The Reality of You (8 page)

Except for a tic in
his cheek, Reese’s features remained stoic.

Now that my
irritation had been liberated, I couldn’t stop. “Beyond exhausted, I’m going
stir-crazy stuck in a room for three days! So yes, I’m drinking on my break.” I
lifted the bottle up and asked in a flat tone, “Do you have a problem with
that?”
 

His brows rose the
tiniest bit. “Useless crap?”

My lids lowered.
“Are you really going to go through those documents?”

He nodded. “Every
one.”

“Huh,” I said,
deflating. He appeared so somber that I believed he
would
ridiculously go through each chart and document.

“My company is
serious about promoting brands that can deliver.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I let
out a huff as I took in the very last slice of the sun over the water.

He cleared his
throat. “However, I could probably do without your reviews on the resort.”

“Sure you could,
because most of them will be on room service,” I said snottily.

“Or wreaking havoc,”
he said sardonically.

“Ha, ha,” I muttered
and scowled. “But yes, those reports will be useless.”

He shifted until he
sat closer, bringing his dark, delicious scent closer. “I offered to lighten
your workload. Appear pleasant about it, at least.”

“Thank you,” I
replied from a tight jaw, since I had a mountain of proofing to do and his
mouth inches from my ear had caused a surge of unwanted anticipation that such
a jerk shouldn’t produce.
 

“Perhaps you could
get done early and spend part of the last day at your leisure.”

“Leisure? What is
that?”

Beholding the last
of the sunset, he took a slow sip of wine. “On the other hand, maybe I do need
those reports.”

“Oh, no,” I said, standing.
“The offer was given and I accept.” I brushed the sand off my capris and
grabbed my bottle. As he stood too, I smirked at him shrewdly. “Guess I need to
get back to work.” I saluted him with a flat hand to my forehead. “Have a
wonderful night, Captain.” And then I took off, ignoring his low-lidded look
and hot, hazel eyes and hot face and hot, hot body encased in casual finery.

Hot, hot package
around a huge, huge asshole.

Chapter 9

Longing
for a day of freedom, I took Reese’s offer seriously, and although a full night
of sleep continued to elude me, after one full day of proofing and fixing, I
had an entire half day to myself. A day I refused to spend at the resort. A day
I planned to enjoy work- and boss-free. After sending Reese a billion charts
and documents via email and wolfing down a shrimp quesadilla from room service
for lunch, I packed a bag, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and took off toward
the nearest town, which surprisingly, according to my phone, was only a mile
away. Being on the resort for almost a week left me feeling like we were in the
farthest corner of the world.

I looked like an
idiot with a slender and long designer bag on my shoulder—a backpack had been
prohibited since Jules had known that I would carry that before a
briefcase—while I jogged down the narrow lane that led to the resort. I popped
out into the edge of civilization—a rundown civilization. The stucco walls of
the homes needed paint. The yards needed upkeep, as overgrown bushes and long
grass were prevalent. And many shutters were loose and hanging on angles. But
the neighborhood had an island quaintness to it. The houses were painted in
various once-bright colors. Most had awnings over the windows and porches.
Plus, palm trees and tropical plants lined the street.

As I jogged in
closer to the city and shoreline, the houses turned into condominiums and huge
apartment buildings. The streets grew narrower and a bit dirty. After crossing
several main thoroughfares, I came to the ocean and jogged along a winding park
that followed the shoreline until I approached a wide-open area of grass and
palm trees that led to the beach and ocean.

It felt revitalizing
to be running under the sun in balmy eighty-degree weather given that it was
winter in New York. After bending over and catching my breath, I dug in my bag,
plucked out a water bottle, and began to walk. Though I was headed toward the
beach, the sight of a soccer game in process had me wandering over to the back
of the park.

Amid overflowing
trash bins and patchy grass, a group of kids from about preteen to college age
were playing a fierce game. Some of the players weren’t too bad, and
surprisingly, a few were good. I wasn’t surprised when the ball flew then
dribbled toward me in view of the fact that I was standing
on
the sideline. Without thinking, I did a back heel, stepping over
the ball and poking it back onto the field with my heel.

Most of the players
paused, staring at me like I was a freak.

Finally, someone
scooped up the ball. Instead of continuing to play, he jogged over to me and
said something that had the tone of a question, but the words were in another
language.

“Um…I don’t know
Spanish,” I said.

He smiled. “Want to
join the game?” He spoke clear English, almost accent-free.
 

At first, I blinked
at him. It wasn’t the perfect English. Other than messing around in my parents’
backyard or kicking around a ball by myself at the gym, I hadn’t played in a
game since the accident. I’d been scared that, after all of my injuries, I
would suck at the game I loved. It was a fear that sometimes crept up on me at
the strangest times. I’d be doing laundry and it would suddenly hit me that I’d
never be on a team again. Or I’d be brushing my teeth when a well-known play
would materialize in my head before I realized that part of my life was
probably over. But I had just hit the ball unconsciously, and it had felt
so
good, so natural.

The guy in a
grass-smeared tank top waited with a confused expression. “I’m Armando. You
speak English, right?” he asked even though I’d replied to him in said
language.

I squashed the knot
of anxiety tightening in my chest. I internally repeated what the therapist my
mother had forced me to go to had said.
You
don’t have to be awesome at the game to enjoy it.

“Sure. I’d love to
play,” I replied. “Name’s Naomi.”

He beamed at me.
“Great. We were short one player, and after that kick, I’m fairly sure you can
play.” He pointed to a pile of stuff—shirts, bags, water bottles—on the other
side of the field. “You can put your bag there. No one will touch it.”

While we walked
across the field, he pointed out the teams. People in white or bare-chested
comprised his team. All other colors were the other team. I wore a light, pink
T-shirt paired with black running shorts. Close enough to white, I supposed.
Armando informed me that they were playing the 4-2-4 formation and offered me
one of the forward positions. Geez, that back heel kick must have wowed him.
I’d decided to play, and when it came to soccer, I was all about challenges, so
I accepted the position with a nod. I’d played it all through college.

After I dumped my
bag, the game commenced. I started slow, mostly watching, getting a feel for
the tempo and my teammates. The tempo was fast and my teammates were good.
Nothing that matched my college team, but pretty damn good for playing in a
park on a Saturday afternoon.

Within minutes,
Armando passed me the ball, and I moved it quickly down the field. Some huge
guy—as in tall, wide, and muscular—flew on me like Paolo Maldini—my vote for
greatest defensive player of all time—in the height of his career. Unlike
Maldini, this guy was an asshole, sneering and roughhousing me. After he nearly
tripped me, he stole the ball.

I stood there fuming
and staring at his back.
 

Oh, game on.

Asshole was going
down.

It took me the total
of five seconds to steal the ball back. I raced down the field, moving around
other players before he could catch up and slammed the ball into the net with a
perfectly angled drive. Asshole Maldini glared at me. Armando and several of my
teammates high-fived me.

As we played over
the next hour, both the game and I got more aggressive. I had fun with it,
adding some flair with tricks and pointing at A. Maldini or the net each time I
scored, which totaled four times. Maybe someone with my experience playing with
these guys wasn’t fair, but hey, steal the ball from me and my competitive
streak came out. Plus, at least I didn’t point at my nemesis with my middle
finger. Can’t say I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t a total idiot.

When we were up six
to two, they called it quits. Strolling off the field toward our stuff, Armando
informed me that they’d be playing tomorrow afternoon too. His hopeful look had
me smiling. Yeah, I still rocked, and yeah, the confirmation of it had me
feeling beyond awesome. Regrettably, I had to tell him that I was flying home
tomorrow. You’d think I had delivered the worst news ever from his deep frown.
He forced a smile and told me that many of the players would be meeting up at a
local eatery a few blocks south, if I wanted to come. I nodded and grabbed my
bag, still planning on heading to the beach.

I was on cloud
fifteen million after playing so well but was hurled down from the fluffy,
floating patch at the sight of the person sitting on a bench that overlooked
the field. I wanted to veer around the field and pretend that I didn’t see him.
Beyond rude, that seemed rather cowardly. Thus, I beelined right toward him.

He unwrapped his arm
from the back of the bench and stood up as I came near.

“I’m impressed,”
Reese said, studying me intently. “You’re better than I would have ever
envisioned.”

Though he looked
amazing as usual in a fitted sleeveless tee and running shorts, I wasn’t
interested in impressing him, and that compliment had been so backhanded after
coming from the high that I could still play that I wanted to backhand him. And
besides that, I’d done my job for him. I’d done it well. I was done trying to
please him.

Crossing my arms, I
asked, “What are you doing here?”

He crossed his arms
too. Biceps tightened and bunched. “The front desk sent me a message that you’d
gone out jogging.”

“Huh? Why would they
do that,
and
why would you come
searching for me?”

“Puerto Rico isn’t
exactly safe.”

I reared back.
Though a bit of a bitch on the beach a couple of days ago, I had kept myself
somewhat in check, but this? This proved beyond what I could take.

“Are you kidding
me?” I blurted. “Why isn’t it safe? Because of the poverty? Poor people equate
to danger? Or is that Puerto Ricans are criminals or something in your
distorted world?”

His expression
turned hard. “I had no idea about the danger here or any preconceived notions,”
he said through clenched teeth. His lids lowered. The full line of his mouth
thinned. “According to the bellhop, crime is on the rise here due to drug
trafficking and the recession. They tell people not to leave the resort alone,
stay in pairs, and be careful. Thus, because the locals were claiming danger, I
decided to come and find you.”

“Pfff,” I sounded,
rolling my eyes. Jules’s designer bag, which I was sure had cost a small
fortune, with my wallet inside had sat for over an hour on the sidelines and no
one had touched it. “Normal hoity-toity resort warnings.”

“Your gratitude at
my coming in the middle of the day is overwhelming,” he said sarcastically.
“But nevertheless, we should return to the resort.” He gestured to the path
that led out of the park with one arm.

I waved a hand. “Go
ahead.” Walking past him, I said over my shoulder, “I’m not scared, and if
someone does steal my eighty-three dollars, I’ll survive.” Jules’s bag might be
another story. She might destroy me with her bitching, but whatever.

Within four steps,
he walked next to me. “And what about your safety?”

Resisting another
eye roll, I said, “I’ve been fine all day.”

“Supposedly, pretty,
young Americans can be targets.”

I almost stopped in
my tracks yet somehow kept walking. Had he called me pretty? And was that a
warm feeling floating through my body? No, it had to be the scorching sun
beating down on me mixed with the exertion of playing. I’d become immune to all
things Reese.

“Seriously, I’ll be
fine,” I said without looking at him as I stepped onto the sand. The beach near
the water was congested with sunbathers. Seeing as I wasn’t getting anywhere
near the shark-infested salt water, I set down my bag and tugged out a towel.
“And I’m confident that you have lots of reading to do, so
you
should get back to the resort.”

Ignoring him with
his arms crossed behind me, I laid out my towel then yanked off my shirt and
shorts. I was wearing a two-piece sport bathing suit. It wasn’t as if I’d
gotten all sexy, but Reese’s wide-eyed expression, which I noticed when I
glanced behind me, had me thinking that maybe the plain white halter top and
swim shorts were more revealing than I’d considered. Unlacing my shoes, I
contemplated his expression. Had his eyes actually looked that hotly at me?
After nervously pulling my book from my bag, I peeked again. His face appeared
the usual stoic. My imagination must have been overactive like always.

Determined to ignore
him, I lay on the towel and opened my book. A shadow fell over me.

“You can’t do this
at the resort?” Reese asked tightly from above.

I kept my stare on
the open page as my mouth twisted. “I’m not very popular at the resort.”

“Highly likely,”
Reese said coldly.

I turned over.

“Ms. Porter, at this
point, you’re being immature. I should leave you to your demise.”

Who the hell said
demise?

Flicking a page, I said,
“I believe that’s what I suggested.”

He let out a sigh,
kicking off his shoes. “My luck would have you getting kidnapped or murdered or
pelted with rotten vegetables,” he mumbled in a cranky tone as he sat next to
me in the sand.

I imagined that the
pelting would happen by vegans at the resort, but I kept my mouth shut and
turned a page, hoping that he was bluffing. Surely he wouldn’t stay to watch
over me.

He did. After a few
minutes, he crossed his ankles and leaned back in the sand on his palms, looking
totally delectable out of the corner of my eye. The words of my book swirled
before me. I kept turning pages, pretending to read. Reese slid on a pair of
sunglasses, making him more delectable. I flopped over and held the book in
front of my face, trying to block the sight of him. He took off his shirt, and
holy hell—delectable times infinity. The man was ripped, and the sun gleamed
off each hard curve. My fingers itched to trace the hard lines of his body,
feel the warmth of his skin, brush back the strands of dark hair brushing over
his forehead, wrap my legs—

Immune. Immune. Immune.

Dammit. I had wanted
a calm, Reese-free day.

Instead, I lay on a
beach while my hormones sizzled, and it had nothing to do with my smutty book.
Obviously my brain had already sizzled into a shriveled raisin under the
blistering sun, because how the hell could I still be attracted to this guy?