Page 3 of The Trouble with Flings

To say the least. “I remember.”

She eyes me from head to toe and says, “Let’s see how you do with a boat full of witnesses.” She spins on her heel and heads for the elevator.

Amused, I call after her, “Hey, Stone.”

She glances over her shoulder with a bold grin that tells me she thinks she’s holding all the cards, and hell if that doesn’t make her even more attractive.

“Try not to cause any more trouble until then.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Chapter Two

Jennifer

Fitz failed to mention that the dinner cruise is on a yacht with three gleaming decks adorned with twinkling lights, complete with music, dancing, and a host of wealthy people who I’m sure never have to resort to using their emergency credit card to pay for a trip.

My date is one of those people.

I can’t believe I didn’t know Fitz was a Silver. He’s practically Silver Island royalty.

That’s a little intimidating. As I wash my hands in the ladies’ room, the high school principal in me says, Not as intimidating as a furious parent whose child is about to be suspended from high school.

I hold on to that truth and give myself a quick once-over in the mirror, studying the black wrap dress I packed on impulse the night before my flight. I hadn’t planned to wear it. It’s too much for a solo trip, the kind of dress that requires someone to dress up for, but I packed it anyway. Like a dare to myself to wear it as a reminder that I might be closing in on forty, but I can still get a man if I want one.

Not that I’m looking.

Bringing it was my way of keeping myself from being dragged into a vortex of self-doubt after yet another dud in a long line of them. While I am not a frequent traveler of that particular vortex, my track record with men dangles me over it sometimes. But the moment I saw Fitz standing in the hotel lobby, my body threw a party, and I’m not talking about a little happy dance. It was a full-on production with streamers and fireworks and Marvin Gaye singing “Let’s Get It On.”

It was ridiculous, and I was completely powerless to make it stop.

To make matters worse, he was looking at me like I was a problem he’d been waiting years to solve. I remember exactly what happened the last time he looked at me like I was the most interesting thing he’d ever decided to thoroughly explore.

We were drawn to each other last summer like metal to magnet across the room at what I now realize is his brother Wells’s waterfront restaurant, Rock Bottom Bar and Grill. Fitz is insanely handsome, and he’s charming, smart, and funny enough, but the chemistry between us was so strong, it was hard to concentrate on anything else. We hadn’t talked much before heading back to his house, where the gentleman had very quietly set himself aside, revealing a man who took control in a way that somehow made me feel utterly adored and completely safe, and had undone me in ways I still haven’t recovered from.

My pulse quickens just thinking about how thrilling it was to earn his praise. I’m no stranger to enjoying myself with men, but I’ve never experienced that level of pleasure, or the absolute sense of safety that stripped me of all defenses, unsettling me at the root. For a woman who has never needed a man, it was as intoxicating as it was terrifying.

Needless to say, I had to make solving that problem a little harder for both of us.

That’s why I wore the dress, thinking it would taunt him and allow me to remain the one in control. Unfortunately, the dress is backfiring. I like the way Fitz visually devours me in it too much, and while I was bracing for the inescapable magnetic pull between us since I saw him in the lobby, I wasn’t prepared for how easy he is to be around.

I’ve had a better time in the last hour than I have in months. There’s something truly genuine about Fitz’s charm. I watched him work the deck without coming across as working it, actually talking to people rather than feigning interest, making everyone he spoke to feel important. I noticed all of it, filed every bit away, which is its own kind of problem. And then there’s his hand, finding the small of my back at every transition with the authority of a man who simply decided where his hand belonged and owned the space.

I didn’t dissuade him, and I’m choosing not to examine that too closely.

Giving myself the look in the mirror that I usually reserve for students who think they can slide something past me, I knot the wrap on my dress tighter, smooth the material over my hips, and head back out to find Fitz.

The warm air coasts over my skin, and music floats around me. The lights of the Costa Rican coastline glitter in the distance like stars strung low against the horizon. I spot Fitz standing by the railing in his dark slacks and white linen shirt, talking with a silver-haired couple, one hand in his pocket, a glass held loosely in the other, his sandy hair lifting in the breeze. He looks completely at ease, the way people who don’t need to act relaxed do. I wonder what that’s like. I’ve never relaxed a day in my life. That is, other than the one night I spent with him on Silver Island. After we satiated our carnal needs multiple times, I was too spent to move, much less worry about a damn thing.

He turns as I weave through the crowd, his gaze cutting a path like he’s been tracking me the whole time. That shouldn’t be thrilling, but everything about him is. It makes no sense. I’m usually attracted to guys who have a visible edge and carry themselves like they’re wearing armor. That’s part of what throws me off about Fitz. He looks at me like I’m the thing that needs figuring out, but in my head that script is flipped.

His lips curve into a smile, and my mind sprints unhelpfully back to the sinful pleasures that mouth brought me. Down girl.

“Jennifer,” he says, his big hand coming to rest on my lower back again. “I’d like you to meet Sharon and Ron Harmon. They run an eco-resort in the Maldives. Sharon, Ron, this is Jennifer Stone.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jennifer,” Ron says, extending his hand.

“You as well.” I shake his hand, then Sharon’s, as Fitz draws me slightly closer to the group, and to him. It’s a small thing, but it feels like an intimate claiming.