The Reality of You, page 7
Now that my irritation had been liberated, I couldn’t stop. “Beyond exhausted, I’m going stir-crazy stuck in a room for three days! So yes, I’m drinking on my break.” I lifted the bottle up and asked in a flat tone, “Do you have a problem with that?”
His brows rose the tiniest bit. “Useless crap?”
My lids lowered. “Are you really going to go through those documents?”
He nodded. “Every one.”
“Huh,” I said, deflating. He appeared so somber that I believed he would ridiculously go through each chart and document.
“My company is serious about promoting brands that can deliver.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I let out a huff as I took in the very last slice of the sun over the water.
He cleared his throat. “However, I could probably do without your reviews on the resort.”
“Sure you could, because most of them will be on room service,” I said snottily.
“Or wreaking havoc,” he said sardonically.
“Ha, ha,” I muttered and scowled. “But yes, those reports will be useless.”
He shifted until he sat closer, bringing his dark, delicious scent closer. “I offered to lighten your workload. Appear pleasant about it, at least.”
“Thank you,” I replied from a tight jaw, since I had a mountain of proofing to do and his mouth inches from my ear had caused a surge of unwanted anticipation that such a jerk shouldn’t produce.
“Perhaps you could get done early and spend part of the last day at your leisure.”
“Leisure? What is that?”
Beholding the last of the sunset, he took a slow sip of wine. “On the other hand, maybe I do need those reports.”
“Oh, no,” I said, standing. “The offer was given and I accept.” I brushed the sand off my capris and grabbed my bottle. As he stood too, I smirked at him shrewdly. “Guess I need to get back to work.” I saluted him with a flat hand to my forehead. “Have a wonderful night, Captain.” And then I took off, ignoring his low-lidded look and hot, hazel eyes and hot face and hot, hot body encased in casual finery.
Hot, hot package around a huge, huge asshole.
Chapter 9
Longing for a day of freedom, I took Reese’s offer seriously, and although a full night of sleep continued to elude me, after one full day of proofing and fixing, I had an entire half day to myself. A day I refused to spend at the resort. A day I planned to enjoy work- and boss-free. After sending Reese a billion charts and documents via email and wolfing down a shrimp quesadilla from room service for lunch, I packed a bag, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and took off toward the nearest town, which surprisingly, according to my phone, was only a mile away. Being on the resort for almost a week left me feeling like we were in the farthest corner of the world.
I looked like an idiot with a slender and long designer bag on my shoulder—a backpack had been prohibited since Jules had known that I would carry that before a briefcase—while I jogged down the narrow lane that led to the resort. I popped out into the edge of civilization—a rundown civilization. The stucco walls of the homes needed paint. The yards needed upkeep, as overgrown bushes and long grass were prevalent. And many shutters were loose and hanging on angles. But the neighborhood had an island quaintness to it. The houses were painted in various once-bright colors. Most had awnings over the windows and porches. Plus, palm trees and tropical plants lined the street.
As I jogged in closer to the city and shoreline, the houses turned into condominiums and huge apartment buildings. The streets grew narrower and a bit dirty. After crossing several main thoroughfares, I came to the ocean and jogged along a winding park that followed the shoreline until I approached a wide-open area of grass and palm trees that led to the beach and ocean.
It felt revitalizing to be running under the sun in balmy eighty-degree weather given that it was winter in New York. After bending over and catching my breath, I dug in my bag, plucked out a water bottle, and began to walk. Though I was headed toward the beach, the sight of a soccer game in process had me wandering over to the back of the park.
Amid overflowing trash bins and patchy grass, a group of kids from about preteen to college age were playing a fierce game. Some of the players weren’t too bad, and surprisingly, a few were good. I wasn’t surprised when the ball flew then dribbled toward me in view of the fact that I was standing on the sideline. Without thinking, I did a back heel, stepping over the ball and poking it back onto the field with my heel.
Most of the players paused, staring at me like I was a freak.
Finally, someone scooped up the ball. Instead of continuing to play, he jogged over to me and said something that had the tone of a question, but the words were in another language.
“Um…I don’t know Spanish,” I said.
He smiled. “Want to join the game?” He spoke clear English, almost accent-free.
At first, I blinked at him. It wasn’t the perfect English. Other than messing around in my parents’ backyard or kicking around a ball by myself at the gym, I hadn’t played in a game since the accident. I’d been scared that, after all of my injuries, I would suck at the game I loved. It was a fear that sometimes crept up on me at the strangest times. I’d be doing laundry and it would suddenly hit me that I’d never be on a team again. Or I’d be brushing my teeth when a well-known play would materialize in my head before I realized that part of my life was probably over. But I had just hit the ball unconsciously, and it had felt so good, so natural.
The guy in a grass-smeared tank top waited with a confused expression. “I’m Armando. You speak English, right?” he asked even though I’d replied to him in said language.
I squashed the knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. I internally repeated what the therapist my mother had forced me to go to had said. You don’t have to be awesome at the game to enjoy it.
“Sure. I’d love to play,” I replied. “Name’s Naomi.”
He beamed at me. “Great. We were short one player, and after that kick, I’m fairly sure you can play.” He pointed to a pile of stuff—shirts, bags, water bottles—on the other side of the field. “You can put your bag there. No one will touch it.”
While we walked across the field, he pointed out the teams. People in white or bare-chested comprised his team. All other colors were the other team. I wore a light, pink T-shirt paired with black running shorts. Close enough to white, I supposed. Armando informed me that they were playing the 4-2-4 formation and offered me one of the forward positions. Geez, that back heel kick must have wowed him. I’d decided to play, and when it came to soccer, I was all about challenges, so I accepted the position with a nod. I’d played it all through college.
After I dumped my bag, the game commenced. I started slow, mostly watching, getting a feel for the tempo and my teammates. The tempo was fast and my teammates were good. Nothing that matched my college team, but pretty damn good for playing in a park on a Saturday afternoon.
Within minutes, Armando passed me the ball, and I moved it quickly down the field. Some huge guy—as in tall, wide, and muscular—flew on me like Paolo Maldini—my vote for greatest defensive player of all time—in the height of his career. Unlike Maldini, this guy was an asshole, sneering and roughhousing me. After he nearly tripped me, he stole the ball.
I stood there fuming and staring at his back.
Oh, game on.
Asshole was going down.
It took me the total of five seconds to steal the ball back. I raced down the field, moving around other players before he could catch up and slammed the ball into the net with a perfectly angled drive. Asshole Maldini glared at me. Armando and several of my teammates high-fived me.
As we played over the next hour, both the game and I got more aggressive. I had fun with it, adding some flair with tricks and pointing at A. Maldini or the net each time I scored, which totaled four times. Maybe someone with my experience playing with these guys wasn’t fair, but hey, steal the ball from me and my competitive streak came out. Plus, at least I didn’t point at my nemesis with my middle finger. Can’t say I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t a total idiot.
When we were up six to two, they called it quits. Strolling off the field toward our stuff, Armando informed me that they’d be playing tomorrow afternoon too. His hopeful look had me smiling. Yeah, I still rocked, and yeah, the confirmation of it had me feeling beyond awesome. Regrettably, I had to tell him that I was flying home tomorrow. You’d think I had delivered the worst news ever from his deep frown. He forced a smile and told me that many of the players would be meeting up at a local eatery a few blocks south, if I wanted to come. I nodded and grabbed my bag, still planning on heading to the beach.
I was on cloud fifteen million after playing so well but was hurled down from the fluffy, floating patch at the sight of the person sitting on a bench that overlooked the field. I wanted to veer around the field and pretend that I didn’t see him. Beyond rude, that seemed rather cowardly. Thus, I beelined right toward him.
He unwrapped his arm from the back of the bench and stood up as I came near.
“I’m impressed,” Reese said, studying me intently. “You’re better than I would have ever envisioned.”
Though he looked amazing as usual in a fitted sleeveless tee and running shorts, I wasn’t interested in impressing him, and that compliment had been so backhanded after coming from the high that I could still play that I wanted to backhand him. And besides that, I’d done my job for him. I’d done it well. I was done trying to please him.
Crossing my arms, I asked, “What are you doing here?”
He crossed his arms too. Biceps tightened and bunched. “The front desk sent me a message that you’d gone out jogging.”
“Huh? Why would they do that, and why would you come searching for me?”
“Puerto Rico isn’t exactly safe.”
I reared back. Though a bit of a bitch on the beach a couple of days ago, I had kept myself somewhat in check, but this? This proved beyond what I could take.
“Are you kidding me?” I blurted. “Why isn’t it safe? Because of the poverty? Poor people equate to danger? Or is that Puerto Ricans are criminals or something in your distorted world?”
His expression turned hard. “I had no idea about the danger here or any preconceived notions,” he said through clenched teeth. His lids lowered. The full line of his mouth thinned. “According to the bellhop, crime is on the rise here due to drug trafficking and the recession. They tell people not to leave the resort alone, stay in pairs, and be careful. Thus, because the locals were claiming danger, I decided to come and find you.”
“Pfff,” I sounded, rolling my eyes. Jules’s designer bag, which I was sure had cost a small fortune, with my wallet inside had sat for over an hour on the sidelines and no one had touched it. “Normal hoity-toity resort warnings.”
“Your gratitude at my coming in the middle of the day is overwhelming,” he said sarcastically. “But nevertheless, we should return to the resort.” He gestured to the path that led out of the park with one arm.
I waved a hand. “Go ahead.” Walking past him, I said over my shoulder, “I’m not scared, and if someone does steal my eighty-three dollars, I’ll survive.” Jules’s bag might be another story. She might destroy me with her bitching, but whatever.
Within four steps, he walked next to me. “And what about your safety?”
Resisting another eye roll, I said, “I’ve been fine all day.”
“Supposedly, pretty, young Americans can be targets.”
I almost stopped in my tracks yet somehow kept walking. Had he called me pretty? And was that a warm feeling floating through my body? No, it had to be the scorching sun beating down on me mixed with the exertion of playing. I’d become immune to all things Reese.
“Seriously, I’ll be fine,” I said without looking at him as I stepped onto the sand. The beach near the water was congested with sunbathers. Seeing as I wasn’t getting anywhere near the shark-infested salt water, I set down my bag and tugged out a towel. “And I’m confident that you have lots of reading to do, so you should get back to the resort.”
Ignoring him with his arms crossed behind me, I laid out my towel then yanked off my shirt and shorts. I was wearing a two-piece sport bathing suit. It wasn’t as if I’d gotten all sexy, but Reese’s wide-eyed expression, which I noticed when I glanced behind me, had me thinking that maybe the plain white halter top and swim shorts were more revealing than I’d considered. Unlacing my shoes, I contemplated his expression. Had his eyes actually looked that hotly at me? After nervously pulling my book from my bag, I peeked again. His face appeared the usual stoic. My imagination must have been overactive like always.
Determined to ignore him, I lay on the towel and opened my book. A shadow fell over me.
“You can’t do this at the resort?” Reese asked tightly from above.
I kept my stare on the open page as my mouth twisted. “I’m not very popular at the resort.”
“Highly likely,” Reese said coldly.
I turned over.
“Ms. Porter, at this point, you’re being immature. I should leave you to your demise.”
Who the hell said demise?
Flicking a page, I said, “I believe that’s what I suggested.”
He let out a sigh, kicking off his shoes. “My luck would have you getting kidnapped or murdered or pelted with rotten vegetables,” he mumbled in a cranky tone as he sat next to me in the sand.
I imagined that the pelting would happen by vegans at the resort, but I kept my mouth shut and turned a page, hoping that he was bluffing. Surely he wouldn’t stay to watch over me.
He did. After a few minutes, he crossed his ankles and leaned back in the sand on his palms, looking totally delectable out of the corner of my eye. The words of my book swirled before me. I kept turning pages, pretending to read. Reese slid on a pair of sunglasses, making him more delectable. I flopped over and held the book in front of my face, trying to block the sight of him. He took off his shirt, and holy hell—delectable times infinity. The man was ripped, and the sun gleamed off each hard curve. My fingers itched to trace the hard lines of his body, feel the warmth of his skin, brush back the strands of dark hair brushing over his forehead, wrap my legs—
Immune. Immune. Immune.
Dammit. I had wanted a calm, Reese-free day.
Instead, I lay on a beach while my hormones sizzled, and it had nothing to do with my smutty book. Obviously my brain had already sizzled into a shriveled raisin under the blistering sun, because how the hell could I still be attracted to this guy?
Chapter 10
It took an hour before I began to feel the sting of a sunburn. My stupid ass hadn’t thought to bring sunscreen. And because I had spent the last hour concentrating on appearing unaffected by the man sitting next to me—while I was so much that I didn’t comprehend one word I’d read—I hadn’t thought about the burning sun beating down on my pale ghostlike skin. Pretending to ignore the muscled perfection next to me, I slipped on my tennis shoes, rolled up my towel, chucked it in my bag, and pulled on my clothes.
Even though the sun would be setting soon, I had to get out of the rays—like now. Give it another twenty minutes or so and I’d be on the blistering stage, which caused the horrifying peeling stage. Been there, done that, didn’t like it. At all.
Reese put his shirt on—though my hormones cried, I was thankful—and stood. “Finally ready, Ms. Porter?”
It could have been his condescending tone. Or maybe it was the “Ms. Porter” that had started to grate on my nerves. I instantly wanted to ditch him or torture him. Hell, he’d prolonged my torture for a week, including this afternoon.
“Yup,” I said sweetly. “Ready for dinner. One of the players invited me to a local place.”
“Ms. Porter”—yeah, it was the Ms. P thing that was pounding on my nerves—“the sun will be setting within the hour. You cannot be alone after dark.”
“Puerto Rico’s a US territory, right?” I asked innocently.
His expression turned slightly confused as he nodded. I could see my reflection in the silver of his sunglasses. My face was bright pink. Great.
“Then it’s a free country. So see you later,” I said with a wave, heading in the direction Armando had pointed out.
He chose torture because, in seconds, he was walking next to me. “I’m quite confident the food at the resort is far superior.”
As the sidewalk drifted away from the beach park to a downtown area, I kept an eye on the signs overhead, searching for the name of the place Armando had said. Felipe’s or something similar.
“Not really, just more fancy. I’m in the mood for authentic. Plus, my latest teammates make far better company than resort-goers. Too stuffy there for me,” I said, giving him a pointed look.
“Why, Ms. Porter, do I get the distinct impression that you’re being difficult?”
We were almost to the corner, but I stopped dead in my tracks and whipped toward him, nearly hitting him with Jules’s bag. “This is my free day, right?”
His jaw tightened as he nodded.
“So stop with the Ms. Porter crap. My name is Naomi.” With that, I spun back around and stomped to the corner.
Reese’s long-legged stride caught up with me instantly. We stood there, both fuming—well, at least I was—waiting for the walk sign to change and cars to stop buzzing by.
“You know,” I said tightly, “I can catch a cab right outside the restaurant. You can go.”
“Impossible,” he said through clenched teeth. “Can you imagine the headlines if something would happen to you? The bad press my firm would receive?”
Of course his worry wasn’t about my safety. It was about his company. Asshole. As soon as the sign changed, I marched across the street, ignoring him. Once I spotted the sign for Felix’s—close enough—I went in without looking back.
The inside of the restaurant or bar—it appeared to be both—was bright from the wall of windows in the back that were open to the sight of a deck and the sea. Flags and tinsel hung from the ceiling, and tiki lights dangled over the bar to the left. Low music—reggae-sounding—played lowly in the background and a murmur of conversation filled the air. The room was half full of people, mostly tourists, and they all seemed to be staring at me.
