Текст книги "The Billionaire and the Virgin"
Автор книги: Jessica Clare
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Chapter Thirteen
Still in a hazy, dreamlike state of contentment, Marjorie floated from breakfast the next morning to shuffleboard, to a late lunch scheduled with Brontë, the bride to be. Her body was present, but her mind was still on that moonlit beach last night, when Rob pressed his mouth to hers and told her that he desired her. Actually, he’d said it with a lot more f-bombs, but she didn’t care. He could use all the cuss-words he wanted, as long as he kissed her like that and made her feel so incredibly beautiful.
She’d never had a moment like that, ever.
And Rob still liked her, even after she’d thrown up on him, made a spectacle of herself on their first date, and acted strangely on the second date. He still wanted to see more of her. She’d done everything possible to mess the dates up and he’d still come after her.
Marjorie’s heart felt full to bursting at the thought. Rob said he wasn’t capable of love? That was too bad, because she was half in love with him already. He might not think of himself as a kind man, but his actions toward her had spoken differently. He might have a tough, cuss-laden outer shell, but there was a tender heart beating underneath.
She was still on cloud nine as she wandered in to the Green Dining Hall. Brontë had asked to meet there instead of the cute Seaturtle Cay cafe, and Marjorie scanned the empty room looking for her friend. Brontë was at a back table, a small figure hunched over a mountain of cream-colored envelopes.
“Bron?” Marjorie called, moving forward.
A head rose from behind the hill of envelopes. Brontë’s loose curls were pulled into a bun atop her head and dark rings smudged the skin under her eyes. She waved Marjorie over, a smile on her face. “Hey Marj! Thanks for meeting me here. I hope it’s not a problem if we have someone bring lunch to us instead of going to lunch?”
“No, that’s fine,” Marjorie said, curious as she sat across from Brontë at one of the round tables. Stack upon stack of thick parchment envelopes covered the table. At the other end, Brontë scribbled something on a card, then tucked it into an envelope and stamped it with a wax seal. “What’s all this?”
“Oh!” Brontë looked up from the envelope and tossed it into a small pile of sealed ones. She looked over the array. “That stack is for the hotel employees. Logan wants to bonus them as a thank-you for helping out with the wedding. That other stack is for guests who flew in for the wedding—thank-you cards.” She pointed at another stack. “That one is for vendors who sent wedding presents and need a thank-you card letting them know we received their gift. And that stack there is for those that will be attending and leaving a gift at the wedding even though we requested no gifts. And that stack,” she pointed at another, “is for people that were invited to the wedding but couldn’t make it and sent a gift.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m drowning in thank-yous, and I’m not even sure I’ve got everything covered.”
Marjorie pulled up a chair next to Brontë. “Need some help? I can stuff and seal after you sign.”
The bride sent her a grateful look. “That’d be wonderful. As Aristotle said, ‘A friend is a second self.’ I could dearly use another pair of hands at the moment.”
They worked quietly for a few moments, Brontë signing cards with her married name and a brief note, and Marjorie carefully tucking them into envelopes, sealing them, and placing them in the appropriate piles. They were able to speed up Brontë’s production enough that the drawn, frazzled look disappeared from her face. “So,” Brontë said, as she wrote. “Tell me about your week. Have you been having fun?”
Immediately, Marjorie’s thoughts filled with Rob. A hot flush stained her cheeks. “I’m enjoying myself. Though I have to admit it still feels decadent to have all this time off of work as a paid holiday.” Since Logan owned the sock-hop diner and Brontë had invited most of the waitresses to come be part of her weeks-long wedding plans, her filthy-rich husband had arranged for the diner to be staffed with temps who could handle things while the others were gone and sunning themselves at the resort. It seemed a ridiculous expense to Marjorie, but then again, maybe that was just something billionaires did. “This place is wonderful. You look tired, though.”
Brontë’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “I never thought having a wedding would be so much work. I’ll be glad when I can get home and just curl up on the couch with Logan.”
Marjorie had a hard time picturing the forbidding Logan Hawkings doing anything as normal as lounging on the sofa with his wife. But maybe Brontë saw a different side of him than Marjorie did. “Well, anything I can help you with, you just let me know. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me.”
“Of course you’re invited! You’re one of my closest friends.” Brontë put down the card she was holding and squeezed Marjorie’s hand. “And I’m so happy you’re here. I’m sorry if I’ve been so absent. There seems to be an endless parade of things to do before the wedding and I can’t keep up with all of them. Are you having a good time despite my neglect?”
“Oh, I don’t feel neglected at all,” Marjorie exclaimed. “I’m having a wonderful time.” That blush seemed to want to take up permanent residence on her cheeks. “I’ve been playing shuffleboard and went to bingo and have been working on my tan and just everything you can imagine.”
“Shuffleboard, huh?” Brontë giggled at that. “I’m picturing you lording it over the shuffleboard court, a bunch of gray-haired ladies shaking their fists at you.”
“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m good at shuffleboard. Long arms.”
“Rounding up all the people in the resort over the age of seventy-five and ensuring they’re having a good time?” Brontë’s smile was knowing.
Shyly, Marjorie sealed an envelope. Should she mention anything to Brontë? But the excitement of a budding relationship—after such a long, long dry spell—poured out of her. “I had a date.”
Brontë gasped and clutched at Marjorie’s arm. “Shut up. You did, Marj? No way! Who?”
“Just a guy,” she said. “I don’t want to say too much and jinx it. But I really like him.” She bit her lip, thinking of last night and how it had gone from a nightmare to an almost magical sort of quality. Rob had been so sweet, so forthright. Blunt, but she liked that . . . and she liked him.
She even had a phone full of silly little texts from him, reminding her about their date later tonight. As if she’d forget! She’d been receiving them hourly, as if he paused during his day to think about her. That was a great feeling.
Her friends—Edna, Agnes and Dewey—hadn’t been too thrilled to hear that she was going out with him again. They’d seen her tear-filled escape from the bingo hall and it had taken a lot of soothing over breakfast to calm her friends down.
It was sweet that they were worried, but they hadn’t been there when the evening had changed from nightmarish to magical. They didn’t know how Marjorie had been pretending to be someone she wasn’t . . . and Rob had been doing the same.
“A date? Really?” Brontë squealed, her hands fluttering in girlish enthusiasm for her friend. “I’m so happy for you! You’ll have to give me all the details when you’re comfortable. Do you think you’ll see him when you go home, too? Or is this just an island fling? That’s how Logan and I met, you know. Right here at this resort.”
“I don’t know if we’ll see each other afterward,” Marjorie said, running her fingers along the thick edges of an envelope. “We’re taking it a day at a time.”
“That’s the best way to do things,” Brontë proclaimed. “Epicurus said, ‘Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not.’”
Marj grinned. Brontë had an incredible brain for memorization, and always had a few words of wisdom from a philosopher at the ready. “I’ve missed your quotes.”
“Logan wanted to get my favorites engraved on charms for the guests, but I couldn’t pick just one quote, so we decided to go with something more traditional instead.” She rolled her eyes.
“How is Logan?” Marjorie asked as Brontë slid a stack of cards toward her. She’d met Brontë’s soon-to-be husband a few times, and he rarely smiled at anyone. He intimidated Marjorie, but the way he looked at Brontë—possessive and hungry—made her yearn for someone to look at her like that. Then she thought of Rob again, and the blush returned. Rob had looked at her like that. Like she was covered in his favorite ice cream and he wanted to lick it off of her. Which was a mental image that made her blush all over again.
“Logan’s stressed, like me. Or rather, he’s stressed because I’m stressed. If it were up to him, we’d get in a helicopter and fly to the nearest justice of the peace and get married there, but there’s too many people involved at this point.” She grimaced as she scribbled a note on another thank-you card. “And there’s some jerk here at the resort that’s driving him crazy.”
“Oh?”
She shook her head absently, not looking up from the card she was working on. “Something about some shady business guy wanting to get Logan’s attention so he’s lurking around at the hotel. It’s pissing Logan off because he wants everything to be perfect for me this week, and that guy’s like a burr under his skin.”
“He showed up here just to get Logan’s attention? That seems crazy.” Marjorie shook her head. “Crashing a wedding is pretty rude.”
“Yeah, Logan’s kicking the guy out before the tabloids get here. Apparently he’s major fodder. One of those party-boy types that never met a hooker or a drug he didn’t like.”
Marjorie blanched. “That sounds awful.”
“Doesn’t it?” She shuddered and handed another card to Marj. “But enough about that. Tell me how things are back at the restaurant. Is Sharon still being a diva?”
“And then some.” She shook her head, stamping the seal on the back of the newest envelope. The pile was moving quickly, and the stack of completed envelopes was starting to take form. With help, Brontë would be able to get through these faster, and Marjorie was glad to be of assistance. “We’ve had to redo the schedule over and over again because Sharon either calls in sick, comes in late, or wants a particular day off because she’s ‘busy.’”
Brontë made an irritated noise in her throat. “God, she’s so awful. Want me to have Logan fire her?”
“Oh, no,” Marj said hastily. “She needs the job. And she’s really not that bad. She’s just . . . high maintenance. But let me tell you about the new guy Angie is dating—he rides a Harley! With the handlebars so tall that they’re over his head.”
Brontë’s eyes widened. “What? No! Another guy? What happened to Bob?”
“Bob was last month.” Marj began to tell Brontë all the gossip of the job and the people they’d both worked with. She tried to pick out funny tidbits that would amuse Brontë without calling too much attention to anyone—the mention of Sharon was a reminder that Brontë was marrying the boss, and Marjorie didn’t want to cost anyone their job.
By the time they finished discussing the personal lives of coworkers and favorite customers, the stacks of envelopes were down to almost nothing, and they’d forgotten lunch entirely.
Brontë picked up the last envelope in her stack and signed it with a flourish. “Last one! I can’t believe how quickly this went. You’re so good to help me, Marj. You have no idea how much time this has saved me.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Marjorie said with a smile. “It’s the least I can do.”
“You know,” Brontë said, tapping the card thoughtfully on the table. “I’ve been thinking. How tied to Kansas City are you?”
That was an odd question. Marjorie shrugged. “It’s always been home because that’s where family was. And now that it’s just me, there hasn’t been a reason to move.” Her throat knotted at the thought of her beloved Grandma and Grandpa. She still missed them daily. And she was lonely, if she admitted things to herself. Brontë had been her closest friend at the restaurant, and now that she was gone, she felt like more of an outcast than ever. She spent most nights at the nursing home, reading and playing games with the tenants there, trying to make a difference in someone’s life. Trying to feel wanted.
“Would you ever consider relocating to New York?”
“New York?” Marjorie’s eyes went wide. She’d never considered it. She’d always thought if she relocated, she’d move south to Dallas or Oklahoma City. Never something at the level of New York City. “Really?”
“I’ve started up a foundation,” Brontë said, enthusiasm in her tired face. “We’re sharing classics of literature with those that want to read. Some of our groups are schools, but a lot of them are the elderly. We have discussion groups weekly and organize outside events and get-togethers. It’s really wonderful and I’m so excited to do it. Logan helped me set it up.” She beamed with pride.
“That sounds wonderful, Brontë. And it sounds perfect for you.”
“The problem is that I’m doing that in between getting married.” She grimaced. “So I’m running on empty. Logan told me to hire an assistant, but I just haven’t had time. And you’re so good with people. Especially the elderly. I really need someone like you.”
“You want me to be your assistant?” Oh, wow. “But I’m just a waitress.”
“So am I,” Brontë said, grinning. “But you’re smart and dedicated and we work well together.” She gestured at the stacks of now-finished envelopes. “And I’d pay you well. It’d be a big change, but we’d get to hang out more, and, well, it’s New York. There’s always something going on there.”
“I never dreamed . . .” Marjorie murmured. New York. Wow.
“Say you’ll think about it. I need to run things past Logan, but he won’t care. He—”
“Run what past Logan?” A masculine voice broke into the conversation. Both women looked up as a man in a starchy business suit entered the Green Dining Hall, dodging the sea of tables anointed with upside-down chairs. He carried a large tray with several dishes and two drinks.
“Hey, baby,” Brontë said happily. “What are you doing here?”
“I was told that my fiancée was last seen entering an empty dining room carrying stacks of envelopes to handle during her lunch hour. And I bet that you’d forgotten to eat again.” He frowned down at her smiling face, utterly austere. “I see that I was right.”
She waved off his irritation and got up, taking the tray from his hands and lifting her face for a quick kiss, which he gave her. She set the tray on the table. “I was just talking to Marjorie about coming to New York and working as my assistant for the foundation. What do you think?”
“Whatever you want to do.” He looked over at Marjorie. “Brontë takes on too much to do. If you can do the job, I’ll pay you two hundred grand a year.”
Marjorie’s jaw dropped.
Brontë elbowed Logan in irritation. “I was going to talk to her about salary.”
“No, love, you’re going to sit and eat your lunch, and then we’re going upstairs so you can take a nap. You’re exhausted.” The look in his cool gaze became tender as he led Brontë to her chair and then sat down next to her. “It does no good to have a wedding if the bride needs a vacation from her vacation wedding.”
Brontë just shook her head, placing the lunch tray on the table. “Didn’t I tell you he was pushy, Marj?”
“I think you told me he was wonderful,” Marjorie teased.
“Well, that, too,” said the bride. And she smiled up at her fiancé as he pushed a wrapped sandwich into her hand.
***
Marjorie stayed down in the Green Dining Room for another hour, chatting with Logan and Brontë about New York, the wedding, and most of all, Brontë’s foundation. It turned out that Logan hadn’t been joking when he’d offered her the salary. It was overpaying for an assistant, he said, but he wanted Brontë to have good help, and he didn’t put a price tag on her happiness.
And Brontë had just beamed at her fiancé with contentment.
Marjorie found herself saying yes to the job, even without knowing all the details. How could she pass it up? Her job as a waitress was fun, but didn’t pay all that great. Two hundred grand a year to live in a magnificent, bustling city and work with her best friend doing something that she would love? It was a dream come true.
Someone was going to have to pinch her pretty soon, because things kept getting better and better.
She was still floating on a cloud of pure happiness when she returned to her room. The maids had come through and straightened things, the bed sheets so firmly tucked she could probably bounce a quarter off of it. And on the nightstand next to the bed, there was a box with a big red bow. Curious, she sat down on the bed and stared at the package. Who’d left her a gift?
Her phone pinged with another incoming text, and she read it.
Did the package get there yet?
Rob.
She gazed at the box with the bow and reached out for the tiny card jauntily shoved into the ruffles of the ribbon.
Wear these tonight. I hope they make you seven fucking feet tall, because then you will be seven feet of glorious woman and I’m man enough to enjoy every inch of it.—R
Heat stained her cheeks again and she pressed the back of a hand to her skin to cool it. Gosh, he was always making her blush, wasn’t he? She pulled the lid off the box . . . and gasped at the shoes inside. Silver platform peep-toe pumps with a nearly six-inch heel. They were studded with tiny crystals all over the shoe leather, and glittered like Cinderella’s glass slipper. She picked one up wonderingly.
It was enormously tall. She’d be a giant. They were garish and impractical and sky-high.
But they were also sparkly, girly, and utterly gorgeous.
Marjorie turned one over in her hands, checking the size. Her size. How had he known . . . ? Her fingers smoothed over the Jimmy Choo stamp on the bottom of the shoe. They had to be expensive. Jimmy Choo didn’t make cheap heels. She should return the present and just send Rob a thank-you.
But then, she pictured his reaction. He’d cuss and stomp his way over to her room and make her take the shoes anyhow.
And . . . she kind of loved them. She was such a cliché—a girl that adored shoes. But so what? How often did she find someone that wasn’t terrified of her height and didn’t want her to wear flats? He liked how tall she was. And she liked the shoes.
So she slid them on and nearly swooned at how good they felt. The leather practically caressed the arches of her feet. Impulsively, she took a picture of her feet in the shoes and texted it to him.
Perfect, he sent back a moment later.
Is this part of your seduction plan? she asked him.
Might be. I’m pretty good at this sort of thing, huh?
She had to admit that yes, he was rather good at it after all. And she was really, really looking forward to their date tonight.
So when do I get to see you again? he sent back.
She gazed down at her gorgeous, impractical shoes. Then, impulsively, she texted back, How about now?
Chapter Fourteen
Rob wanted to meet her that afternoon, but he suggested they meet at a gazebo in the resort gardens. Definitely more romantic than the lobby, Marjorie thought with a smile, and agreed to meet him there in a half hour. She was humming as she changed into something a little sexier for her date—a dark navy slip dress that she normally wore with a sweater and leggings—and put on her sparkly heels. She felt rather pretty, and hoped that Rob thought she was, too.
The path out to the gardens was on the far side of the Turtle pool and lounge. The resort had several pools, but the Turtle one was popular with couples instead of families due to its multiple hot tubs. She glanced at it casually as she passed by and was startled when a man with a microphone and two guys with cameras seemed to emerge from the bushes and approach her.
“Hey, doll,” the guy with the microphone said. “Tell us your name, sugar!”
Marjorie hesitated, alarmed. “Not your doll or sugar,” she told him, and tried to sidestep the men.
“You’re looking sexy today,” the guy with the microphone continued, following her as she tried to go around them. “I don’t suppose you want to earn a little extra cash?”
Her jaw dropped. “W-what?”
“That’s right, baby! Tits or GTFO!” He waved a handful of money at her. “Show us your stuff and we’ll reward you.”
She stared at the man, gaping, and then at the cameras. Then, with a gasp, she ran as fast as her platform heels would carry her, heading for the gardens and the gazebo.
“Guess she’s not interested,” the man with the microphone called. “Your loss, sweetheart!”
Show these horrible men her breasts? She was going to be sick! Horror made her rush, and her ankles protested as she stumbled down the path. She wanted to head back into the resort and hide, but the men were blocking the path. She was pretty sure she heard them laughing, too. Humiliation burned in her breast, and by the time she found the gazebo, she was nearly in tears. She barely spotted a man in a black, collared shirt and jeans, sporting sunglasses. That must have been Rob. She stumbled as she approached him, twisting her ankle and practically falling into his arms.
“Marjorie?” Rob asked. “You okay? What’s wrong?”
She leaned against him for a moment, relieved, and winced at the pain in her ankle. “I-I—”
“Here, sit down,” he told her, gently leading her to the steps of the gazebo and helping her get seated. “Are you okay? You look upset. And you shouldn’t run in those shoes.” A hint of a smile curved his handsome face. “If you wanted something to jog in, I would have sent you something more appropriate.”
She couldn’t even laugh at his teasing. Instead, she felt the insane urge to burst into tears. Marjorie clutched at the front of her dress and shook her head, unable to speak.
“Marjorie?” Rob’s voice was concerned. He sat next to her and took her hand in his, squeezed it. “You gotta tell me what’s bothering you, sweetheart. I don’t like this.”
The endearment coming from his lips reminded her of the horrible man with the microphone, and she shuddered. “There was a man. With a microphone. He—he tried to get me to take my top off. For money! In front of cameras. And when I said no, they . . . laughed at me.”
Rob was silent.
His lack of response just made her feel worse. “I’m sorry,” Marjorie said. “Maybe I’m overreacting. I just feel . . . accosted. That’s all. Like they thought if they pressured me I’d take my top off. It was horrible.”
He squeezed her hand. “You do not apologize,” he told her in a firm, angry voice. “I’m not upset at you. Just the situation. I can’t believe those jackasses came after you.”
She shook her head and held his hand tighter. “I’ll be okay. I just—”
“No,” he said, getting to his feet. “You wait right here. I’m going to go have a talk with them.”
“No, Rob—”
“I’m handling it, Marjorie.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and stalked down the path, his steps clearly furious.
She blinked in surprise as he disappeared, her awful feeling of distress giving way to a weird sort of pleasure. Was this what it was like when a guy got defensive over you? Protective? God, it felt way too good. Addictive, even. She rubbed her arms and then hugged her knees, waiting for Rob to return.
He did about five minutes later, rounding the corner of the tropical gardens, an irritated look on his face. He slipped his sunglasses back on as he headed toward her, shoulders tense. “It’s taken care of. Those fucking jackasses won’t bother you again.”
“Did you tell management?”
“No, I had a talk with them. They listened to me and they’re going to leave you alone.” His jaw was set, stubborn. “Dumbasses.”
“That must be the guy that Logan’s upset about,” Marjorie said. “He told me at lunch that some tabloid creep is here on the island trying to get his attention by crashing the wedding. We should tell him about it.”
“Tabloid creep? Who, that guy?” He thumbed a gesture back at the bushes. “He’s a peon. Like I said, he’s handled.”
“Yes, but Logan will want to know that I ran into him. Think—if he’s attacking girls like me, he’s probably attacking everyone that walks past. Logan’s going to be so upset—”
“It’s taken care of, Marjorie,” Rob said in a firm voice. He put his hands out for her. “Come on. I don’t want to give that guy another thought while we’re on our date. I’d rather think about you and me.”
She put her hands in his and let him help her up. As soon as she stood, she winced.
“What is it?”
She shook her head. “Just my ankles. They throb a bit. That’s what I get for running in these shoes.” Her grimace was apologetic. “Which, by the way, are incredibly gorgeous and far too expensive.”
“Hush,” he told her. “And sit. Let me look at your ankles.”
“They’re fine,” she protested again, but when he turned that stern look on her, she promptly sat back down on the gazebo steps again and smoothed her dress over her knees.
“Give me your foot,” he said, indicating the same with his hand.
Reluctantly, she lifted one long leg and extended her foot toward him. He took it in hand, tilting her leg high enough that she had to quickly stuff her skirts down around her leg to keep from flashing anything inappropriate. Rob pulled the shoe from her foot and set it down on the pavement, then proceeded to rub his hands along her foot, caressing the bones and muscles.
“How does this feel?” he asked her.
“Ticklish,” she admitted, squirming a bit when he pressed his thumb to the underside of her foot. “And it doesn’t hurt there. It’s my ankles.”
“I was getting there,” he said, his voice returning to its normal playful timbre. “Can’t blame a guy if he just likes touching a pretty woman’s feet.”
And she blushed all over again, feeling shy.
He continued to massage and manipulate her foot, his fingers eventually moving up to her ankle. As he touched her, Marjorie felt a little weird and flushed . . . and achy. It was embarrassing, especially because her nipples were responding in kind.
“Feel better?” Rob asked.
“Yes, thank you,” she said quietly.
But when she held her hand out for her shoe, he pointed at her other foot. “That one, too.” And so she had to sit there and endure more of the awkward-but-exciting touches as he massaged her other foot and ankle. She was relieved—and okay, a little disappointed, too—when he finally released her other foot and then picked up her spangly shoes, holding them out to her.
“Thank you.”
“Quit thanking me. I hate that you had to run here like you were scared.” That angry look settled on his face again.
“Let’s not think about it,” Marjorie said, getting to her feet and testing things out. Everything was good again, other than she felt a little boneless and content from the foot massage. When she stood to her full height, she was easily half a foot taller than him in the heels, and the awkward feeling returned. “You sure you want to go out with me in these?”
“You are utterly and completely gorgeous,” Rob said. “And I love the way you look in those. Don’t make me buy you a pair of stilettos for every date that I plan on taking you on.”
“I’ll return them,” she threatened, finding her voice. “You can’t make me take them.”
“I bet I could.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “I bet I could find the strappiest, girliest, tallest shoes out there and you’d love them so much that you’d keep them no matter how you felt.”
“I wouldn’t!” Her protest sounded weak even to her own ears. Tall, girly shoes? Lordy, she was weak.
“What’s your favorite color? I’m guessing you like bright things despite that boring-ass dress. I think a pair of bright red fuck-me heels would look gorgeous on your feet. What do you think?” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and they began to walk through the gardens.
“I think they sound terrible,” she lied. Gosh, they sounded lovely. “I’d never wear them.”
“You’re a shitty liar,” he told her, amused. “It’s adorable.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, feeling a little cornered. “Rob, seriously, I couldn’t accept shoes from you again. These are too much as it is. I bet they were easily six hundred dollars—”
“Actually I think my assistant told me they were three grand.”
Marjorie began to feel weak. “Three . . . grand?” She had to work all month for that much. “Rob—I can’t—take them back, please.” She stopped and began to take them off.
“No,” he told her, grabbing one of the shoes and forcing it back onto her foot. For an absurd moment, she thought they were going to get into a wrestling match over putting the shoe on her foot, and the thought was so ridiculous that she giggled again. “That stays on your foot and it’s yours,” he told her. “It was a gift.”
“It’s a really expensive gift,” she protested.
“Not to me.”
Oh. Oh, no. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “Um . . . I forgot to ask what you do for a living.”
“I’m in business. Why?” The look he gave her was wary.
“Are you doing business here?”
“No. I’m just here enjoying a little R&R.”
“With your assistants?”
“My assistants could probably use a little R&R, too.”
She tugged at her dress, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Rob, I don’t want you to think that I’m dating you for your money . . .” Her words trailed off as he threw his head back and laughed, and she felt a twinge of annoyance. “What’s so funny about that?”
“You,” he said, looking over at her with such a broad smile that she felt weak in the knees. “Sweetheart, I know you’re not dating me because of that.”
“Not your sweetheart,” she reminded him.
“Not yet,” he agreed cheerfully. “But the night is young.”
***
The rest of the night, Marjorie decided, was downright magical. They headed off the island again, which surprised her, but Rob said he wanted the privacy. So they took another chartered boat and headed over to a nearby resort for ice cream. They got cones, two spoons, and sat at a tiny table in the back of the cafe and talked, sharing occasional bites out of each other’s ice cream. And they talked for hours and hours, which surprised Marjorie. She’d thought that they’d sit down and find they had nothing in common . . . and while there were plenty of differences, there were also a lot of similarities. Rob was an only child, like her. Rob grew up without parents around, like her. However, though she’d been raised by loving grandparents, Rob had spent his childhood in a state home. They both shared an intense sweet tooth, a like of Johnny Cash’s music, and dogs instead of cats.
