One Bossy Dare

I swallow the heat trapped in my throat, finding enough air to force out an answer. “You’re serious?”

He nods, folding his arms. They flex across his chest like timbers.

“Have you ever really seen Hawaii, Eliza?”

“First time. I don’t even know where to start.” Am I rambling? “As far as exploring goes, I mean. I wouldn’t—”

“Try the beach first. You can follow me—if you want,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

I blink. “What?”

“You basically just said you need a guide. So we’ll start at the beach and I’ll fight off any great white sharks that want to make an afternoon snack of your ass.”

I actually gasp until I realize he isn’t serious.

Cole asshat Lancaster just cracked a stupid joke.

He turns away, staring at the scintillating waves out the window and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “This isn’t business. I’m offering to show you around off the clock, after hours...”

After hours.

Oh, God.

My heart leaps up my throat and crashes back down again. I never imagined such a mundane phrase having the force of a wrecking ball.

I’m about to jump at the chance to throw myself headfirst into whatever this is—or might be.

But Derek’s stupid smug face floods my mind. A man with his bright-eyed smile, his crisp button-down, his bouquets in hand and dangerously sexy salt-and-pepper scruff.

Forever tarnished with heartless lies. The easy way he brought me to dinners and concerts and held me in bed like I was the only woman he’d ever love.

All while his wife and kids were at home, oblivious to this loser gentleman using me for his selfish pleasure.

I can’t.

I can’t go down that road again—and Jesus, I definitely can’t with my boss.

“...to talk about the coffee, right?” I say sheepishly, my gaze fixed out the window when he looks at me.

Part of me wants him to say, “Fuck no. To suck the salt water off your lips,” so I have an excellent reason to run out of here screaming like my hair is on fire.

But a bigger, needier part of me wants to hear him say it so I can be stupid.

So I can gamble on making another mistake because at least I know there’s no other woman this time.

But most of me wants him to say, “Yeah, coffee,” in a completely disarming way. Then I could safely step foot on a sandy beach with this alphalicious prick while pretending to be sane and saving face.

Yes, I know.

I am the queen of hot messes.

“If you want,” he finally says with a one-shoulder shrug, swallowing so hard it’s audible. “After hours doesn’t have to mean work. I’d be open to talking about more.”

More? Panic floods my veins, but I don’t surrender full control.

“When? I get the impression any time before five o’clock is an early day for you.” It comes out of my mouth in a husky whisper.

I don’t sound like a professional woman who’s eager to discuss a new luxe coffee. More like a desperate tramp ready to fall on her boss’ salami.

But can’t they both be true?

Can’t I be both without initiating my life’s self-destruct sequence?

I want to believe.

Especially as I meet his bristling eyes and he mutters, “One o’clock. I’ll meet you at the end of the main path.”

Then his heavy footsteps pad away, leaving behind my own drumming heart.

“This feels a little like home. Except San Diego beaches were always twenty times more crowded.”

I stare out at a few lazy surfers in the distance. A parasailor glides along the horizon as we stroll across the beach hours later, shoulder to shoulder.

There’s a large swell forming offshore that must be a surfer’s delight.

“Did you spend a lot of time at the beach growing up?” he asks, reaching down for a smooth rock tucked in the sand.

“Yeah.” I grin. “But in San Diego, the beach is hard to miss. And if you’re having a bad day, a drive up the Pacific Coast makes everything better.”

“Damn. I forgot how much I enjoyed visiting this place,” he says absently.

I meet his blue eyes which almost match the ocean.

“You used to be here a lot then?” I pause. Duh, his family owns the Kona farms. “I’m sure you have. I forgot it’s your family’s farm.”

“Yeah. My grandparents retired out here before I was born. As much as my grandpa ever could retire, anyway. Here, he could oversee the farms and still enjoy some quiet. I think I was eight the first time I came here. We used to spend every other Christmas and Thanksgiving here, and even as a young man, I spent a lot of summers here. Hell of a place to make memories.” His voice lowers as he stares at the ocean. “Just wish they’d all stayed good ones.”

What does that mean?

I’m afraid to ask.

I won’t push him if he doesn’t want to talk about it, but it’s an odd thing to just drop in a conversation without explaining it.