He stares at the art across my belly; his gaze travels along the path then dips below the top of my bikini bottom and holds. “OK, I’m ready,” I say and his pupils dilate.
If there weren’t a smattering of families around us, I’d jump him right here and now. There’s little doubt he’d stop me.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks, his eyes jerking back up to mine.
“For your stuff.” I sweep my eyes across his finer-than-fine form. “I’ll put it with mine. In my bag.”
“Right,” he says and gives a small shake of his head. “My stuff like my phone and watch.”
I nod and step back to my towel, where I lower myself down and stretch out.
He kicks off his shoes, drops his phone on my bag, and jogs to the water, diving in when he hits the spot where the waves break. Knowing his attention is on his swim, I fan myself. Embarrassed that such a simple exchange of words combined with his presence could make me weak in the knees.
After the third buzzing from his phone, I turn it off.
By the time he’s done with his swim and coming out of the water like some Adonis kissed by the sun gods, I’ve moved on to a paperback, but I’ve read the same paragraph three times. My attention was focused on him. I slam it shut and clutch it tight, using it to steady me. “Have a good swim?” I ask as he reaches for his things.
“I did. That a good book?” Beads of water evaporate off him. Others rest in the hills and valleys of his defined chest, occasionally breaking free to streak downward and drip onto me. My body is already past inflamed, so it wouldn’t be a surprise if the drops began to sizzle.
Is this a stupid conversation? Yes, it is. We should stop tiptoeing around what we really want to say and get down to business. But I don’t suggest that; he’ll need some priming to abandon control. Instead, I answer his question.
“It is a good book. I’ve read it before. Several times actually. It’s my favorite.” He leans in to look at the cover before he bends to put on his shoes. “Science Fiction. Looks heavy. I wouldn’t have figured you for the sci-fi type.”
I shrug and go for broke. “Maybe if we run into each other again we can get to know each other better.”
“Maybe. Chances look good, seeing as how we’re neighbors now.” His eyes drift to my henna.
“I imagine I’ll be spending most weekends here if I’m not at the bar,” I hint.
“I always run by here on the weekends.”
“This is a good time. Not too crowded.” I watch him over the rim of my glasses. “Yes, it is.” He lifts his delectable mouth and produces a crooked smile. “Well, enjoy then. Thanks for keepin’ an eye on my stuff.”
“No sweat.” I lie down and adjust my top before wiggling back into my spot. His phone buzzes and a soft expletive escapes when he looks at the screen.
“Work,” he says. “I gotta run. So, again?” He gestures to the beach.
“Yes, please,” I say and meet his gaze.
With a curt nod of his head, he heads back to the boardwalk.
Lord, that man.
I fall back on my towel, a quivering mess.
Six
The address for the job I found in the classifieds takes me to a portion of the business district that’s not based on the International Speedway but instead aviation. The building is really a hangar housed in a row of hangars within a stone’s throw from the Aeronautical University and the international airport.
A large neon number hanging over the door lets me know I have the right building. Outside, a crew of guys are building up a post from which I can only assume a business sign will hang. There’s nothing on the door to let me know the company name or specific business. The hangar is constructed from the typical gray aluminum and behind it sits two planes, a Cessna 152 and Cessna 172. The hanger door is ajar and inside is a Beech Sierra and Piper Seneca. If it didn’t look legit, with the crew outside and the planes’ noses sticking out the hangar door, I’d have turned around and left.
The planes make me think of McRae, specifically his hot as hell body. Scanning the parking lot, I don’t see the truck that brought me to Daytona.
I come face to face with a freshly scrubbed-face kid with bleached out hair. He’s tall enough to be confused for a basketball player but is so thin it’s a wonder he can defy gravity and remain upright.
“How’s it?” he says, wiping his hands onto a towel. It’s as if he’s used to seeing me every day and this is our customary greeting, no response needed.
“Hey. I saw an ad in the paper for an administrative assistant. Is this the place?” I smile at him and relax my shoulders. This kid doesn’t scan me up and down or stare only at my chest. He looks at me with no never mind whatsoever.
“Yeah, this is the place. You’re looking for Mark, the owner.”
“Is he here?”
“He’s through the door and down the hallway. That’s where all the offices are.” He nods toward a door on the far wall that’s labeled Employees Only.
“Great, thanks. I’m Josie by the way.” I stick out my hand and wait. When he shows me his still greasy hand, I shrug and take it.
“I’m Zach, Zach Smith, nice to meet you. I sure hope you stick around. You seem all right and we need that around here.” He does an eye roll and offers me the rag to wipe my hand.
“Fingers crossed.” I hand the rag back. “Nice to meet you,” I say with a backward step. We smile at each other before I turn around and stride through the doorway.
The layout makes sense to me now. When I pulled up I saw the doors that lead to the office portion of the hangar but they were on the side of the building and out of sight of the parking lot. It’s a quirky design to say the least. Through the main door is an outer office and waiting room of sorts. The desk is piled with papers lying askew and some have fallen to the floor.
Thin floor-to-ceiling partition walls divide the space into three rooms, all sitting behind this one. I consider waiting patiently on the faux leather couch that rests against one wall but it’s unlikely this Mark character, who I’m assuming is the man I hear yelling at someone from the far left inner office, will even think of looking out here.
I walk up to the door leading into the inner office and give a closed-lip smile. The man is tall and wearing the typical man clothes: a golf shirt and shorts. Unfortunately, he’s paired it white socks and Crocs. He takes off his baseball hat, uses it to wave me in, then scratches his head before he puts the hat back on.
“Fine. I’ll pick up milk,” he shouts and slams down the phone. “My wife. She stays home all day. Why she can’t get the freaking milk is beyond me. Please tell me you’re here about the job. Please don’t be a half-wit. I’m Mark Thompson. I own this mess.” He plops down into the large executive chair behind his desk.
“I’m Josie Woodmere and I’m pretty certain I’m not a half-wit.” I don’t offer my hand because he has no interest but instead pass him my resume. He’s given me the once-over, twice, but he’s at least making an effort to not stare. He scans my resume, which excludes my Juris Doctorate but includes my business management bachelor’s, and the name of my alma mater. I’ve found omitting my education altogether works in my favor. But this job is for an administrative assistant, so I figured having a degree in business might work to my advantage.