Page 31 of The Rebel

If only memories could be as easily soaped away as the sweat clinging to my skin in this infernal humidity. But I can’t get Hart out of my head. He’s the most infuriating, boorish, moody guy I’ve ever met.

I still want him more than ever.

Flipping off a client isn’t the smartest thing to do but I was so mad on the dock I could’ve easily shoved him into the water and hoped he choked on a lungful of it.

He can be so attentive one minute and a frosty asshole the next. I’d like to say I’m done but that would make me a liar. I want more of the mind-blowing sex and his talented tongue. I just need to get my head around the fact he’s an irritable jerk and focus on the physical stuff.

I can do this.

Besides, sorbet isn’t always sweet. It can be tart and edgy but in the end it achieves the same result: leaving the palate cleansed. Hart is my sorbet, so no more shared confidences or moments of intimacy. We have sex, we enjoy it, that’s it.

Humming a song about being a woman, I towel off and slip into my PJs. Room service as I work sounds perfect tonight. Staying in has the added bonus of not running into Hart and possibly strangling him despite my vow to view him as a giant, lickable scoop in a cone.

I deal with emails first. It takes thirty minutes and I only stop towards the end to order Moreton Bay bug ravioli and a deconstructed strawberry parfait. Considering I emptied my stomach contents on the yacht, I’m hoping it doesn’t take too long.

I’m absorbed in compiling a diplomatic response to Alf’s latest demands when there’s a knock on the door. My stomach growls in anticipation and I run towards it.

However, when I open it, I’m not served with ravioli and parfait.

I get sorbet instead.

‘What are you doing here?’

Hunger makes me grouchy and Hart’s taken aback at my less than cordial greeting. What did he expect, for me to throw out the welcome mat after the way he chastised me on the dock for asking a simple question?

‘Can I come in?’ he asks, but he’s not looking at my face. He’s checking out my attire and I resist the urge to put my hands on my hips and give a shimmy for good measure.

‘I’m not dressed for company,’ I say, sounding suitably snooty.

‘Get changed.’ That kissable mouth quirks into a half-grin. ‘Or take them off.’

Heat arrows between my legs, damn him.

‘My PJs are staying on.’ I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. ‘Besides, I’m working.’

He’s still staring at my outfit. ‘Are those ice-cream cones?’

I shrug. ‘What can I say? I love the stuff.’

‘Sorbet in particular.’ His voice turns husky and I’m reminded exactly how yummy he is.

‘You really have to go—’

‘But aren’t you hungry?’

I sigh and lean against the door. ‘I’m not in the mood for word games so—’

‘I passed the waiter with your order and as we were both headed in the same direction…’ He pulls a trolley out from behind the neatly trimmed hedge shielding one villa from another. ‘I brought your dinner.’

‘Fine. In here, please,’ I say begrudgingly, because I really am starving and the thing looks like it weighs a tonne. Even with his impressive biceps he struggles with manoeuvring it over the incline into the villa.

After he positions it near the desk, he turns to me. ‘Do I get a tip?’

‘Yeah, be good to your PR whiz.’

He gives me a lopsided smile. ‘I thought the PR whiz prefers it if I’m bad.’

He leans in closer and I grit my teeth against the urge to bury my face in his neck. ‘Very, very bad.’

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