The pants alone cost two grand. How could I make the excuse of saving my thirty dollar H&M blouse, even if it's worth about the same to me as two grand is to him?
I didn't care about the blouse. I cared about the temptation of diving into the water with him. Getting wet and cool and messy and running out of excuses for not touching him.
He's difficult and bossy and obnoxious and extremely handsome.
I undress, run the shower, move into the small space.
It's too small for two, but that's still where my head goes. Liam here with me, his hands on my skin, his lips on my neck, his voice in my ears.
How can I actually touch him and kiss him and hold him and survive?
How can I lie to someone like Preston?
How can I say no?
This is the best opportunity I'll ever have. Liam is a difficult boss. And this job isn't what I want to do.
I'm not complaining. It's a great opportunity. With my English degree, and my unwillingness to ask my parents—especially my father—for help, I'm glad I have a job with a reasonable salary.
New York is expensive.
I don't mind the minutiae of work—the emails, the rude executives, the coffee fetching—but it's not what I want to do with my life.
I want to reach people. Help them when they're struggling. With normal stress and sadness. Or the riptide of depression.
That horrible feeling of being pulled out to sea, helpless, and floundering the more you struggle.
It's not as simple as a riptide. There isn't a clear path to shore—swim parallel, out of the riptide, then to the beach—but there's help.
People need it.
Mom needed it.
I've needed it.
Maybe this company isn't going to change the entire world. Maybe, even with Liam's money and help, it's going to fail.
In the meantime, I'm going to help people.
I can't turn that down.
Even if it kills me.
Blue sky.
White sand.
A soft breeze against my skin.
A tall, tan man in a Speedo. A cocky grin on his face. His hands on his hips.
His swimsuit on the ground.
And he's knocking.
Again.
Louder and louder.
Shit.
My eyes open. My gaze goes to the clean white ceiling. It's not a tropical paradise, but at least I'm not dreaming about Liam naked.
"Briar—" Like he was conjured by my subconscious, Liam knocks on my door again. "I have coffee."
I roll over. Check the watch on my left wrist. "It's early. Go away."
"It's ten."
"On a Saturday." I pull my comforter over my head. Close my eyes. Will my dream island to return, sans Liam, but it doesn't. "You said I could sleep on it."
"Yeah."
Ugh.
"You want to launch your company or not?"
Double ugh. I push myself up. Take a deep breath. Try to inhale peace and exhale calm. "Stop yelling in the hall."
"I'll consider that."
"If management asks me to leave, you're paying for my move."
"Deal."
I let out a low groan. It's impossible to ask rich people to change their behavior. They throw money at all their problems. "And the first six months of rent."
"Done."
"Then keep yelling. I want a separate office."
That stops him, of course.
I roll out of bed. Find my glasses. Then the bathroom. I go through my usual routine. Find a sweater to throw over my tank top. I'm still in impossibly short shorts—I run hot—but at least my boobs aren't on display.
I open the door for Liam.
He holds up a coffee. A coffee carrier with two drinks, more specifically.
"You know how to fetch your own latte?" I ask.
He makes a finger gun, aims at an imaginary target, blows imaginary smoke. "That was a good one."
"You're supposed to be offended."
"You know me better than that."
I do. Most of the time, Liam is impossible to rattle. He's especially hard to offend. He loves when people make jokes at his expense. The more cutting, the better.
"Game appreciates game."
"No one says that anymore."
He shrugs go figure. Motions to the drink on the right. "Your favorite."
"You know my favorite?"
"You drink the same thing every day, twice a day."
"I get it."
"You don't believe me?"
I do drink the same thing every day, twice a day. When I can. Most coffee shops don't make a London Fog. And asking them to try is an exercise in disappointment.
They pour hot water over a tea bag then add milk right away. It's a weak, pathetic mess.
"See." He motions go on. "If I didn't get it, I agree to all your terms. If I did—"
"No deal." I take the drink and bring it to my lips. The sweet scent of Bergamot fills my nose. Tea. Milk. Citrus. Just enough honey.
And lavender.
He went to the place with lavender Earl Grey.
How did he know? There's only one coffee shop in the Financial District that makes this perfect London Fog and it's out of the way.
He made an effort.
An actual effort.
"I pay attention to what you put in your mouth," he says.