Page 26 of Caribbean Crush

An oversight I can’t repeat because he sees it—the momentary lapse in my defenses. The effect he has on me.

Dammit.

I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for his return blow, when a voice speaks behind me.

“I thought you were going to save me a seat this morning.”

I turn to see Phillip’s friend Tyson aiming a charming smile my way. He’s dressed just as nicely as Phillip, and I feel slightly out of my element in my sundress and bikini. Silly me for dressing for a tropical vacation when I should have slipped into my finest pantsuit.

“She sat down without asking first,” Phillip says rudely. “Here, let me tip her out of it for you.”

He stands up as if to act on his words, and I find myself gripping ahold of the cushion. Childish doesn’t begin to cover how we’re acting. It seems we’ve reverted right back to middle school.

“Phillip, let her keep her seat. Look, here’s another one coming.”

A uniformed waiter is hurrying over with a chair for Tyson. He sets it down at our table, and then behind him, two more waiters arrive with a charger, coordinating china, silverware, and a crystal glass. The whole production is so coordinated it’s like they’ve practiced a thousand times. They might have.

“Will you be having coffee this morning, Mr. Ackres?” one of them asks.

“Yes, please. Fill it up so high you’re scared it’ll spill over. Better yet, just leave me the pot.”

The waiter’s head dips in a reverent nod before he rushes off. The original waiter comes back with my latte—in a to-go cup, the lid placed to the side—and asks me and Tyson what we would like to order.

I hadn’t even gotten a chance to look at the menu. I didn’t think I was going to make it this far. I half expect Phillip to cut in and tell them not to bother with food, that I’ll be dining elsewhere.

“Are you a vegetarian, Ms. Hughes?” Tyson asks, trying to smooth down the tension radiating off his friend.

“No.”

He nods in confirmation, then turns to address the waiter. “Then we’ll each take the sunrise omelet. Potatoes and fruit on the side, please.”

“Pancakes,” I whisper.

He chuckles. “And a side of pancakes for both of us. Lots of syrup.”

I smile at him, and he smiles back. He’s so welcoming and friendly.

The happy mood is cut short, of course, the moment my gaze shifts back to Phillip. He’s such a black cloud—all that frustration evident in his furrowed brow.

“Seems you won’t be getting rid of me quite so easily this morning.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

I look to Tyson. “Do you see what I have to deal with? I’ve been nothing but kind this morning, I assure you. He’s the problem.”

Tyson’s clearly amused as he replies, “He explained the circumstances to me. Apparently, there’s bad blood between you two.”

“’Fraid so. Think you could broker peace?”

He puffs out an exhausted sigh. “I’m not that good, I’m afraid. Phillip is a much better negotiator.”

I tilt my head at Phillip. “Truly? I have a hard time believing that.”

“Drink your latte, Ms. Hughes,” Phillip says by way of ending the discussion.

Like a good girl, I pick up my latte with its intricate foamed-milk design—I swear it’s a tiny version of Aurelia, absurd—and I take a long, pointed sip, holding eye contact with Phillip while I do it. There, now I’ve done what you asked. You can’t be mad about that.

I don’t know why I’ve found myself here, going up against a man positively dripping with power. I’m awfully confident for a person who has no arsenal to speak of, no ally, just a lowly fact-checker title and nothing to lose, I suppose.

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