The Reality of You (9 page)

Chapter 10

It
took an hour before I began to feel the sting of a sunburn. My stupid ass
hadn’t thought to bring sunscreen. And because I had spent the last hour
concentrating on appearing unaffected by the man sitting next to me—while I was
so much that I didn’t comprehend one word I’d read—I hadn’t thought about the
burning sun beating down on my pale ghostlike skin. Pretending to ignore the
muscled perfection next to me, I slipped on my tennis shoes, rolled up my
towel, chucked it in my bag, and pulled on my clothes.

Even though the sun
would be setting soon, I had to get out of the rays—like now. Give it another
twenty minutes or so and I’d be on the blistering stage, which caused the
horrifying peeling stage. Been there, done that, didn’t like it. At all.

Reese put his shirt
on—though my hormones cried, I was thankful—and stood. “Finally ready, Ms.
Porter?”

It could have been
his condescending tone. Or maybe it was the “Ms. Porter” that had started to
grate on my nerves. I instantly wanted to ditch him or torture him. Hell, he’d
prolonged my torture for a week, including this afternoon.

“Yup,” I said
sweetly. “Ready for dinner. One of the players invited me to a local place.”

“Ms. Porter”—yeah,
it was the Ms. P thing that was pounding on my nerves—“the sun will be setting
within the hour. You cannot be alone after dark.”

“Puerto Rico’s a US
territory, right?” I asked innocently.

His expression
turned slightly confused as he nodded. I could see my reflection in the silver
of his sunglasses. My face was bright pink. Great.

“Then it’s a free
country. So see you later,” I said with a wave, heading in the direction
Armando had pointed out.

He chose torture
because, in seconds, he was walking next to me. “I’m quite confident the food
at the resort is far superior.”

As the sidewalk
drifted away from the beach park to a downtown area, I kept an eye on the signs
overhead, searching for the name of the place Armando had said. Felipe’s or
something similar.

“Not really, just
more fancy. I’m in the mood for authentic. Plus, my latest teammates make far
better company than resort-goers. Too stuffy there for me,” I said, giving him
a pointed look.

“Why, Ms. Porter, do
I get the distinct impression that you’re being difficult?”

We were almost to
the corner, but I stopped dead in my tracks and whipped toward him, nearly
hitting him with Jules’s bag. “This is my free day, right?”

His jaw tightened as
he nodded.

“So stop with the
Ms. Porter crap. My name is Naomi.” With that, I spun back around and stomped
to the corner.

Reese’s long-legged
stride caught up with me instantly. We stood there, both fuming—well, at least I
was—waiting for the walk sign to change and cars to stop buzzing by.

“You know,” I said
tightly, “I can catch a cab right outside the restaurant. You can go.”

“Impossible,” he
said through clenched teeth. “Can you imagine the headlines if something would
happen to you? The bad press my firm would receive?”

Of course his worry
wasn’t about my safety. It was about his company. Asshole. As soon as the sign
changed, I marched across the street, ignoring him. Once I spotted the sign for
Felix’s—close enough—I went in without looking back.

The inside of the
restaurant or bar—it appeared to be both—was bright from the wall of windows in
the back that were open to the sight of a deck and the sea. Flags and tinsel
hung from the ceiling, and tiki lights dangled over the bar to the left. Low
music—reggae-sounding—played lowly in the background and a murmur of
conversation filled the air. The room was half full of people, mostly tourists,
and they all seemed to be staring at me.

Since I didn’t see
any of the soccer players, I marched out to the deck and plopped down at a
table with an umbrella without checking if Reese had followed me outside.
Because the day would soon turn dusky with the coming of night, more tiki
lights hung above the deck. Unfortunately, in seconds, Reese sat across from
me. I yanked out the laminated menu from between the salt and pepper and
pretended like he wasn’t there.

A pretty, young
server came within a few minutes, and I ordered a rum punch. Reese ordered a
bottled water.

When she stepped away,
he asked in a mild tone, “Are you always such a lush, Ms. Porter?”

 
“Only around certain people.” I didn’t look up
from my menu. “Are you always so uptight?”

Yeah, he didn’t
answer, though I could feel his irritated gaze.

A group of older men
carrying cases shuffled by the windows inside the bar and began setting up on
the low stage in the corner by arranging instruments. Evidently they were the
band for the night. As soon as the waitress brought our drinks, I sucked down
the punch, a little too sweet but a whole lot of potent. Reese sat back and
scrolled through his phone, apparently pretending like he was fine with my
forcing
him to come. He proved
irritating, but the rum calmed me. Thus, I decided to keep the rum flowing by
ordering another.

The food came out
rather quickly, even though I had ordered enough for three people. My
mofongo
,
lechón
, and
arroz con
pollo
took up half the table
.
The garlic and bacon scents wafting up from my three plates had me salivating.

Reese cut into his
fish then pointed his fork at the piles of food in front of me. “Playing soccer
must make you ravenous.” His tone sounded mocking.

I set down my rum
punch with a loud thud. “Should I have ordered a salad?”

His regard turned
level. “This isn’t a date.”

“Damn right it
isn’t, but would a salad be appropriate if it were?” I asked slyly.

“Er…” he said,
observably flustered. This was the only time I’d ever seen him flustered. The
moment was over quickly, and his cocksure attitude came back. “
If
this were a date, I’d be impressed. A
woman with an appetite is far more attractive than a skeleton nibbling on plain
lettuce.”

Okay, I could live
with that. “Well, I’m not going to eat
all
of it. I wanted to
try
all of it.
Real Puerto Rican food instead of a chef’s concoction.”

“Are you suggesting
the food at the resort was subpar?” he asked in a purely interested tone,
apparently worried about supporting subpar cuisine.

“Nope. That shrimp
and pineapple thing was delicious,” I said dreamily, recalling the taste. Reese
paused, lifting his fork to watch me, his eyes intent. Startled by the
expression on his face, I took another sip of rum punch. “I wanted to eat like
the locals at least once while I’m here.”

His eyes
un-intensified and he nodded, bringing the mood at the table back to normal.

The food was quite
good—maybe not fancy, but definitely tasty. I ate half of the dinner on each
plate and didn’t feel one ounce of embarrassment. I stuffed myself in front of
Reese as the band began playing a mix of contemporary hits and Reggie. People
started to fill the dance floor. Reese appeared irritated and bored while the
rum had me moving from the juncture of
screw
him
to
who cares
.

When I ordered
another drink, he gave me a level stare. “We need to return to the resort.
Early flight tomorrow,” he said sternly and loudly over the notes of “Brown
Eyed Girl” floating out the window.

Ignoring him, since,
buzzed up, I truly did want to stay, I smiled at the waitress looking between
us and waved a hand. “Never mind him.”

“Ms. Porter,” Reese
said tightly
.

Aware that we
sounded like a bickering couple, I almost laughed. Instead, I lifted two
fingers at the waitress. “Make it two more.” She glanced from me to Reese as if
asking for his permission, and I felt like kicking him under the table. “Two
more,” I repeated.
 

Once she left, I
leaned forward, placing my elbows on the table. “It’s not even eight o’clock in
the evening. After the week I’ve had, I need some relaxation. Especially since
my boss was a total
tyrant
this
week.”

 
Reese’s gaze turned annoyed.

Seriously, the guy
needed to get the stick out of his ass. I leaned forward more, giving him my
tried and true puppy-dog eyes—well, at least they worked on Kara. “Am I so awful
that you can’t sit on a deck with me along with warm ocean breezes and tropical
drinks for an hour or so?”

“I never said you
were awful,” he grumbled, leaning back and crossing his arms over his running
shirt.

My eyes turned
sadder.

His turned speculative.

Maybe I’d poured it
on a little
too
thick. It was hard to
tell while slightly inebriated. I sat up. “You certainly implied it.”

Our drinks came, and
the conversation paused.

He yanked out the
straw from the rum punch and tossed it on the table. “I never implied anything
other than your lack of coordination.”

I tilted my head in
buzzed deliberation, realizing that was true. He lifted the drink and guzzled
half of it. He set it down, a frown growing on his face.

“Good?” I asked,
shaking my head yes.

“No,” he replied,
pushing the drink away. “Quite awful.”

Oh well. I was
enjoying the drinks. The rum, the breeze, and the music were mellowing me out.
Big time.

I leaned back,
glancing at the dark ocean. “This is nice out here, yeah?”

“Just splendid,” he
said wryly. Turning, he waved to the server across the deck.

My nose scrunched
up. “You’re not asking for the bill?”

“No, not yet, but
soon, I simply require something more potable.”

Who the heck said
potable?

After the server
went over the entire alcohol list, surprisingly, he ended up ordering a scotch
on ice and a beer. From the tap. American. So he wasn’t a total turd.

Once the server
left, I said, “You know, during our meetings, I don’t notice as much, but in a
laid-back setting, you talk kind of funny.”

His brows rose.
“Funny?”

“Like snooty.” I
took a long sip of punch. “Did you go to a private prep school?”

He frowned. “I did.”

“That’s it. Prep
school talk.” His handsome features tightened. I twisted my straw between my
fingers. “How old are you anyway?”

He waited to answer
while the waitress set his drinks down. “Why does that matter?”

I shrugged. “Just
curious. Sorry.” I lifted my hands up. “Didn’t know your age was top secret in
the vault information.”

“Twenty-eight,” he
said in a steely tone.

My mouth fell open.
“Twenty-eight? Really? You’re four years older than me? That’s crazy.”

“Why is that
bizarre?” he asked, setting his now half-filled beer down.

“Because I would
have guessed thirty-four, maybe thirty-five.”

He choked on a swig
of beer before forcing it down then slammed his glass on the table.
“Thirty-four? Six years’ difference? Why so much older?”

“You’re…uptight I
guess. Older people are more uptight. I mean about business stuff. Anyone can be
uptight though. I was once on a traveling team with this girl—”
 

“Uptight? And this
perception came from?”

I shrugged. “I work
with a very diversified group of people, computer nerds of all ages.”

“Thought you were a
temp?” he asked.

Oh shit. I kind of
forgot that the rum made me dumb along with mellow. “I am.” I lifted my drink
and took a sip. “And we’re all different ages.”

He leaned back, a
shrewd look on his face as he studied me. “When would you work together?”

Yeah, I should have
said an old job. I pulled another shrug. “Some people want more than one
secretary at a time. Double the demanding fun,” I said sarcastically, but his
unchanging expression told me that he didn’t like my sarcasm. I set my drink
down and drummed my fingers on the table before I changed the direction of the
conversation faster than one of my goal kicks today. “It’s not that you look
over thirty. It’s that you have a certain confidence…a mature way you carry
yourself.” The last bit was added purposely to boost his ego.

He continued
watching me with a sly smirk.

Kara remained quite
sure that Reese would never know about why I’d truly came—neither of us was a
bleep on his radar—but his sly smirk had me suddenly worried. The song changed
to something familiarly boppy.

I noticed a limbo
stick out on the dance floor and found the perfect way to end the conversation.
“Oh!” I said, jumping up like it was Christmas morning and I was four. “The
limbo! I love the limbo. The limbo is epic!” I took a step toward the bar. “You
coming?”