Page 4 of The Trouble with Flings

“Are you in the resort industry, too?” Sharon asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m a high school principal.”

“That must be incredibly rewarding, and also a bit trying, I’d imagine,” Sharon says.

I appreciate her honesty. Most people pretend that being a principal is only rewarding, because imagining the nightmare moments makes them uncomfortable. “Yes, it’s both of those things,” I say.

As Sharon and I chat about my work and the cruise, the men talk business. Fitz lights up as he discusses his family’s resort, but his hand never leaves my back. He’s impressive, this unexpected man by my side who probably has twenty years less experience than the silver-haired gentleman, but it’s obvious Ron appreciates his knowledge.

When the Harmons excuse themselves to find the bar, Fitz turns to me and says, “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. That seemed important.”

“Ron Harmon is a leader in sustainability initiatives. I’ve been wanting to talk to him for months.”

“I’m glad you got a chance to. Do you enjoy these conferences?”

“I don’t go to many, but yes, I do. There are interesting panels scheduled for the week, and it’s a meeting of some of the most brilliant minds in the industry. I feel lucky to be among them. What about you? Do you have big plans while you’re here?”

“Yes. I hope to take advantage of everything the resort has to offer, starting with snorkeling tomorrow. I appreciate you bringing me with you tonight, but this seems to be an important networking event, so please don’t feel like you have to entertain me.”

His brows slant. “Is there a reason I can’t do both? Are you feeling put off or ignored?”

“Not at all. I just don’t want you to feel obligated to be here if you’d like to be there.” I nod toward a group of men who sought him out earlier.

His dark eyes search mine. “As you might recall, I would have liked to be here after you left the island.”

I guess we’re jumping right in. I had a feeling he’d want answers about why I never agreed to see him, and I came prepared to shut him down without giving a real one. Anger, snark, and telling things like they are come naturally, but I’ve been treated badly by one too many men, and this particular type of emotional honesty is not easy for me. Hence the Alaska-size chip on my shoulder.

“Hold that thought,” I say as a waiter approaches with a tray of champagne flutes.

Fitz takes one, thanks him, and hands me the flute. He waits as I take a drink, then says, “You mentioned an ex. Were you with him when we got together?”

“No,” I say, and down the champagne. “I’m not a cheater.”

He takes my empty glass and nods to a waitress, finishing his own drink as she makes her way over. He puts the empty glasses on her tray and offers me another, but I decline. I need to soften my bite, not dull my senses. As the waitress walks away, his attention returns to me.

“What are you?” he asks evenly.

“A woman who doesn’t have to explain herself.” The knee-jerk reaction is out before I can temper it. I expect him to be amused or flinch.

He does neither.

“Fair enough,” he says. “At least I know you didn’t blow me off for the man who left you hanging.”

He says it without a hint of annoyance, which makes me feel mildly guilty for answering sharply when he’s been nothing but kind to me. It’s probably not fair to make him bear the brunt of my ill-chosen exes, so I say, “I didn’t blow you off for anyone.”

He arches a brow. “You really were busy?”

“Mostly, yes. Weekends have a habit of getting away from me.”

He looks like he’s weighing my answers. “Does that mean what happened between us is typical for you?” He steps closer. “I’m not asking about hooking up with men. I’m asking about how it felt.”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out, which annoys me, because I’m never at a loss for words.

“Let me be very clear about where I stand,” he says. “It wasn’t typical for me. It was something else.” He leans closer, dark eyes steady on mine, and lowers his voice for my ears only. “I’ve handled negotiations with enormous stakes. Money, reputations, decisions that affected hundreds of people. I know exactly what intense and thrilling feel like. I get high on all of that, but none of it, not the pressure, not the adrenaline, not the satisfaction of winning, has ever affected me the way one night with you did.”

I try to process his confession, but my brain, for the first time in its overachieving life, chooses this exact moment to go completely blank.