Last Resort: S.I.N. Series Page 7

  Maybe.

  Why did I even say that? There is no maybe about sleeping with my boss.

  “I can’t risk this opportunity, Lizzy. I have too much riding on it. And for what? Good sex with a guy who is clearly the poster boy for One-Night Stand 101? I mean, I’m more than certain the shock I felt walking into that conference room was tenfold for him. While I’ve never done something like that before, clearly he has.”

  “There is no shame to be had on either side of that equation.”

  “No, but if he wanted my number to get to know me better or was interested in going out again, he would have left me a card or woken me up before he left. He didn’t. That tells me where I stand. It was one and done and that’s fine.”

  “So you’re totally fine sitting beside and working day in and day out with a man who rocked your world?”

  “It might not be him.”

  “Correct, but if it is . . . are you telling me that there won’t be that tug there? Those kitty butterflies every single time you brush a hand against his or he looks at you a certain way?”

  “This is a moot point. Let’s say Callahan is Johnnie. Since he’s had several days with my phone number in hand and still hasn’t called, it doesn’t matter if I get kitty butterflies or not, clearly the chase is over and he’s no longer interested in me.”

  “You could always talk him into sex without strings. Sex for the sake of sex. Sex as a means to relax after a long, frustrating day. Sex as—”

  “I get the point,” I say and shift in my seat, my mind replaying the sight of him standing between my thighs, his hand stroking his cock. “But like I said, Callahan might not be Johnnie.”

  “But what if he is . . .”

  “One—”

  “Oh God, she’s counting.” Lizzy laughs. “That means you’re about to lay down the law for me.”

  I chuckle and start again. “One, you’re assuming I want to have sex with him again.”

  “You do.”

  I do.

  “Maybe he was a unicorn. Maybe you only ride a unicorn once because it’s magical and never meant to be had again.”

  “A unicorn? God help me.”

  “Two. Callahan might not have been Johnnie. So, then what? I ask him and then blow my cover that I’ve already slept with one of his brothers? I mean . . . that doesn’t exactly bode well for me in the keeping my job department.”

  “True, but—”

  “And three, if Callahan is Johnnie and he wanted to smooth things over with me before I got here, he’s known where to reach me. All he had to do was call and straighten things out. A quick, this is awkward, but it won’t affect my professionalism or the job you have to do for us. Or even, it was great, and what happened will stay between us. It could even be, I’m Johnnie. The other night was incredible, and I want to see you again. But my phone hasn’t rung, and that leads me to believe that he doesn’t want me to know which one he was. He holds all the cards right now. I can’t force him to play his hand.”

  And I’m not one hundred percent sure how I feel about that. Rejected but relieved. Unsettled but resolute.

  Or just plain crazy.

  I vote for the latter.

  “Point taken.”

  “And four? He’s my boss. I can’t sleep with him. It’ll only serve to muddy up the waters when I have this huge opportunity for me at work.”

  “I hear you,” she murmurs, “but I’m still holding out hope for some wild monkey sex.”

  “Great. I’m glad someone is.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Callahan

  My eyes burn and my head is mush with all the figures and feedback and who the fuck knows what that I’ve tried to acquaint myself with over the past forty-eight hours.

  It’s been a while since I’ve had to really concentrate on crap like this, and now I remember why I’ve avoided it. It’s soul-sapping shit. The kind of shit that you could interpret seven different ways depending on the day and your mood.

  But hell if Ledger’s words didn’t eat at me after I left the conference room.

  I got drunk, shitfaced really, while replaying every word of that goddamn argument in my head.

  In particular, the ones telling me if I really wanted to honor our dad, I should do it by making his last decision shine. Taking this mediocre resort and turning it around into a luxury resort like our other S.I.N. properties.

  And then I drank some more. To bury the grief over the loss of my father. To feed the fury over my brothers’ threats and suppositions. To dampen the desire to call Sutton and fuck her again.

  All three felt valid and important.

  All three still do.

  And yet when I woke up with a wicked hangover, I resolved to get my shit together.

  I’d go to the resort. I’d turn shit around as fast as I could, then walk away to that dot on a map where I could fall off the grid. Oh, and I’d keep my hands off Sutton.

  The last one was my least favorite of the three by far.

  But isn’t that what Ledger and Ford expect of me? To spend way too much time pursuing her—or some other piece of ass—and not do my job?

  So fuck if I’m not here, elbow deep in spreadsheets and managers’ reports, stuck inside this office with paradise taunting me outside the open window, trying to get up to speed before my meeting with Sutton and the resort’s manager, Brady, in a few minutes.

  Sutton.

  Shit.

  Talk about a clusterfuck of epic proportions.

  I can’t sleep with her, can I? Isn’t that what I told myself? That if I was going to do this, I was going to do it wholeheartedly even at the expense of my own goddamn pleasure.

  It’s fucking cruel to her. Keeping her wondering, guessing if I’m him. Johnnie Walker. But isn’t that the best for both of us? If she doesn’t know then it’s cleaner that way. Her feelings can’t be hurt. Things will have to remain platonic.

  So . . . no. There will be no sex. No touchy-feely. No fucking anything. Just constant reminders of every damn minute I spent buried inside her.

  But how do you keep your hands off the best sex of your life?

  There. I said it. She was. It was. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it or her since I walked out of the suite that morning.

  I can tell myself she was a one-night stand, that we both knew it walking up to the suite that night, and so keeping it to myself that I was the guy isn’t really that big of a deal. She wouldn’t have known who I was if we’d never met again, so why should it be any different now?

  The problem is me.

  I want her again.

  I fucking can’t stop thinking about her or her body or that soft little moan that would escape just as her orgasm slammed into her.

  What man wouldn’t?

  “Shit,” I mutter as I start over at the top of the report for the tenth time, my cock hardening at just the thought of her.

  I see a lot of jerking off in my future.

  That same thought echoes in my mind a few minutes later as I walk across the sprawling landscape of Ocean’s Edge to The Cove, the resort’s high-end restaurant, where I rescheduled for us to have our meeting. Maybe I should have stolen away to the villa to do just that first. Get off thinking about her so that when I do come face-to-face with her, when I do smell that subtle scent she wears on her skin, I don’t get hard immediately.

  I’ve never had this problem before. The urge to have seconds. The need to have more. Or even the want to.

  I step into the restaurant, my laptop and some loose-leaf folders under my arm, and check out my surroundings. The first time in person. It’s rich in colors with dark woods and dim lights to set the ambiance and not take away from the real showstopper—the ocean lapping up against its patio.

  I take in the guests. By all accounts, their clothing and jewelry telegraph to me that they’re middle class. Not the ones who will spend the big bucks but the ones who have scraped together enough money to say they went to the Virgin Islands but couldn’t spend the cash on the activities to make the trip worth it.

  Ugly as the truth may be, these are not the guests the S.I.N. brand looks for. We want the upper class. The elite. The guests who don’t give a second thought when they set down their American Express Black card to buy souvenirs or clothes from the many shops we have on-site or buy all the tickets to a group excursion so they have privacy for themselves. They’re the ones we can raise prices on, and they won’t bat an eye at them.

  Quick appraisal done; I head down the hallway to the back room where our meeting is being held. I thought a nice dinner meeting with Sutton and our resort manager would be a good way to break the ice.

  Having a third party present would help prevent me from breaking the promise I made to myself in telling Sutton who I am.

  “Excuse me,” a soft voice murmurs from behind me when I stop to make note of a few changes that need to be made to the interior of the restaurant.

  “Sorry.” I step out of the way and turn to offer a smile in apology to the woman. She falters in her step when her eyes lock with mine. She’s tall with auburn hair and an incredible body, but it’s her slow crawl of a smile and appraising gaze that tells me I could have her with minimal effort.

  “Not a problem at all. My table is that way.” She points to her right and gives me another look before walking down the hallway toward her table.

  I stare for a beat and wonder if this is the answer to my problem. Finding another woman to help dim the taste of Sutton on my tongue and the imprint she left on my mind.

  Fuck to forget. That’s a new concept for me because forgetting is typically easy, but it’s plausible and definitely feasible.

  And just as quickly as the idea cements in my mind, it vanishes when I look up and see her sitt
ing there.

  Sutton Pierce.

  Jesus Christ.

  The woman is stunning. There’s no other way to describe her other than absolutely stunning.

  I give myself the moment to study her as she talks to the maître d’. Her hair is pulled back into a soft, messy bun at the nape of her neck with loose pieces falling around her face. She has on a muted yellow tank top with silver bands lining one of her wrists. Her smile is soft and her eyes warm as she carries on the conversation.

  Who the hell is this woman and why can’t I stop staring at her?

  “Callahan. You finally got off the tarmac, I see.” I turn to find Brady, the resort manager, standing beside me with a big smile and an extended hand.

  “I did.” I shake his hand, my attention shifting to the man before me. He’s tall and lanky with salt and pepper hair and a genuine smile.

  “And luckily the skies cleared up to give us this beautiful sunset for your first evening here with us.”

  “Lucky me,” I murmur as we move into the room.

  “Gentlemen,” Sutton says. “Great to finally have some time to sit down and discuss with you how we can make this resort not only more inviting, but more importantly, more profitable.”

  “Music to my ears,” Brady says.

  For the first time Sutton turns to face me. Her smile is wide and her eyes searching. Our gazes hold for the slightest of seconds, and I wonder if she’s figured it out.

  “Sutton,” I say with a nod to try and prevent her from looking too closely.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Sharpe.”

  “Callahan, please.”

  “Yes. Of course.” She motions toward the table for us to sit. “I look forward to the chance to show you exactly what I can do.”

  I almost groan at the double entendre, my body knowing the answer to that question already.

  This pretending thing is going to be much harder than I anticipated.

  And so the meeting begins. First impressions about Ocean’s Edge are the topic of conversation during appetizers. Guest expectations and how we are failing them are what we discuss during the starter salads. Budget projections and staff issues our focus over our entrees.

  The conversation is akin to watching paint dry—dull and boring—and I keep having to remind myself that I’m better off if I don’t look at Sutton.

  It’s easier on the dull ache thrumming at the base of my balls.

  “Clearly there’s a long list of items to cover in the timeframe we’ve been allotted, so how do we do this?” Sutton asks.

  We walk back to your room. We find the nearest surface—or floor. And we fuck until we can’t walk.

  When I shake the thought, both of them are looking at me. “Oh. Yes. Sorry. I was lost in the details.” I offer a quick smile. “Should we enjoy an after-dinner drink while we discuss the how-tos?” They both look at each other tentatively as, technically, I’m their boss asking if they want to drink while on the job. “I assure you, this isn’t a test. We’re going to be working together a lot over the coming months. It’s just a drink to celebrate, if you will.”

  “Sure,” Brady says. “That would be nice.”

  “Fine. Yes,” Sutton says as I motion to the waiter who’s standing nearby, well aware who we are and that our needs need to be met.

  “Sir?” the waiter asks.

  “We’d like some drinks. The lady will have a—”

  “Tom Collins,” we both say at the same time.

  Sutton gasps.

  Oh fuck.

  “Actually,” Sutton starts, “no Tom Collins for me.” Her eyes bore into mine as I cringe at my mistake. Motherfucker. “I appreciate you ordering for me, Callahan, but I’ve found that I’ve rather gone off its taste if I’m honest.”

  “I hate that,” Brady interjects, having no clue what he’s stepping into. “It’s usually after a night of overindulging that I fall off my usual for a bit.” He turns to the waiter, oblivious to the fire in Sutton’s eyes. “I’ll have an old fashioned.”

  Sutton purses her lips, gaze locked on mine. “Exactly, Brady. Nothing like the taste of a favorite drink being soured.” She’s pissed? At me? She turns to the waiter. “I’ll have a Negroni, please.”

  Fucking A. She is pissed. What the actual fuck?

  “And you, sir?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sutton

  “Johnnie Walker Blue, please. My usual,” Callahan says, never once breaking his hold on my gaze. What. The. Hell. Callahan is Johnnie? And he’s known all this time. The shock that was painted on his face moments ago after his slip-up has now been replaced with a smirk that I can’t figure out if it’s a taunt or an invitation. But make no mistake, there was shock etched in the lines of his face. And if I’m reading his fingers suddenly tugging on the top button of his collar correctly, he definitely had no intention of letting me know. And yet, there is no shame in his expression, but rather a smugness that is as irritating as it is sexy. “I find I’m not one to change my ways regardless of the situation.”

  I purse my lips and give a subtle snort, more than aware from our conversation so far tonight that Brady is quite observant.

  “Good to know,” I murmur, trying to decipher what exactly Callahan means by his comment.

  That he’s not apologizing for what happened and will do it again with the next willing woman on the rebound?

  Or did he like what happened and wants it to happen again? But is that want there only because he got caught? Only because of his slip of the tongue?

  There definitely were no complaints about his tongue.

  Seriously? That’s where my thoughts go as my crossed legs squeeze a little tighter.

  All this talk about I won’t be sleeping with him because he’s my boss and at the first affirmation that Callahan is in fact him, my mind immediately goes to his many . . . um, skills.

  I fist my hands in anger. At me for thinking this way. At him for thinking he can just let a bomb drop like that—a bomb he was clearly holding on to until he felt it served his purpose or benefit—and that I’d be utterly okay with it.

  Well, I’m not.

  And what pisses me off more is I’m not sure why. I knew going into that night what it was, so what changed along the way? It shouldn’t matter if I have to work with him or not, because it wasn’t like I was ever going to see him again anyway.

  So, is it the fact that he dropped that bomb and then gave me a cocky smirk as if he were so good that I’d bat my lashes and drop my panties at the mere acknowledgment that he’s Johnnie?

  Not on his life.

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself as the ache within me smolders to life when he runs his fingertip absently around the rim of his glass.

  Those fingers.

  Those hands.

  That mouth.

  Stop thinking about it. About him. You can’t. Simply put.

  You. Can’t.

  He’s your boss.

  He. Is. Your. Boss.

  And not only is he your boss, but he’s currently throwing you off center when you need to be at the top of your game to pull this resort transformation off.

  I draw in a deep breath to reset.

  “So,” Brady says, looking back and forth between the two of us, no doubt trying to figure out why there is so much tension all of a sudden. “Shall we continue then?”

  “Yes. Of course.” I smile and quirk a brow. “What are your thoughts on everything, Callahan? You’ve been rather quiet. This is a Sharpe property, after all. Certainly you must have some thoughts or ideas on how to improve the experience for our guests.”

  “Are we talking about retention here or the overall experience?” he asks.

  “I think both are rather important,” Brady says.

  “Agreed,” I add. “Then let’s focus on the experience portion first.”

  “What about it?” Callahan asks. “For some of our guests, this is an experience they’ve never had before. For others, heading to a tropical resort is something they do often.”

  “So it’s nothing special to them then? Just another trip among many other trips?” I ask without thinking.

  “You’d hope for the experience to be special for both sets of people, but nothing is ever guaranteed,” Callahan says, angling his head to the side when his eyes meet mine.

  “Clearly,” I murmur.

  “Besides the obvious,” Brady says glancing at the notes he’d taken, “like better amenities and excursions, new menu items and upgrading the overall décor so it’s not so dated, how do we know if they’ll come back or not?”