One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One 3)

But being boring had its merits. It had allowed her the space to build her career. And she genuinely loved her work. It engaged her mind and fed her ego. Plus there were considerable perks: financial security, her soon-to-be lovely terrace, her nice car, her annual trips to Europe.

It’d had been a long time since she’d missed her wild days, where excitement was getting useful information out of the guys manning the merch tent without having to put out, and security was enough money to hail a ride home.

Watching Grip’s reaction to the water drummers was making her reflect on the parts of Philly she’d left behind to become Mena. There was a lot of Philly that was her essential self: confidence, an aptitude for hard work, focus, an exceptionally good memory, and the ability to process information efficiently.

There were definitely parts of Philly she missed. Philly had never been boring. Philly didn’t observe life, she’d thrown herself in the deep end o

f it, and she’d had an amazing sex life.

Feet buried in the wet sand beside her, Grip could barely stand still, excitement sending a current through his body. His eyes were alight, his hands moving with the beat against his thighs. What was water music to him? It wasn’t clear to her how this wasn’t simply entertainment, not something he could invest in.

She had to puzzle what he wanted out quickly because the more time she spent with him, especially outside the polite constraints of the office, the more at risk she was of doing something worse than a grossly misplaced comment about his love life or sex acts. After all, she turned the staid old office into the backdrop for raunchy escapades with Grip. Watching him showing unbridled delight in the salty air as the sky turned pink was exactly the wrong stimulus for a professional relationship to develop under.

Not that there was anything she could do about it right now. There was another stop on this joyride. Grip wanted to show her one more thing that made him happy, another piece she needed to complete his puzzle.

There was enthusiastic cheering, whistles and quite a bit of splashing as applause when the water drummers finished. Mena resigned herself to the fact her suit would need a good dry cleaning and would probably never be quite the same. When the women invited children from the audience for a lesson, she was surprised at how chaotic water-play soon became real music as the kids drummed the water and their wet limbs alongside the women to the delight of their parents and everyone still watching and filming.

“Look at that,” Grip said. “It’s an unbelievably accessible form of teaching kids rhythm and percussion.”

She’d have replied with a question but as the kids exited the water, streaming past them, one of the performers signaled to Grip.

In the next second, he’d hauled his T-shirt off and Mena’s mouth went dry. Holy starlight, he was ripped. She was staring at him so shouldn’t have been surprised when he dropped his jeans.

He grinned at her. “I’m up.”

She almost lost her footing, trying to take a step back from him but forgetting she was ankle deep in wet sand. He shot his hand out and she grabbed hold to steady herself.

“Okay?” he asked.

The man was almost naked. Wearing a small, tight pair of black athletic briefs, which left almost nothing to her imagination and her imagination had been to a lot of X-rated places regarding Grip. There was nowhere appropriate to look, but with the mirrored shades on she looked everywhere. Pecs, abs, Adonis line, the soft fuzz of hair that led to the cock she knew was way more than adequate and pierced, thick quads, the surgery scar over his knee, and all the way back up again, highlight by highlight on the path to being completely light-headed.

No, she was not anything like okay. Okay was an odd shaped planet with a wobbly orbit in a distant galaxy where there was no air to breathe. He planned to get wet. Wet! She let go of his forearm as if it was molten lava. “You might’ve warned me.” He should come with a hazard grading.

“They’ve honored me. I’m going to play now,” he said, eyes already on the musicians in the water.

He left her, dry-mouthed, pulse ragged, heart utterly unmoored.

And furious with herself.

She’d known going informal was a bad idea. She’d gotten on the back of a black chrome Triumph with a gold-record drummer in the middle of a work day. Nothing good ever came from that kind of behavior. She’d known from the moment she staggered into the boardroom and saw Grip, felt him in that part of herself long denied, that she needed to back away.

The moment he returned, she’d tell Mark there was a Swire and Yallop associate more suited to his needs. She’d tell Mr. Grippen she didn’t feel best placed to help him and she was sorry she’d wasted his time and she’d deal with Caroline’s disapproval.

And then she’d tell Grip she was inappropriately attracted to him and that it wouldn’t be inappropriate if she was no longer working for him and if he was so inclined and attracted to her, she’d like to spend the night with him.

One more night.

To sweeten the deal, she’d tell him she’d been fantasizing about him since their first meeting and what she’d like to do to him and more importantly, have him do to her.

She pulled her feet from the sucking wet sand and they promptly sank again.

No, she would not tell him any of that.

She had his tattoo on her hip. It was stupidly overcomplicated.

Wait, maybe she could work around that. Vera was in her head. Stay in the dark, and use the sheet strategically, keep him in front of you, wear his T-shirt, don’t stick around in the morning light, theatrical makeup, and if all that went to shit, lie. Assuming he was even curious about it and look, worst case, if he asked, it was just a common word, a wild coincidence. She could even bluff it out by saying she really had been a fan, young and silly enough to get a Property of Paradise album-like image tattooed on the back of her hip.

Except he’s already called you extraordinary.