Wicked Nights (Men of Discovery Island 2)

Sal being Sal, he was delighted to pontificate further. “His performance on our last dive sealed the deal.”

Right. The dive Sal had screwed up so badly they had had to rescue his drowning ass. Apparently, her part in that whole save-his-butt endeavor either hadn’t made much of an impression or hadn’t made it back to the Fiesta board. Frankly, she was surprised Sal had brought it up at all.

“We extended the offer to him earlier today and he accepted.”

Even better. She was the insurance in case for some reason Cal turned down their offer. Fiesta hadn’t wanted to give her the blow-off speech until they’d been sure of him.

She didn’t do tears, she reminded herself. Crying wouldn’t help.

A dive slate appeared in her field of vision. “BRB,” Carla had scrawled. She nodded her head as she processed the shorthand for “be right back” and tried to concentrate on the blah blah blah coming her way from Sal. Since she was clearly not hired, she figured she was entitled to honesty.

“His rescue sealed the deal?”

“He was very impressive.”

Piper made a mental note to tell Cal that one.

“And you’re expecting near drowning to be a common occurrence on your Fiesta-sponsored dives, and therefore you had to go with a professional rescue swimmer?” she asked sweetly.

The dead silence on the other end was her answer. Sal was undoubtedly calculating how fast he could hang up on her now that he’d delivered his bad news.

“Thank you for your time,” she said and ended the call. Since Fiesta wasn’t going to be paying her, she didn’t have to put up with Sal anymore. That was one silver lining.

But...wow. She ran through the details of her proposal in her head, mentally walking through the demo dive. She’d been so sure the Fiesta team had loved her dive, that they’d understood exactly how much fun a shipload of cruisers and newbie divers could have swimming with the sea lions. And, instead, she’d been trumped when Mr. Heroic Navy Swimmer had come charging to the rescue.

Worse, if she hadn’t offered to lead Cal’s dive, none of this would have happened. He would have got into the water or not—she was betting strongly on the not—but he wouldn’t have taken over for her. She thought about it for a moment. She’d had his back. Had covered for him. And it had backfired on her, hadn’t it?

Carla came back inside the shop, carrying a cardboard tray with paper coffee cups. She flipped the open sign to closed and locked the door. The gesture was appreciated, but caffeine wasn’t the Band-Aid Piper needed right now.

“Never forget who the competition is,” she told Carla.

“Got it.” Carla popped a cup free and handed it over.

“I rescue Cal’s butt and therefore he won.” Saying it out loud wasn’t as therapeutic as she’d anticipated.

Carla took a sip from her own cup. “At least he’s got a mighty fine butt.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Would you feel better about losing to him if he wasn’t a hottie?”

Would she? “No.”

Carla motioned toward the cup. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m not in the mood for coffee.”

“Good thing I didn’t bring you coffee.”

Piper took a cautious sip. With Carla, anything was possible. Sure enough, sweet and salty, the margarita froze her teeth and hit her stomach like a rock.

“Where did you find margaritas at—” she checked her phone “—ten in the morning?”

“Big Petey’s. He likes you.”

And she definitely liked his margaritas. Mainlining her weight in the sweet stuff was unexpectedly appealing, but it wouldn’t erase her loss. The Fiesta contract had gone to Cal.

“So,” Carla said. “Next steps?”

“I’ve got an appointment with the loan officer tomorrow over on the mainland.”

Carla nodded. “And you’re keeping it?”

“Yes.” She had no idea how she’d convince the guy to take a chance on her and shower her business with cash, but she’d figure something out. “He had ‘questions about my cash flow,’” she said, making air quotes. “The Fiesta contract was the perfect answer to those questions.”

“Rest in peace, dear dream of a partner buyout.” Carla raised her coffee cup. “What about your bet?”

Wow. That had completely slipped her mind. She now owed Cal one night of yes-master-what-can-I-do-for-you-master sex. Or at least that was what she’d imagined—with the roles reversed—when she’d made the stupid bet in the first place.

“Your face is flushed,” Carla observed. “I’m going to assume you’re not worried about paying up.”