Page 58 of Caribbean Crush

“I’m surprised you wanted to talk to me today,” she says, stepping forward with a healthy amount of reluctance.

“Are you?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend.

She makes it into the living room, then turns around to face me. Already her worry is starting to melt away, her brow relaxing. When she speaks, she sounds mildly annoyed. “I take it you read the interview.”

“Yes. I read it.”

She doesn’t give anything away. Those demure features—the ones I thought of as I jacked off in the shower this morning—stay perfectly stoic as she asks, “What did you think of it?”

“What did I think of it?” My head might explode, it really might. “I should let my lawyer tell you what I thought of it.”

She hums, sounding bored. “So ... you’re not happy. That much is obvious. Is that why you called me here? Just to tell me off? Because when that attendant stopped me in the hall to tell me you wanted to see me, I was headed straight for the all-you-can-eat dessert buffet happening downstairs. That chocolate fountain is calling my name.”

I step toward her. “You’re not going to that buffet.”

I’ve lost it, truly.

I’m forbidding her from a buffet? What next?

I never talked to Vivienne this way, not once. If there were ever any issues, we’d have proper sit-down discussions. She once invited me to a Google Calendar event titled Thermostat Temperature Meeting that she thought we should have at 8:45 p.m. the following Tuesday. I was so levelheaded with her, so even keeled. I barely recognize the man standing in front of Casey, blocking her from her chocolate fountain.

“Should I read you my favorite parts?” I slip my phone out of my pocket and proceed before she can argue. “Cantankerous. Rude. Stubborn. Prideful. Controlling.” I take off my reading glasses and glare at her. Those were all words she used to describe me. Never mind that she also used charming, handsome, and enigmatic—I’m stuck on the negative adjectives at the moment. We’ll get to the nice ones in due time.

Casey has the audacity to look proud of herself as she cocks her hip and crosses her arms. She’s not scared of me, not even a little. She raises her brows as she asks, “Where’s the lie?”

“I gave you answers. I played your little game.”

She laughs like I’m completely delusional. “You never gave me answers! I never even got to ask you questions! Those were your questions, and they were absurd. You lobbed me softballs.” Her tone is mocking and condescending as she continues, “Who inspires you in business? What motivates you to work? You really thought my editor would lap those up? Why’d you even send them to me?”

“I felt guilty.”

Her eyes spark as her eyebrows shoot up. “There. Honesty. For once.”

My jaw ticks. “Yeah, that’s right, Casey. I woke up the day after I slept with you, and I worried about how you were feeling. I didn’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of you.”

She rears back, looking absolutely offended. “I wanted everything that happened.”

“I was in a position of power over you,” I press.

“You were in a lot of positions over me, true ...”

God, she winds me up.

“Power?” She shrugs. “So what? I wanted it as much as you did. And I didn’t try to use our night together against you. You did that all on your own.”

We go silent for a spell, just long enough for me to acknowledge how heavily we’re both breathing, how much tension fills the room right now.

“I felt blindsided,” I say, wondering if I’m still talking about what she wrote or if I’m just talking about her in general.

She takes it in reference to her work. For the first time since she waltzed in, she looks contrite over what she’s done. Her pride has fallen away, and she stares at me with sad eyes and a deep frown.

“What would you have done in my position? Let the chance of a lifetime pass you by because of one night with a man? A man, I should add, that you’ll never see again as soon as this cruise ends? I don’t feel bad for you.”

A last vestige of anger bursts forth, and I spit venom. “I should kick you off this boat.”

She meets my challenge head on, her chin lifting with the challenge. Her words are slow and precise. “So kick me off this boat.”

I don’t know who moved first. We’d have to review the tape to see whether I took a step forward or whether it was Casey who came toward me, but those were the last words uttered before I have Casey in my arms, my mouth claiming hers. There’s no sharp slap. No. She lets me kiss her, and god, I enjoy it. Possession spreads through my veins, heating me from the inside. My hands go to her waist. She clutches the front of my shirt. I ache for her, and the feeling must be mutual. She leans into me as if needing more, to feel what I’m feeling, to take whatever I’m willing to give her.

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