Page 13 of The Trouble with Flings

Last night was hell. I paced a path in the carpet, talking myself out of heading back to her room too many times to count. I considered texting, but you don’t win a woman like Jennifer by texting. That much she’s proven. Whatever this is between us, it’s even more powerful than it was before, and if I learned anything last night, it’s that if I play this too fast, it’ll be too easy for her to convince herself there’s nothing more worth exploring.

And she’d be dead wrong.

I knock, the seconds crawling by like minutes. I smile at a couple as they come out of the room next door and head to the elevator. Where the hell is she? I knock again.

“Coming,” she says exasperatedly from the other side of the door.

I hear the slide of locks, and then the door opens, and she stands there, blinking repeatedly, as if she can’t fathom that I’d be standing here. Her hair is a glorious tangled mess, and a black satin sleep mask with Leave Me Alone printed on it is resting on her forehead. She looks insanely adorable and unfairly sexy in a navy satin camisole and matching shorts.

“Fitz?” she says sleepily.

“Good morning.” I drag my gaze down the length of her, and her nipples pebble against the thin material, giving me great satisfaction. “Late night?”

“A little.” She yawns. “I hope you don’t mind that I charged some porn to the room last night.”

I cock a brow. “Seriously?”

“No,” she says with a laugh. “I just wanted to see your face. But I should have, after the way you left me high and dry.”

“I left you high, wild one, but I definitely didn’t leave you dry.”

Her eyes narrow, and her mouth twitches like she’s conjuring a sassy retort, but then she nods to the coffee and bag I’m holding. “Is that your idea of an apology? Because I’d much rather you come in and apologize properly, and I don’t mean with words.”

Fuck. She is going to be the death of me. “I won’t apologize for leaving you wanting more when it’s done by design.” I let that sink in before adding, “And as tempting as your invitation is, I have a conference to get to, and I’m already late.” I hand her the coffee and bag.

“That’s a shame,” she says, peering into the bag. She meets my gaze, tilting her head with a sexy expression. “I guess that means I can’t convince you to join me for a day of snorkeling? I was about to put on my favorite bikini.”

This is how rational decisions die. One temptation after another, chipping away at the strongest resolve. But giving in now means she wins, and Jennifer’s idea of winning is too short-sighted for the connection between us. She may not know that yet, but she will.

“I’m afraid I have to decline for the aforementioned prior commitment,” I say, unable to hide the tension in my voice. “But should I take that to mean you have no lingering doubts that we won’t measure up to last summer?”

“The jury’s still out.” She smirks adorably. “See you later, Boy Scout.” She steps back and closes the door.

I stare at the door for a moment, wondering what kind of fool I’ve become that I’m standing on this side of it.

“Jesus.” I scrub a hand down my face and head for the elevator, knowing I’ll be useless for the rest of the day.

It took me hours to get the image of Jennifer in that slinky lingerie out of my mind. As if she hadn’t done enough damage to my ability to think clearly, just when I started to, she began firing missiles of temptation, texting pictures of herself wearing a teeny-weeny green-and-yellow bikini.

The first picture rolled in around noon, of Jennifer dripping wet, hair sticking to her sun-kissed shoulders, all sexy curves and effervescent energy radiating off my phone screen. She was standing with two well-built guys and another woman, all of whom looked to be in their midtwenties, with the caption I made new friends!

Another picture popped up a little while later of Jennifer lying on her stomach on a towel on the deck of a boat, holding the camera in front of her, giving me a clear view of her cleavage and dazzling smile. The other woman was leaning into the frame on her right, and one of the guys was doing the same on her left. The accompanying message read, You’re really missing out!

At that point I was beginning to suspect Jennifer treats temptation like a competitive sport.

I told myself not to text back, but when a third text came through with a picture of Jennifer sitting with one of the guys, a single towel draped over their shoulders, I was ready to rent a power boat and hunt them down.

Instead, I texted, They’d better keep their snorkels away from your cave.

To which she sent a laughing emoji.

A fucking laughing emoji.

A short while later, my skin feels too tight, and my brain is fried from jealousy. An emotion I’m not even a little familiar with and have already decided I abhor, as I send another text.

Me: What are your plans tonight?

Jennifer: My friends invited me to check out the casino with them.