Page 22 of Stuck in Paradise with You

For two hours, we – with mostly Carrie doing the talking – get lost in a hypothetical new-look Hettich empire. I test her and challenge her, asking questions at every feasible juncture and, damn her, she knows every answer, across all our jurisdictions. Or, at least, she’s confident enough to make me believe she does.

At one point, I even start lapping the table, hands in pockets, umming and ahhing, neither confirming nor denying that I agree with her assessment, trying to throw her off. Yes, it’s childish, but it doesn’t work anyway.

I can tell from the way she side-eyes me as I wander the room that I’m irritating her, yet it doesn’t mess with her mojo.

She’s on fire. She’s fucking brilliant at her job.

And it’s as bittersweet as a candied lemon. On the one hand, I’m proud of her. My junior, whom I taught and supported, flourishing as a senior advisor. On the other hand, I’m annoyed that she’s great. The woman who burned me. The woman for whom I killed my chances of partnership without thanks or even acknowledgment.

‘I have another question,’ I tell her. ‘Some of our directors want to relocate and have a preference not to be flying back and forth to the Caribbean for board meetings. Does this new legislation have anything to say about that?’

She nods, sipping from the second coffee I’ve made her. Then she pulls up the relevant legislation on her laptop screen and points to it, right as my latest turn of the room brings me behind her chair. ‘See this provision…’

I lean across her to read the words for myself, my hands braced either side of her on the tabletop. I haven’t meant it to feel intimate, yet, as I read from her screen, the scent of her perfume mixed with something that’s distinctly Carrie works its way into my bloodstream and travels straight to my hippocampus, and I’m thrust back to the first night we kissed.

We were in our office. New York City’s skyline was dazzling through the window against the outside darkness, undisturbed by the dim lights inside. It had been a long day and night, pulling the kind of hours that are unsustainable, for a significant client of mine.

Carrie asked me to review something she was drafting. I stepped from behind my desk and leaned across hers, just as I have done now. And just as she’s doing now, her nearness, her scent, it infiltrated me, diverted my mind from what I was supposed to be doing.

As I looked to her, she glanced up to me, our faces inches apart, as they are now. Then we edged closer. First her, I think. Then me. A subconscious call and response. A reflexive move by my body that had thought about it for months. Until I was staring down at her soft pink lips, watching them slowly part, hearing her next shallow breath. Then I was kissing her. Slowly, tentatively. Nervously. Knowing it was wrong, unethical, but unwilling or unable to stop it.

Now, we’re locked in a gaze, my heart hammering, making me feel like I’ve drunk ten coffees for breakfast, and I wonder if she’s sharing the same memory as I am. Whether I’m having anything close to the effect on her that she’s having on me.

Wondering whether she’ll creep closer, if she’ll make the next move, and if she does, whether I’ll stop it.

This is bad. This is dangerous. I’m being knocked senseless by her again, except this time, I already know how it ends.

‘So, you’re telling me I can’t have all my directors sitting in the USA and claim the company is Cayman tax resident?’ I croak, unsure whether my sentence is even coherent.

It’s enough to break her hold over me, though. Her expression shifts from whatever it was, or what I imagined it was, to something cooler, safer.

‘Not unless you want the next time you see me again to be seven years from your incarceration for tax evasion.’

I think she’s deadly serious, until one side of her lips flutters, almost a spasm, then she smirks and I can’t help but laugh. She follows my lead, until we’re howling. Her holding her waist in her seat and me doubled over. There’s no doubt that at some point, it becomes more about venting steam from a pressure cooker than the joke being funny.

Because whilst my imprisonment might be hilarious to her, to me, it’s a lot less amusing.

‘Ah, sorry to interrupt.’

Carrie’s cheeks burn red at the sight of Alisha in the open doorway.

Our moment of liberation from the past is brought to an abrupt halt by Alisha’s words, and it feels like we’ve been caught in the act… again.

We haven’t, of course; we’re just two people who can’t stand each other, laughing about memories that haunt us, or something to that effect. I sober instantly but the burst of adrenaline I just got brought with it a reminder of excitement, salacious nights and stolen moments. Like an addict who’s tasted their most haunting vice for the first time in a long time.

‘You’re not interrupting at all,’ Carrie says, pushing out her chair and standing, almost to attention. ‘I was actually thinking about stretching my legs for a few minutes, so I’ll leave you guys to it.’

Just like that, she’s gone, swept off on the Caribbean breeze. I watch the way her body moves, remembering it so well.

Quit it, Luke. Just goddamn stop with the flashbacks, the memories, the terrorizing yourself.

‘Was I interrupting?’ Alisha asks, stepping further into the room. She’s dressed as if she’s just come up from the beach – a sheer kimono over a bathing suit.

I shake my head. ‘Not at all. She made a joke. Believe it or not.’ I rub my freshly shaved chin. Carrie used to be funny. Hilarious, actually, but I’ve seen no sign of that humor in the last couple of days. Until that one wise crack.Smart ass.

‘Mmmhmm.’ Alisha folds her arms across her chest. ‘Well, I just came on Noah’s behalf to ask if you’ll play soccer with him once your meeting is done. He wanted to come up here himself but I didn’t think you’d thank me for allowing it, so this is the compromise. I only came in myself because it didn’t look like much business was being done.’ She raises one eyebrow.

‘You’ve misread the room, trust me. Carrie and I are in a strictly business relationship these days.’

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