Fuck.
Women don’t say shit like that to me. Women reserve scathing comments like, “You’re a fucking dick. I thought we had something,” for me.
My arms band around her waist. I pull her up the bed and then flip her onto her back. She spreads her legs inviting me to settle between them just like I’ve done all damn week.
I wake up around six a.m. and my hands reach for Minka.
No warm body to wrap around me. The sheets are considerably cool. My eyes crack open and I rub at them, bringing more focus in the darkness.
“Minka?” I call out.
My legs shuffle under the covers, and then I toss the sheet back. I walk down the hallway to the kitchen.
One morning, she was up early making breakfast. She stood over the stove braless, wearing my tank top knotted at the waist and that tiny underwear of hers. Minka called them boy shorts. Whatever they’re called, it makes my dick hard as a steel spike.
She made fresh-squeezed orange juice and banana pancakes with coconut syrup.
I push open the sliding glass door that leads to the outdoor shower. My heart beats an unsteady rhythm in my chest. There’s no sign of her anywhere.
“Minka, you out here?”
No answer.
Fuck. What if someone took her?
I walk around the side of the house and inspect every window and door. Then I climb the stairs and walk back down to the home office. I check the security feed.
Five a.m. There she goes, out the gate and down the sidewalk.
She left without saying a word.
No goodbye.
Blowing out a deep breath, I flop onto the bed. Her scent lingers on the sheets. It’s sweet and intoxicating like her. I breathe deeply, getting my fill.
It’s Saturday, which means that she’s more than likely leaving the island today. I don’t even know her last name.
I do know how to make her moan and beg for my cock. I know how she takes her coffee. I know that she thinks Dirty Dancing is the worst movie of all time.
“I got whiplash from Johnny’s three speeds—annoyed, cruel and sexy dancer. That’s it. That’s all he has. Not only that, their love trajectory is nonexistent.”
Blowing out a deep breath, I roll onto my side and tuck the pillow under me.
Minka. Beautiful, sexy, and alluring Minka.
The weekend crawls by with the normal tourist bookings.
As of noon on Sunday, no one had booked the boat or paddleboard lessons for Monday, so I took the day off.
I flip my burger and take a swig of beer. My eyes study the ocean, and I try to keep my thoughts focused on anything but her.
I’m pissed that I didn’t get her number and that she never told me where she had been staying on the island. At least if I had the name of the hotel I could . . .
My phone buzzes and I swipe it from the table. Brant, my brother’s name, flashes on the screen.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Remember that deal we had about you coming to work with me if the shit hit the fan?”
The conversation my brother and I had a few months ago back home in Mayfield replays in my mind.
“Are you sure that I can’t tempt you to come work here with me?”
I smile and toss back my drink. “You couldn’t pay me enough to sit behind a desk all day.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of sales. Since you love traveling.”
“Well. I’ll make you a deal. If the time comes when I’m in need of money or the distillery is in trouble—I’m at your service.”
Brant eyes me over the rim of his bourbon glass. “I’ll take that deal.”
A deal is a deal.
I groan. “Ugh, please tell me that you’re screwing with me?”
“I wish I was, Wes,” he blows out a heavy breath. “I’ve got a baby on the way, and my fiancée’s business is about to launch. I need you here.”
Sometimes I can’t believe Brant and his fiancée, Caroline, are going to have a baby. Caroline Stratton. Thanks to our great-grandad, Sam, fucking over her great-grandad, my family’s bourbon distillery is in a hell of a mess.
“When?” I ask, crawling out of bed.
“Can you be here sooner rather than later?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “I’m supposed to stay here until the first week of June.”
Brant’s silent for a moment. “Our new bourbon rolls out in June. I need you on this one, Wes. Sink or swim time.”
I stare out over the blue-green water and blow out a deep breath. “Okay. A deal’s a deal. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I end the call and resume my station at the grill. Instead of screaming, I down the rest of my beer.
Goodbye Maui.
I need to be there for my family. I’ve had my fun. Getting the hell away from Maui and memories of a dark-haired beauty with a fantastic ass is for the best. Probably.
Wes
Two months later
It’s worse than I thought.
Tourism’s low.
The company’s strapped for cash.
My fingers bite into my palms. I want to dig up great-grandad’s body and beat the fucking shit out of him. Thanks to his lie and stealing the original recipe from Clarence Stratton, Cardwell Bourbon’s legacy is tarnished.
We’ve lost major space in liquor stores. Half of our restaurant accounts are gone. Most of all, we suffered a hit to our credibility.
I loosen my tie and stare out the window. Not the view I’m used to.
No more trips to Bali or Hawaii. At least not in the foreseeable future. If I’m not Wes, the nomad, the manta whisperer, then who am I?
You know—Weston Cardwell, the suit.
But a promise is a promise, and I’m going to help my family out of this nightmare.
Despite my own fucking predicament, Pop’s pushing back his retirement. Brant and Pop have split the roles of CEO and president. Meanwhile, the VP of sales and marketing—a.k.a. me—is having shit luck getting our sales team in a position of success.
At least I have a job. Layoffs were a bitch. We’re running this place with a skeleton crew.
My calendar pops up and alerts me to the meeting I have with Brant in ten minutes. Mentally, I clock the current time in Hawaii.
Almost ten a.m. Before it’s noon in Maui, I’ll be driving back to my house, and my day will end.
I need to stop torturing myself.
Blowing out a deep breath, I carry myself down the hallway to Brant’s office.
“Hey, little bro.”
“Brantley,” I grumble.
“Cheer up, Weston,” my brother says from the round table in his office. “It’s not so bad here, is it?”
“I’d rather be on a boat,” I confess.
“We can rent a pontoon boat down at the old marina. Do a little fishing this weekend.”
“No thanks.”
His hands clasp together on top of the table. “Look, I know you’d rather be out there surfing and doing the things you love, but you gotta try and find a way to be happy here. And look at it like this, the sooner we get things on track, the sooner you can get back to doing what you love.”
My eyes meet his blue ones. “Brantley, I’m going to be thirty this year. By the time we get things back on track, I could be forty.”