Page 167 of Better When Shared
“Nice one,” she said, completely deadpan. “Seriously though, he’s movie-star handsome. Handsome enough that I know you need to be warned. We all know you get horny around pretty people. Also, mildly attractive people, now that I think about it.”
She hauled out a few tubs full of gear, and I lifted them into the back of my truck. One held wetsuits; the others were Skylar’s pet preparedness project, fully stocked with a first aid kit, snacks, and extras like sunscreen, towels, beach blankets, and flip-flops. Someone always forgot or broke something.
“Is it possible that as a pansexual person, I have a wider range in what I find attractive?” I asked as I lifted the first crate up into the truck bed. “Wait, how do you know what he looks like? You hacking hotel databases again?”
“Of course not.” Brushing off her hands, she walked over to the deck and plopped down in the porch swing, picking up her laptop as she abandoned me with the rest of the manual labor. “I typed his name into a search engine, and he popped right up. He’s stupid rich and lives on an estate in the English countryside. It looks straight out of a Jane Austen movie. He paid for the entire week up front.” She glanced up with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And get this: his name is Hamish.”
“Hamish,” I repeated, laughing. “Well, I guess we won’t have to worry about me fucking him, because that’s a very unsexy name.”
“So posh and British,” she agreed. “I bet he calls people ‘old chap’.”
“Blimey, this is rather spiffy, innit, old chap? Shall we take a jaunt ‘round the harbor for tea and crumpets?” I dropped out of my bad British accent, tilting my head. “What are crumpets, anyway?”
“Oi, bloody hell, bloke, you don’t know what crumpets are? Or perhaps you’re having one over on me, you cheeky tosser.” Skylar joined in, her accent even worse than mine. “Fancy a spot of surfing before the queen’s coronation? Pip pip, cheerio!”
We went on like that for a while, until we were both wheezing with laughter, proving once again that we were idiots.
Skylar snapped out of it when her phone beeped, and she frowned down at a text message. “Makai...” She looked up from her screen, eyebrows raised. “Did you park at the lower cannery lot yesterday like I asked you to?”
I busied myself checking straps on the roof rack. “Maybe.”
“Makai.”
“What? A beautiful British woman comes to visit me every time I park in my favorite spot in a public parking lot. Why would I change? It’s becoming the highlight of my week.”
“The wedding lady doesn’t come to visit you. She comes to yell at you!”
I grinned, remembering the sexy wedding planner, thinking about how her hazel eyes had flashed with annoyance, how her sexy accent had gotten more clipped as she lectured me about professional courtesy and proper parking etiquette. There was something about making uptight people lose their cool that I found deeply satisfying.
“The upper lot is a public lot, too. Just because there’s a new hotel next to it doesn’t mean it’s now private property.”
“The Cannery Hotel is sending us a ton of new clients. We need to maintain a good relationship with them.” She slowed her voice to sound like a kindergarten teacher’s. “If they like us, we make money.”
“So… You want her to like us? It sounds like you’re saying I should flirt with her?”
Skylar rolled her eyes so hard I worried she might strain something. “You’re such a child. Park in the other lot.”
“But what would be the fun in that?” I checked my watch. “She’s hot when she’s angry.”
“You think everyone’s hot.”
“Not true.” I considered this. “That guy who tried to pay us in homemade kombucha last week was not hot.”
“Low bar.” She closed her laptop and stretched, the swing swaying beneath her. “Everyone but that guy. But I guess she’s safe. With your commitment issues, you’d never date a local.”
“What? My taste for tourists is merely a coincidence.”
“Not buying it. Now go.” She shooed me off with her hands. “I have work to do on our new website. And don’t be late picking up Mr. Fancy Pants. His surf lesson is scheduled for nine. He requested a pick-up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I gave her a mock salute.
“Try not to traumatize the guy. According to his booking notes, he’s never surfed before.”
“I would never traumatize someone!” I said as I yanked open the door. She was still lecturing me even as I climbed into the truck. Typical Skylar. This was why she handled the logistical side of our business, and I handled the fun.
“Remember, Makai, your threshold for danger is different from most people’s.” She called after me as I climbed into the driver’s seat.
I turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, its familiar vibration settling into my bones and cutting out some ofSkylar’s nagging. Through the open window, I heard snippets of something about “professional boundaries” and “keeping it in your pants” as I backed out of the driveway.
