Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3) (2 page)

“
O
f
course
I tried to write on the plane. But do you have any idea how hard it is to write about sex on horseback when the guy in the seat next to you keeps looking at your laptop and wiggling his eyebrows?”

Pinning the phone between her shoulder and her ear, Layla Hart hauled her luggage through the front door of the beach cottage, leaving it in a pile in the middle of the living room. She normally wasn’t so flippant with her editor, but after a day of travel nightmares, not the least of which being the first class perv on the plane from Seattle, Layla was just about
done
. All she wanted—all she’d
been
wanting for the last four hours—was to go to sleep.

“I understand, Layla,” Stephanie said patiently. “But you have to see the position you’re putting me in.”

She sounded as exhausted as Layla felt. It was already midnight in California, which meant her editor in New York had stayed up until three a.m. waiting for this particular call. Clearly the woman had been expecting better news from her star author.

Unfortunately, better news was not something Layla could offer tonight.

“I need another month,” Layla finally admitted, sinking into the familiar couch. She’d been renting this house at Starfish Cove for more than a decade—a full month every summer, two weeks in December, and now, a week in the spring. She hadn’t even bothered turning on the lights; she knew every corner and piece of furniture as well as she knew her own apartment in Seattle. “Two months tops.”

Stephanie sighed.

Translation:
You’re crazy.

Layla knew she was crazy. She was six months past her first deadline, three past her second… and this was after getting a one-year extension in the first place.

At this rate, her readership had probably already moved on. She was lucky her publisher was even
trying
to work with her.

“You know I can’t do that,” Stephanie said. She sounded genuinely sorry about it, but Layla knew the deal. She just didn’t know what else she could say. “Sorry” wouldn’t cut it. “I’ll try my best” wouldn’t either. Layla had used up her allotted apologies weeks ago. All that was left now were the endless excuses.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I just can’t seem to focus.

I have writer’s block.

I’m all out of ideas.

My heart hurts.

After a long pause that was bordering on uncomfortable, Stephanie finally said, “Listen, Layla. You know we love you here. We have faith that whatever you send us is going to be brilliant—it always is. But we can’t push back the schedule any more than we already have without impacting the bottom line. There were a lot of people counting on you to deliver, and you just didn’t. You still haven’t.”

“I realize that.”

“I understand you’ve had some issues in your personal life, but at this point—”

“It’s not that,” Layla lied. It
was
that. It was totally that. How could she write other people’s love stories when her own had crashed and burned so horrifically?

Still, she knew she couldn’t admit that. She was a thirty-three-year-old, grow-ass woman, and it had been nearly two years since her personal life imploded—long past time for her to move on. But no matter how hard she tried, every night ended the same way: Layla, polishing off a bowl of ice cream in bed, zoning out watching cute animal videos online, then crying herself to sleep.

She was one step away from going total cliché.

One step away? Try about six steps beyond…

“I hate that it’s come to this,” Stephanie said, “but such is the reality of the situation. As much as we love you, at the end of the day, this is still a business. We can’t afford to keep pushing the release date—there’s a cascading effect. At this point, you’re in danger of having the book bumped another year, or worse.”

“Worse?” Layla closed her eyes, swallowing down the knot in her throat. Worse could only mean one thing.

“Legal is reviewing your contract,” Stephanie confirmed. “They’re considering cancelling it.”

Layla closed her eyes, letting the words sink in. She’d never missed a deadline before, never delivered anything less than stellar. All of her books had been bestsellers. Every release in her Royal Hearts on Fire series had hit the big lists virtually overnight, and were still hanging out at the top of the sales charts. Her fans had created entire online communities just to talk about them—people and places and relationships that Layla had created, had built from the ground up. She got so much fan mail that she had to hire two assistants just to read and respond to it.

Writing had always been her dream. Some days, she still couldn’t believe it had actually come true. That people wanted to read her work, to talk about it, to talk to her. That they wanted to know about her ideas and thoughts.

It had all seemed so effortless once, so fun.

Now, her career was on the chopping block, all because she couldn’t move past her own shattered heart.

“One more month,” Layla said again. “Two at the most. Please, Stephanie. I know I can do this.”

This time, there was no awkward pause. Not even a breath of hesitation. “You’ve got a week,” Stephanie said. “I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”

Layla wrapped up the call, letting her editor get to bed, which was where Layla needed to be, too.

Layla rolled her shoulders, stretching the tension out of her neck. Everything would work out. A week was… not ideal. Far from it. But she only had a handful of chapters to go. She’d known authors to write entire books in a week—certainly she could manage a hundred lousy pages.

Layla rose from the couch and walked over to the front window, looking out at the moonlit ocean. It was so calm and peaceful, the waves whispering against the shore, the stars twinkling overhead.

Starfish Cove was her happy place.

She took off her glasses and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of the beach fill her up. She really did love this place, and now she was so grateful that she’d never shared it with anyone. It had always been her private writing retreat, her own sacred space where she could totally relax. There were no ghosts here. No shared memories waiting to leap out and attack her, to remind her of everything she lost.

Her eyes welled up, the familiar ache tugging at her insides. She didn’t want to get sucked into the darkness tonight—not now. So she focused on the water, the calming waves, letting their soft lullaby soothe her aching soul.

Normally, the first thing she did when she arrived at the cottage was run down to the shore and stick her toes in the water—even if it was late at night like this. But tonight, she just didn’t have it in her. She couldn’t even find the gumption to brush her teeth—not after that phone call.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better. She just needed a good night’s rest, then she’d rise at dawn, go for a walk along the beach to find her traditional piece of lucky sea glass, come back and set up, and get writing.

Layla kicked off her shoes and stripped out of her clothes, digging into her suitcase for the first T-shirt she could find.

For now, all she wanted to do was fall into that big, comfy bed waiting for her in the back room, putting the entire horrific day behind her.

Feeling marginally better now that she’d finally arrived, and come up with her plan of attack for tomorrow, Layla padded softly down the hall toward the bedroom, her suitcase rolling along behind her, bare feet relishing in the scratchy feel of sand on the hardwood floors.

It made her smile—the first one in a long while—and filled her with a kind of hope she’d been missing for months, making her feel instantly lighter.

Despite the stressful phone call, the beach was already doing wonders for her spirit.

“That’s more like it,” she said brightly.

She set her phone alarm for seven, then popped in her earbuds, queuing up the brainwave music app that helped her sleep. The soft music filled her ears, already beginning to work its magic. Layla took another deep breath, let it out slowly.

I’ve got this. I’m Layla freaking Hart, and I can totally do this. It’s going to be a great week.

With a light heart and a clear head, Layla stepped into the pitch dark bedroom. The blinds were drawn tight; she could just make out the shape of the bed, the white dresser just inside the door, the small writing desk beneath the window—her workspace. The bedroom smelled different than she’d remembered—spicier, somehow—but it was a pleasant smell, almost as warm and welcoming as the ocean air outside.

After hours of travel, Layla was finally getting her wish: sleep.

She lifted the duvet and got into bed, feeling around in the dark for the best pillow.

Her hand landed on something decidedly
un
-pillow.

Something warm.

And hard.

And…

Oh. My. God.

L
ayla shrieked
and bolted out of bed, backing straight into the wall, her arms instinctively covering her chest. Her phone crashed to the floor. Fear took over, silencing the scream as her entire body flooded with adrenaline.

Fight or flight… fight or flight…

Layla couldn’t move.

The man she’d discovered—manhandled, more accurately—had flicked on the lamp and was now standing on the other side of the bed, blinking at her in total confusion. His shaggy blond hair was rumpled on one side, his face lined with sheet marks.

She didn’t know what he looked like beyond that, because she refused to let her eyes travel any lower.

He was completely naked.

And rock hard.

And…

Stop looking at him!

The stranger spoke first, his hands raised as though he were approaching a wild animal. “Whoa. Okay, so, normally I don’t complain when a woman climbs into my bed, but uh… mind telling me who the fuck
you
are?”

Layla swallowed the knot of fear in her throat. She was still scared, but now that she’d gotten over the initial shock, her instincts were no longer ringing the alarm bells. Far from an attacker, the man was clearly as surprised as she was; he’d probably just ended up in the wrong cottage. Most of these places were so old and out of the way, they didn’t even have locks on the doors.

Maybe he was drunk.

With a hard-on like
that
? Not likely.

“Clearly there’s been a misunderstanding,” Layla said, tugging at the hem of her T-shirt. It fell nearly to her knees, but still. She wasn’t keen on baring her skin to a total stranger.

The stranger, on the other hand, seemed totally keen on it. No modesty—none whatsoever.

“Is this some kind of…” He shook his head, still blinking sleep from his eyes. She wondered what color they were—gray, maybe? She couldn’t get a good look in the dim light. “Did Mac send you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, I’m sure…” His eyes trailed down her body slowly, appreciatively, leaving a hot path in their wake. Layla felt her ears turn red; it had been a long time since anyone had looked at her like that…

Get your head in the game, girl! Stranger danger!

“I’m sure you’re great at your job,” he continued. “But like I told Mac, I need a break.”

Wait. Did he just call me a…

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Layla said firmly, “but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong—”

“Sorry you had to go to all the trouble.” He opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out his wallet. “Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it. Just… just leave.”

“
Paying
me?” The heat his gaze had left on her skin went cold.

Yep. He thinks I’m a prostitute.

“Listen,” she said, crouching down for her phone. It seemed to have survived the fall, thankfully. “I don’t know what the hell you think is going on here, but this is
my
cottage—at least until next Saturday—paid in full. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I rented the place this morning,” he said. “So if Mac didn’t send you, then
you’re
the one who isn’t supposed to be here.”

“I rented this place weeks ago,” she said, panic rising. Her assistant had triple-confirmed everything—she was sure of it. “Would you mind covering up your…” she gestured in the general vicinity of his dick, which wasn’t difficult, considering it practically took up half the room.

The man seemed surprised at her request. Almost offended.

Probably never heard such a request from a woman before. Typical.

With a self-satisfied smirk, he grabbed a pillow and pressed it against his crotch. “So much for the dream I was having. Happy now?”

Layla sighed. No, she wasn’t happy. She’d gotten into bed with a naked stranger—one who seemed hell-bent on taking over her beach rental. It didn’t help that he was hot as sin, and she’d gone
way
too long without contact from a companion that didn’t require batteries.

God, he really was beautiful. Totally ripped, top to bottom. Broad, muscular shoulders and strong arms—the kind that could pick up a woman like she weighed nothing and throw her down on the bed… or up against the wall… or…

Layla swallowed hard, willing her heartbeat to slow down.

The pillow didn’t help one bit. It’s not like she could
unsee
it. The man was… gifted.

Again, she forced her eyes back to his face. Behind his smirk, behind the rumpled hair and the creases, there was something almost… familiar about him. His voice, too. She was certain they’d never met, but she felt like she’d known him from somewhere.

Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking, you horny little tart…

God, she couldn’t even believe her mind had gone there. Layla was no prude, not even before she’d met the man who’d wasted six years of her life—the man she now referred to as Asshole Without a Name. But sex with a stranger? That was a tad beyond her comfort zone.

No harm in the fantasy, though…

“So,” he said. “What now?”

Snapping out of her wicked thoughts, Layla looked down at her phone. She scrolled through her emails and found the confirmation from the beach community manager—sure enough, she had the right dates, the right place.

Layla tried the phone number for the main office, and then for the emergency maintenance guy. Both went straight to voicemail. She left messages on each, but with a sinking feeling in her gut, she quickly realized that there was no way they’d get anything sorted until morning.

“Don’t you have a car or something you can sleep in tonight?” she asked. “A tent?”

The man scoffed. “No. But you’re welcome to cozy up in the abandoned lifeguard tower—it’s only about a quarter mile walk down shore. I’ll even let you take a blanket and a flashlight.”

“I’m not leaving my rental. I booked this place weeks ago,” she said again.

“Don’t know what to tell you.”

Layla sighed. There was no way he was going to budge on this. Not until the manager showed up tomorrow to straighten things out.

“Okay, listen,” he said, finally dropping the cocky attitude. “There’s nothing we can do tonight. Why don’t we just get some sleep, figure this shit out in the morning. Deal?”

“No. No deal. You’re a total stranger. I’m not comfortable with—”

“Total stranger?” He dropped the pillow and tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “You don’t—”

She cut him off with a snap of her camera phone.

“Really?” he said, shaking his head. “I could sue you for that, you know.”

“It’s just insurance. If I don’t check in with my assistant tomorrow morning, she’ll know something’s up. She’ll log into my email, and then she’ll have all the evidence she needs. They have facial recognition technology. The police will come straight to your door.”

“Watch a lot of television, do you?” he asked, picking up his original pillow and snatching another from the pile on the bed. “Well let me put your mind at ease. You don’t need any insurance or evidence. I’ll take the couch. You can lock yourself in here all night if you want—just do me a favor and keep the screaming to a minimum. Some of us have work to do in the morning and need to get some sleep.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He came around from his side of the bed, stepping closer to her.

Layla’s throat tightened, her mouth going dry.

“I… I’m just not accustomed to finding strange, naked men in the bed of my beach cottage,” she said, trying to stand her ground despite his imposing presence. “So, sorry if my screaming affected your delicate eardrums.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a woman screaming,” he said, leaning in close. He smelled like leather and soap and something she couldn’t quite place, the spicy scent she’d detected when she first entered the room. In a scratchy whisper that made her thighs clench, he said, “But I prefer to make her scream in pleasure, again and again and again, after I’ve tasted every inch of her hot, wet—”

“Out. Now.” Layla’s voice was ragged and wobbly. She cleared her throat and stepped to the side, pointing at the doorway.

“Already on my way.”

He gathered up his pillows and stomped off into the living room, shutting the bedroom door behind him and cutting off her view of the most perfect, glorious ass she’d ever seen.

Layla looked at the picture on her phone, recognition finally dawning.

Holy hell.

Of course. Trick Harper. The infamous bad boy of punk rock. Double-platinum, Grammy-winning singer and songwriter. Legendary guitar player. Tabloid favorite. Hardcore party animal.

And straight-up, undisputed man-whore.