, but I can help you get to your suite,” I tell her coolly, with no hint of inuendo. “Have room service sent up for you, if you’d like.”
“I should eat something. But I don’t want to go back to my room yet. Got any ideas?”
Her mouth quirks up, and she doesn’t look like a woman in distress. She looks like a woman who’s fully aware of the effect she’s having on me and enjoying it.
“I know where to get the best conch fritters on the island,” I hear myself saying, utterly disregarding all the reasons why this is a really, really bad idea.
“Really?”
“Really. You want to get out of here?”
Instead of answering, she grabs my hand and leads me out the door. Once we’re outside, I can hear a live band on the beach playing music that reverberates through the air. The temperature has cooled since earlier, but the breeze is still balmy and sweet. Blair ties her coverup tighter so it looks more like a dress, and I notice her steps becoming steadier as we walk. Maybe the fresh air is helping her sober up.
“I can’t believe my parents booked us a family vacation at your resort,” she says, glancing at me sidelong. “Almost seems like fate.”
“Just a coincidence,” I reply brusquely. “I run the most exclusive resort on the island, and your parents are very much in the demographic of our typical clientele. Hardly sounds like fate to me.”
“That’s fair,” she says, but I can tell I haven’t changed her mind.
Before she can start asking questions about the resort or what I do here, I deftly steer the conversation toward more neutral topics. Blair catches me up on what she’s been up to the last few days—more of the usual tourist activities, as expected—and bemoans the departure of her best friend, who apparently flew back home early this morning. I find myself sharing a few stories about my new concierge trainee, though I don’t mention Daisy by name, and Blair’s laughter helps ease the stress I’ve been feeling over the whole thing.
We reach the street corner I’ve been drawing us toward, and Blair gives me a dubious look as I tug her to a stop outside a dilapidated little shack with a hand-painted sign that simply says, ‘Mo’s.’
“What?” I ask.
“This is the best place in town? I was expecting, I don’t know, a Michelin star.”
I shrug. “We can go somewhere else if you’d prefer.”
“Hell no.” She grins broadly. “I’m always down to check out what’s off the beaten path. Especially when it comes to food. Besides, I like to live dangerously.”
Don’t I know it.
She tucks her arm around mine as we head inside, and I let her.
The place is busy and boisterous, as it usually is. We manage to find a table on the back patio, and I leave Blair to hold our place while I go up to the counter to order. I can barely carry all the food containers back to the table. We’re going to share the conch fritters and a lobster roll with coleslaw, peas and rice, baked mac and cheese, plantains, and yucca fries. I also got us two Cokes to wash it all down.
“You ordered the entire menu!” she says, clearly pleased. “This barely fits on the table.”
“Figured you should try a little bit of everything since it’s your first time here.”
“I like your style, Argos,” she says, leaning forward.
“I like your style, too,” I say, and even though I meant it to sound casual, our eyes get caught when they meet, and neither of us looks away.
Clearing my throat, I force myself to grab the plate of fritters and aioli and push it toward her.
“Here. Eat,” I tell her.
We dig into the food, and I’m glad for the distraction. Two bites into the crispy, golden-fried fritters, Blair starts nodding, then lets out a huff of breath and grabs her Coke.
