Two for Dinner Read online

  Steam & Giggles

  His Cabbage Tosser (prequel)

  * * *

  Two for Dinner

  * * *

  HeartBreaker Next Door

  Hunk Next Door

  HeartThrob Next Door

  Two for Dinner is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locals are entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  First Edition May 2021

  Cover design by Six Suite Studios

  Copyright © 2021 by Rachel A Smith

  ISBN 978-1-951112-19-6

  Two for Dinner

  Rachel A. Smith

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Irene

  The tip of my pencil freezes mid-stroke. Sketching is the one thing that makes my worries disappear, except right now all my brain can focus on is the bare chested, six-foot, broad shouldered, god emerging from the surf with water rolling down his perfectly suntanned body. No one is supposed to be on the island. Allison, my best friend and apparently terrible travel agent, assured me no one would be within miles. Yet there is definitely a god with an extremely unwelcoming frown striding across the beach. Hmm, a merman, perhaps?

  “Can I help you?”

  Argh. Of course Mystery Man would possess a deep, gravelly voice. The same tone as my ex Clayton that would get my panties wet in seconds. It was his sexy, demanding rasps that caused me to fall for him the night we met.

  I squint up at the god clearly displeased with my presence. My smirk has nothing to do with the man standing in front of me and everything to do with the notion of Clayton standing at the church, waiting for me to walk down the aisle. The cheating bastard deserves every minute of humiliation.

  “Ahem. Would you care to explain what you’re doing here on my island?”

  “Your island?” I remove my sunglasses, and the man’s molten milk chocolate-brown eyes bore into me. “My travel agent assured me nobody had rented the property and the owner never spent time at the house. So who are you?”

  “I can guarantee you, Miss . . .”

  “Irene Gilliard.” He takes my outstretched hand and gives it a brisk tug, hauling me to my feet and landing me inches away from his smooth, bare chest. I swear my heart skips a beat. I’ve read about such notions as hearts and stomachs fluttering, and I’ve even written about them in my own books. I just never experienced it until now. Instead of avoiding the stranger’s penetrating gaze, my usual MO, I stare right back. Weird.

  Maybe I’ve finally hit my limit. No longer willing to let others manhandle me. Except, I’m not bristling with anger. This man has my full attention, and rather than backing down, I’m ready to go toe-to-toe with him.

  “Miss Gilliard, I apologize. But I assure you this is my property, and as of yesterday, there were no reservations in the system.”

  “Did you update it to show you would be in residence?” I ask, praying this isn’t one of Allison’s schemes. She wasn’t a fan of Clayton, but to pull a stunt like this—shit. I specifically told her I was done with men. This entire awkward situation has the markings of Allison all over it.

  Mr. Merman bends down and snatches up my towel from the lounger. He runs the soft terry cloth over his ripped body. “I’m sure my assistant took care of it.”

  A shudder runs through me, and I snap my face back up to meet his smiling eyes.

  Holding on to the ends of the towel wrapped behind his neck, he cocks one eyebrow at me. Mr. Merman makes the clichéd move playful rather than condescending.

  His lips are moving again. “You never answered my question—why are you here?” He peers around me into the house before adding, “Alone.”

  The slight wave in the six neatly defined sections of his abs grabs my attention. Enjoying the view, I mumble, “Ahh, I needed to get away from the city.” If I were illustrating this whole conversation, I’d have myself smacking my forehead with the palm of my hand. Why couldn’t I come up with something less revealing? Damn this man and his six-pack.

  “Away from what . . . or is it who?” He tugs on the ends of the towel, winging his arms out and drawing my attention to his biceps. Mr. Merman definitely spends time in the gym.

  His steely, unwavering gaze is in direct contrast to his casual stance and friendly smiles. I’m not buying his composed, cavalier attitude. No. Not going to fall for it. He is dangerous and tempting. I hug my sketchbook—not that it covers much—to my chest. “I can call and arrange a ferry back to the mainland.” It’s his island. I should go.

  “When did you arrive?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  Every inch of my bare skin burns. Not from the blazing sun, but from Mr. Merman’s lazy perusal of me from head to toe and then back up to my lips. “Tell me the real reason you’re here, and I’ll let you stay.”

  Mr. Merman is precisely what I don’t need in my life. He’s obviously wealthy, and probably a workaholic like Clayton. Except my ex’s late nights at his high-tech company weren’t about work. “With you here? No thanks.” I dip my chin down to my chest.

  He throws me a lopsided smirk in return. This man is dangerous. His relaxed shoulders and now soft, inviting eyes are deceptive. He’s no cinnamon roll hero. Mr. Merman is definitely type A and used to getting his way.

  Squeezed tightly against my sensitive breasts, the edge of my sketchbook’s hard cover digs into my skin. I just need some time alone to deal with the irrational thought it is my fault Clayton cheated. Rationally, I know it’s absurd, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking it. I’m no longer willing to be undemanding and accepting of being placed second. No. I deserve the fairy tale.

  I peer up at Mr. Merman. His smirk is gone, and so is his fake chill manner. He isn’t leaving. Determined or stubborn? It doesn’t matter—I can’t stay. The anger raging inside me for the last two days is swiftly reduced to a mild rolling boil. Men are asses. I want nothing to do with them. I definitely don’t need to be alone with a man who looks like he could be on the cover of GQ. No. I’m done with men. Yet this one is twisting my resolve and thoughts into mush.

  Squaring my shoulders, I confide, “I actually just need some space for myself.”

  “I do too.” He sighs, sticking out his arm and pointing west. “There’s a bungalow on the far end of the island. I’d be more than happy to relocate and let you have the house all to yourself. But first, tell me why you are here.”

  Shit. It’s a compromise. Clayton always accused me of being incapable of compromise. “Fine. I should be walking down the aisle right about now, but I decided the cheating bastard could go to hell. So I’m here to enjoy a week alone on your island.”

>   Mr. Merman doesn’t even flinch. Cool, calm, and collected, he grabs the end of the towel once more and says, “There isn’t a kitchen in the bungalow. I’ll have my meals prepared in the house and brought out.”

  He turns and walks towards the glass doors.

  Did I imagine his hands balling into fists?

  It’s not like I’m the first woman to ever be cheated on. Why would a total stranger care? Especially since I’m pretty sure none of my friends or family will be surprised by the news. The only reason the paparazzi follow me is because I’m the ugly duckling. I sink back down to sit on the edge of the lounger.

  Just as my ass hits the plastic, Mr. Merman pauses at the terrace doors and looks over his shoulder. “If you change your mind about not wanting company, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

  Another olive branch. I clench my book at the word dinner. My vision blurs as the glorious male specimen walks away. Why hadn’t I said anything?

  That fucker Clayton turned me into a mute. The bastard had claimed he just had a few last-minute business matters to wrap up at the office before he took off for the wedding and honeymoon. It’s a good thing I did something totally out of the ordinary just to prove to myself our marriage could work. I left the apartment, went to his favorite Thai restaurant, and walked into his office with dinner. That’s when I found the man I’d been planning to marry buried deep inside his business partner Melissa’s pussy. Clayton didn’t even bother to pull out when he yelled at me, “Well, aren’t you going to say anything? Of course not. You keep everything to yourself.”

  The truth hurts.

  Chapter 2

  Damien

  I linger in my bedroom, letting the cold air from the AC wall unit hit the still-sensitive back of my neck. My skin burns as if I’ve been out in the sun too long, but that can’t be the case. I’m blessed with olive skin—I tan, not burn. The pinkish tinge on Irene’s skin evoked a primal urge within me to soothe the woman’s worries and run my hands all over her body with sunscreen. Fuck. I’m not an inexperienced adolescent. I’ve seen to the pleasure of a woman or two. Maybe not a woman like the one lounging on my terrace, though. Irene is definitely different, and I’m a sucker for different. I squeeze my eyes shut and knead the back of my hypersensitive neck.

  The bungalow is a mess as it’s under renovation. I’m pretty sure there isn’t even a bed there. If not, Michael will figure out a solution. He’s like a bloody magician. I zip up my duffel bag, stuffed with the three days’ worth of clothes I brought with me.

  Pausing, I glance out the window. I should just go home. Leave the island and the woman alone. When she lowered her sunglasses to reveal sad blue eyes, the tug at my heart nearly forced me to back down. I hate seeing women in distress. It’s my eternal downfall. Although, Irene’s stiff spine and steady glare suggested she’s no weakling needing my protection or help. However, she had an undeniable effect on my pulse. In fact, Irene caused more than my heart to throb.

  I grab my phone from the nightstand before remembering it will be useless out at the bungalow. Dammit. Without Wi-Fi, I won’t be able to get shit done. Not that I want to work with the image of Irene at the forefront of my mind. I came here to escape from my responsibilities, not add to them. Just beyond the glass, the turquoise-blue ocean spreads out for miles. The white caps beckon to me. Fuck it—I deserve a few days off. I haven’t had a vacation in over a year.

  My phone buzzes inside my pocket, sending a jolt down my leg. Rarely is a calendar reminder that interesting. Farrington deal, Tuesday 1 p.m. I’ve already gone over the agreements with Charlie at least a half dozen times. Before I can change my mind, I text Harley, my extremely competent and undemanding assistant. Out of reach for a couple of days. Tell Charlie he’s in charge until I return. I power off my phone before the three dots disappear and a string of questions from Harley appears.

  Charlie has been vying for more responsibility in the past six months, specifically the position of President. It’s not that I’m a control freak. He’s been annoyingly efficient, and if I’m being honest, it’s because of Charlie I was even able to consider taking time off this weekend. Normally right before a big deal closing like the one coming up with the Farringtons, I’d be stuck pulling all-nighters at the office.

  I’m not afraid to relinquish control to my younger brother. He’s more than capable. But I want him to have a life. He should be out having fun, not tied to his desk twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Although lately he’s been spending an extraordinary amount of time in his office. I’m the older brother and the one responsible for the family business.

  Swinging my duffel over my shoulder, I leave the sanctuary of my room. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with work, I would’ve had more time and energy to deal with what was really going on with Rebecca. That’s a lie. A fucking weak-ass excuse. No, I just simply didn’t give a shit. I wanted to believe she was interested in me and not my money. That I’d finally found someone who shared my passion for the arts. I overlooked her deceit. Why did I come to the island? Truth is, it wasn’t to get over Rebecca. I closed that book when I broke it off. My grandpa’s voice echoes through my mind. My boy, I designed this island for one purpose and one purpose only—to heal the soul. I wish he were here. He’d know exactly what to say to straighten me out. But he’s not. I’ll have to figure it out on my own out at the bungalow.

  I pause in the hallway. The image of the misery on Irene’s face is like a gut punch. Unlike Rebecca, she probably doesn’t possess a deceptive bone in her body. She looks guileless and innocent. And she evokes every caveman instinct I possess. I want to crush the man who betrayed her trust. What I wouldn’t give to haul her over my shoulder and hide in a cave with her, keeping those delicious curves under me. Whoa. I escaped to be alone, not fall for a stranger. Time to clear my head.

  Forcing my feet to move again, I walk past a red-splattered contemporary painting hanging on the wall. For years, the idea of hosting monthly art exhibits for unknown artists had been simply just that—an idea. Then Rebecca entered my life. A stunning redhead who called me out on my every move. What was the purpose of spending hours working on building an empire? If I genuinely believed in the arts, why didn’t I do more than merely write a check at various charity functions?

  My scheming ex made me question my moral compass. She said she wanted to help establish a gallery and give starving artists a place to show their work. It was when I began thinking with my brain again and not my dick—the one that loved being in her mouth and every other orifice she let me enter—that I realized the woman just wanted access to my wallet. Rebecca was a thief with no interest in helping establish any philanthropic project that wouldn’t allow her to siphon off money into her own bank account. I couldn’t care less about the money, but the sting of her betrayal left me raw. I have three days to regain my sanity. Plenty of time.

  Ugh, too much time. What the hell am I going to do all day if I can’t work?

  Out the patio door I spy Irene still perched on the side of the deck chair, the breeze catching the loose strands of hair around her face. I shouldn’t have pressured her for dinner and need to apologize. Sliding open the door, I march across the cobbled patio.

  Irene glances up, her blue eyes clear but still miserable.

  I stop short. “About the dinner invite earlier. That was rude of me.”

  She shrugs and gives me a watery grin. My soul aches, desperate to draw a real smile from this woman.

  Irene tilts her head to one side, exposing her neck. Like I’m a fucking vampire, my mouth salivates. I clench my jaw at the image of grazing my teeth along her tender flesh.

  Her voice breaks through my thoughts. “Apology accepted. And about dinner . . . if you promise not to ask more questions, I’d love the company.”

  She used the word love.

  My instinct is to walk away. In my experience, women who use the word freely and often are also firm believers in the emotion. Then why is my mind currently ref
ormulating her sentence into I’d love to have dinner with you? Love is an extremely complex sentiment I’ve yet to fully understand. I’m still waiting to find that woman—the one who will break down my defenses and make me act like the heroes in my grandma’s romance novels.

  I blink away my wayward thoughts. “You’ve got yourself a deal. See you at six.” I should nod and leave her alone, but I stick out my hand and wait.

  She slips hers in mine. Fuck me. Her firm grip instantly makes my cock twitch. I’ve shaken hundreds of women’s hands over the years at business meetings and deal closings, but none ever resulted in me having a hard-on. The idea of yanking her into my arms and dragging her to the bedroom flashes before me as the material of my shorts stretches tight.

  I give her a lazy smile. Instead of receiving a flirtatious comment or a do-what-you-want-with-me look, she releases my hand and pulls her sunglasses down, but not before I notice her eyes briefly dipping down below my waistline.

  “Have a lovely day, Mr. Merman.”

  She used a variation of the word love, and instead of making me want to run it has the exact opposite effect. With her shield clearly up, I crave getting closer and tearing it down. “What did you call me?”

  “Mr. Merman. Ya know, since you appeared from the ocean this morning.” She swings her long, shapely legs up onto the lounger and lies back.