Page 86 of Pretending I'm Yours

Everything except my life, which seems to be stuck in a holding pattern, no matter how hard I try to move forward.

I’ve considered selling the café and moving closer to my friends—with Mom gone there’s not much left for me here—but I could never afford to live in New York. I’ve run a successful business for years and am one hell of a baker, but bakers don’tget paid a living wage in the city, and I couldn’t afford to start a new business down there.

And without a college degree or other marketable skills, I’d likely be living close to the poverty line for the rest of my life. That’s the last thing Mom wanted for me, the last thing I want for myself. In Sea Breeze, I earn a comfortable living and have even been able to put money away for retirement someday.

A retirement I will likely spend alone, unless one of the girls loses their husband and decides to come back to Maine to be old ladies together, but I don’t want that for them. Besides, forty or fifty years from now, they’ll probably have children and grandchildren who need them more than their old friend, Elaina.

Hell, we might have even lost touch completely by then.

The thought makes tears sting into my eyes. The darkening beach ahead is still swimming as I approach a bonfire at the edge of the sand, not far from the dock where Weaver and Sully stay on his yacht when they’re in town.

And there, perched on a fancy beach chair in a summer sweater and linen pants, looking like something from an Eddie Bauer catalogue, sits Hunter Mendelssohn.

Hunter Mendelssohn, Anthony and Weaver’s friend, private equity billionaire, and all-around asshole.

Hunter Mendelssohn, who did wicked things to me for three days straight, practically moving into my apartment above the café—the better to be inside me every second he wasn’t closing deals and dismantling illegal fishing monopolies—only to leave without so much as a “see you later.”

And now, here he is, smug as you please, sipping a beer as he watches me approach like he’s been expecting me to wander up to his bonfire.

“Elaina,” he says, his voice as deep and delicious as I remember. “Good to see you. How have you been?”

“Fuck yourself in the face with a hot poker,” I say pleasantly, the first genuine laugh of the day bursting from my chest at his startled expression. “Oh, come on. You didn’t think I’d be glad to see you, did you? You’re a shit, Hunter. A complete shit. What kind of grown man leaves without saying goodbye?”

“I didn’t realize you cared about things like that,” he says, already recovered from his brief moment of surprise. Now, he’s back in bored billionaire mode again, looking utterly relaxed as he sits back in his chair, his bare feet stretched out into the sand. “If I remember correctly, you said you were looking for a good time, not a long time.”

“Bullshit,” I say. “You weren’t raised by wolves. You knew better than to slink out the backdoor while I was busy with the Sunday rush.”

“I had a plane to catch, and you’d warned me not to show my face downstairs.” His lips curve in a patronizing smile. “If I remember correctly, you were concerned the young men in town might see you with me and get the wrong idea.”

I bristle. “It’s a small town. People talk, and I didn’t want to have to answer a bunch of questions about a guy who was leaving in a few days. And still, you could have left a note. That wouldn’t have required you showing your face anywhere.” I shrug and take another pull on my beer. “But whatever. Who cares? It was a moment. It’s over. Just stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

He inclines his head. “Okay.”

I narrow my gaze, studying him in the glow of the fire. “Why are you in Sea Breeze, anyway? I thought your business here was over.”

“I came to see you, actually,” he says, chuckling at the no-doubt stunned expression on my face.

Pulling myself together, I prop a hand on my hip and intensify my glare. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.” He stands with one smooth movement that reminds me how well he uses that athlete’s body of his. Hunter may spend his days dominating the finance world, but he clearly puts in time at the gym. At forty-two, he’s in better shape than most men my age and knows exactly what to do with that big, hard body of his.

Don’t think about his body. Or how hard it is. Or how hard you want him to fuck you against the wall in your apartment.

Lifting my chin and praying my willpower holds as he ambles closer, until the soap and citrus smell of him teases at my nose, reminding me of how good my sheets smelled after he ravaged me in them, I say, “Seriously. What are you doing here?”

“That night we grilled shrimp in your apartment,” he says, now looming over me, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact with his much-taller self. “Do you remember what we talked about?”

I frown as scenes of that night flit through my head. “We talked about a lot of things. And we had a lot of wine.”

“And two desserts,” he says, moving closer still, until his body heat warms my skin and my traitorous nipples tighten beneath the bodice of my bridesmaid’s dress.

But it’s getting cold on the beach as the sun finishes setting. That’s the only reason I’m having this reaction. It has nothing to do with the man looking at me like he’s imagining what I looked like wearing nothing but a smile as I rode him in a chair by my kitchen table.

We’d been so hot for each other after the second dessert, we couldn’t even make it to the bed…

“And before you took the espresso mousse from the refrigerator,” he continues, “you told me how much you wanted children. How you were dying to have a baby, actually, but hadn’t found the right situation yet.”

I frown harder. “Okay. And?”

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