Page 21 of Strictly the Worst

“I wasn’t watching you,” I protest.

“Sure you weren’t.” He winks and turns around.

“I wasn’t,” I say loudly, as he closes the door.

Aggravated, I sit down and let out a loud sigh. I’d drop my face into my hands but I don’t want to smudge my makeup.

We’ve been together less than twenty-four hours, and I already remember why I don’t like him that much.

It’s going to be a very long few days.

CHAPTER

SIX

LINC

I wouldn’t call myself highly sexed. Medium, maybe. I don’t know. Healthy. Whatever. All I know is that I like sex very much. And I make sure whoever I’m with likes it too.

But it’s been the only thing on my mind ever since I overheard her categorically telling the person on the other end of the line that she was never going to have sex with me.

And it’s stupid, because I don’t want to have sex with her. Not really. She’s been a pain in my ass ever since I started working at Hampshire PR.

Some guys love a challenge like that. The ones who think that sex is some kind of transactional relationship where they win every time.

But not me. For me, sex has to be mutually pleasurable. I don’t want to win. I want to make her win.

Okay, I want to make her come.

I take a deep breath and try to forget that thought. Not just because it’s inappropriate – so highly inappropriate I don’t even know where to start. But because I think that sex with Carmichael could only end in tears.

For both of us.

“Would you like to start with a cocktail?” the server asks.

Tessa and I are sitting under a thatched roof held up by wooden columns. Lights are hanging from every rafter, the soft, yellow kind that make everything and everybody look better. We’re sitting next to the beach, giving us the perfect view of the darkening ocean as the sun slowly slides beneath the horizon. In the corner a band is playing what sounds like a slow version of an Ed Sheeran song, and a couple are on the dance floor, swaying together and laughing.

“What cocktail do you recommend?” I ask.

“The Bahama Mama, of course,” she tells us. “It’s everybody’s favorite.”

I catch Tessa’s eye and she nods. “Two of those please.”

Five minutes later we’re sipping at our pink frothy cocktails. They’re made with crushed ice, and the first mouthful gave me a brain freeze.

Tessa insisted on taking photographs and videos of the cocktails first, and now she’s recording me. I lift a brow before I take a sip of the cocktail.

“You want me to take my top off for the video?” I ask her.

She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not one of your yacht girls.”

Oh, she’s still salty about that. “You shouldn’t dismiss it until you try it,” I tell her, smirking because she has no idea what she’s talking about. And if I’m being honest, I like winding her up.

“The yacht or your girls?” she asks, giving me a smile that looks like danger.

“They’re not my girls,” I say. “I’d have thought a feminist like you wouldn’t demean women that way.”

That makes her frown. She takes a long sip of her cocktail. “You’re right,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t.”

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