Page 17 of Date and Switch

“Fine.” She waved her hand in the air, as if giving her a middle name that differed from her guess didn’t matter in the construction of who she thought I was. “Bryce Edward Ellis, honors graduate of The Commonwealth School of Boston, Harvard undergrad, Yale MBA, legacy member of The Country Club, and regular patron of The Giving Circle, and probably local resident of Back Bay where you restored a turn of the century home you acquired for 200k, back to its former glory. That of course skyrocketed its market value to well over ten million.”

I held in my laughter for as long as I could. Her sweeping generalizations while not offensive did point to a general disdain for a certain sect of society. The twisted scowl tightening the muscles in her face made it clear she didn’t appreciate being laughed at.

“Bryce Edward Ellis of New Castle, Delaware. Grading on a five scale in high school was the only thing that helped my GPA, and I certainly was not an honors student. New Castle is quite small. I’m still friends with most of the neighborhood kids we hung around with growing up. In fact, I’ve known Penn’s wife as long as he has. She lived down the street from us, and her father was an Alderman. I have a B.A. in Economics from Brown, where I played basketball. My college girlfriend, Gemini Tate, also happens to be one of Penn’s best and closest friends. But I’d like it noted on the record she was my girlfriend before she was Penn’s best friend.”

She giggled and mimed writing it on a pad of paper.

“No MBAs for me,” I continued, winning another smile from Sera. “Once I finished college I was finished with college and had no desire to go back. I hate golf. Actually, loathe is probably a more accurate word. I make Penn go to business meetings that involve standing in the sun, shooting the shit while everyone chases a white ball. I have better things to do. Therefore, I would never drop significant coin on a membership to a stuffy, elitist organization such as The Country Club where they care more about your status with the Daughters of the American Revolution and Mayflower Society. Hard pass. While I do live in Back Bay, and I did do a total gut restoration of the house, my ex-girlfriend…” saying that was easier than saying Sarah, but it still hurt, “was an architect, and wanted to use my renovation as her thesis. It’s actually how we met. She knocked on my door the week I closed on it while I was interviewing contractors.”

Remembering her that day, her hair up in a ponytail, and that smart little navy power suit she wore to accompany her determined look—that was how I wanted to remember Sarah. When she was good, and kind, and brimming with excitement over her life’s passion. I desperately wanted to forget the last exchange and the poison tipped arrows she’d shot at me.

Sera’s stifled yawn pulled me from memory lane.

“You really should get some rest. We can continue with this little game for the next four days while we push ahead toward Rio de Janeiro. I don’t have anything pressing that can’t be handled by my brother, so I am all yours for the entirety of these days and nights. No work distractions—for now.”

She didn’t even put up an argument. Simply snuggled down into her covers and closed her eyes. I told myself I’d intended to kiss her cheek when I said goodnight. That it was the wine that threw me off balance. Her lips were not my intended target. Yet that’s where I lingered. Tasting the orange of her Gatorade, feeling the warmth of lips against mine. Relishing in the movement of her mouth in welcome counterpoint to mine.

“Sleep,” I whispered, forcing myself to break the kiss.

“Goodnight, Earl of Ellis.” She smiled, stifling a giggle beneath her blanket.

“Night, angel.”

I tried to distract myself with the TV in our living room. I turned off the sound and turned on the closed captioning so as not to wake her. Not a single one of the cruise’s offerings could hold my attention. As hard as I tried to push Sera out of my thoughts, she fought harder to stay in them.

Fuck it.

The shower called to me like a siren’s song. I fought it all night. My conscience screamed for me to stop as I marched in and turned on the water. A thousand reasons why I shouldn’t do it shot like fireworks in my head. She’d made herself vulnerable. Trusted me with her most secret and private place. Even her calling me a pervert hadn’t deflated my cock from its marble-like hardness. Her teasing only threw gasoline onto desire-soaked embers. Throw in a couple glasses of wine and all I wanted was to get lost in her. To luxuriate in the soft citrus scent of her lotion. To bury my nose in her thick copper waves. I wanted to taste the very object of my shame that had so innocently been spread out in front of me.

Four weeks. Barely. That’s how long we’d been on this trip. Only four weeks and already I wanted to fuck her. No. I didn’t want to fuck. I wanted to spend lazy days at sea finding every single way to make her sigh and moan. I wanted the gentle rocking of the boat to be envious of our bodies making a rhythm of their own. I needed to hear my name on her tongue when she gasped it in apogee. To feel her warm, welcoming body, surrounding me, pulling me toward orgasm.

Just imagining her while the water ran down my back did nothing to temper the heat that raged inside me. My cock ached, each beat of my pulse echoing from root to tip. It felt so wrong to feel so good. I fucked mercilessly into my hand. I hoped the bruising pace could chase away my conscience telling me what a dirty fucking man I was. Her name pushed past my lips on a sigh, carrying on its heels remembrances of the other Sarah and the things she said. Instead of a grunt of completion, ice pulsed from my brain to every extremity including my cock. The moan that escaped was one of pain instead of satisfaction. Where I’d been on fire seconds ago, I felt empty.

“You really fucked me up, Sarah,” I told no one, as if across the ocean she’d somehow hear me.

twelve

I’d been floating on the edge of sleep when I’d heard him grunt and sigh my name. At least I thought it was my name, until I heard him tell Sarah that she’d fucked him up. It stung. I understood he was still working through his grief stages but every time I thought we were tiptoeing into romance territory, and I dared to hope something more would come of it, he’d back off and flat out reject me in the most glorious of ways. I needed to just accept the fact that he didn’t want me as anything more than a friend. No matter what his actions sometimes said. Like he’d told me—it was just transference. That stupid name thing.

Before we left, Felicity told me to Google her. Sarah Miller. The architect. According to a piece I’d seen on the morning news she was pretty well known in those circles. Whatever architecture circles were called. I refused to Google. Then and now. I didn’t need to know what she looked like or who she was. It was irrelevant. Bryce was desperately trying to find “up” after his life with her Blitzkrieg’d. He made it clear over and again I was nothing more than a travel buddy. I shouldn’t even want to look her up because I was irrelevant in the Bryce Ellis solar system. Curiosity burned at the edges of my psyche all through the night. With each fitful sleep and wake pattern she was there. I wanted to know what happened. Wanted in to Bryce’s confidence.

“The wifi is total shit today.” Bryce walked into the bedroom, breathless and dripping in sweat. “Looks like we might have an interruption free day. How are you feeling?”

He squat down to meet my eyes. I searched them for any kind of emotion or weirdness from the night before and I didn’t see anything amiss. All I saw was genuine concern.

“Slept like shit,” I admitted, trying to rub the sleep from my eyes. “Couldn’t get comfortable.”

“How about now? Are you still in as much pain as you were yesterday? I thought maybe we could eat in the dining room if you’re up for it. There is nothing but ocean every which way and the dolphins are putting on quite the show.”

“Dolphins?”

I’d yet to see them. Bryce the dolphin whisperer had seen them on more than one occasion during his early morning runs.

“Do you think you can walk up to the lounge? Or we could take the elevator, but you’ll still have a few steps up to the observation seats.”

I swung my legs over the bed, waiting for the rush of pain to overtake me. While it definitely pinched, the pain was at least moderately tolerable.

“Can I take a look?” he asked, moving back into his crouch, only this time he was shirtless.

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