Lucas and Holden are not what I expect. And it’s clear from their terse handshakes and tight-lipped fake smiles that they aren’t expecting me at all.

Lucas barely looks at me, which allows me to stare brazenly at the black t-shirt not quite hidden by his suit jacket. An odd pairing, perhaps, but it certainly works for him. He runs his hand through his hair, as if to remove any of my germs transferred in our brief exchange. “This is unexpected, Mason.”

By this, I think he means me, and while there’s obviously something attractive about Lucas, I form an instant opinion of distaste. It’s easy to see how the three have remained friends—a cool, impersonal aura threads through them like antifreeze—but while Lucas and Holden are gorgeous in their own right, neither of them makes my stomach flutter with anticipation. I don’t long for them to smack my ass until I writhe under an orgasm that makes my knees go weak.

Still, it’s clear why they’ve earned their Playboy reputations.

Within a few minutes of entering the hotel lobby, several women have cast lustful glances their way—and daggers of jealousy at me.

“Staff are not generally permitted on this particular retreat,” Holden says, by way of explanation. The words are aimed at me, but he looks at Mason instead, his eyes reflecting a quiet challenge I suspect has been the foundation for a friendship marked with a constant battle of the wits. As much as they are the same, their differences begin to seep through. I catalogue them for future reference, pegging Lucas as a hothead and Holden the brooding macho man.

An explosive dynamic if not carefully managed.

Mason’s spine visibly stiffens. “Miss Landers is my new personal assistant, effective this morning. There wasn’t time to brief her before this trip, so I invited her to join us. She won’t be in the way.”

Them talking about me as if I’m not even in the room grates on my nerves, but more than that, I take heed of the underlying warning. It’s obvious I won’t be welcomed into the fold with open arms, which means I’ll have to work extra hard to prove my worth. Challenge accepted.

“For someone generally so careful in planning, this seems an unfortunate oversight,” Lucas says, with a hint of amusement. “A later start date might have been more prudent.”

Mason clears his throat, easing some of the tension that is almost as suffocating as the tropical heat. The edge of my skirt chafes against my skin, already sweaty under the harsh sunlight. Across the lobby, giant patio doors lead to a pool where muffled laughter cuts through the glass. Palm trees flank the deck, creating a postcard perfect image of Maui. Discreetly, I aim my phone in that direction and snap a picture. Renee will never believe I’m in Hawaii.

“We could stand here and debate this for a few hours, or we could get to work,” Mason says, voice curt.

“Everyone knows how you like to argue,” Holden says.

Their exchange pulls me out of my poolside fantasy. I lick my lips, brushing the salty sweat off my skin with my tongue.

“A little warning next time,” Lucas says, lobbing the final words in a verbal volley that has my stomach twisting with anxiety.

I straighten my back. “I assure you, I won’t be any trouble.” My voice lifts, and to my embarrassment, I turn into one of those gushing school girls, launching into an enthusiastic account of my admiration for the company, and how I am grateful—so very grateful—for the opportunity to learn from such successful entrepreneurs. And even as the words spill from my lips with increasing speed, I can’t stop talking. Gushing. Good Lord, I’m gushing.

Lucas’s lip curls into a sneer. “You’re quite ambitious for a personal assistant.”

The blow stings, but worse is that Mason doesn’t come to my defense. Why? Because my clit has quivered under his touch? God I’m pathetic. I shift to put weight on my other leg, and lift my chest to demonstrate a confidence I don’t quite feel. “Laziness has never been part of my DNA.”

Holden lifts and eyebrow, expression unreadable. “We certainly appreciate hard work.”

Rather than leap on the small opening he’s provided, I press my lips together and tuck the folders closer to my chest. I’ve still got work to do in preparation for tomorrow’s meetings, but after a tense flight, and an even more stressful introduction to Mason’s partners, I’m anxious to check into my room and sprawl out on the bed.

In the distance, the sand-swept beach pulses like a beacon, but this trip isn’t a vacation. Sunlight ripples off the white caps, providing further enticement, but I’ll be shocked if I manage to dip even one toe in that blissful ocean water.

“On that note, I should get to it,” I say, lifting the folders a little. To Mason I say, “You’ll excuse me while I make some phone calls?”

My sister will arrive at my empty apartment sometime this evening, and while I mailed her a key as a precaution when I first moved in, she’s expecting me home at some point. What a shock when she hears I’ll be stretched out on a King-sized bed in a five-star hotel tonight rather than crammed next to her on my old twin mattress.

I consider calling my mother as well—I haven’t even told her about the new position—but my throat clogs with emotion about how I’ll explain this job without her leaping to the wrong conclusions. Mom never used to fret. Never took the safe route or turned down an adventure. But then, Mom never used to do a lot of things before Dad left. She’s only a shell of the woman she used to be.

I’ve made a promise to myself that no man will ever have the power to destroy me the way my father hurt Mom. Maybe that’s why I regard Mason and his business partners with a feeling of fear that borders on panic.

“Your bags have been delivered to your room,” Mason says. He hands me a key card—lucky room number seven—and nods toward the long hall. “Once you’ve settled in, order room service. We’ll go over your work this evening after dinner.”

My heart sinks a little at the dismissal. Did I actually expect Mason to take me out for a meal? I quickly shake clear thoughts of a romantic candlelight dinner on the beach, or an ocean-side cruise. We’re not trapped in a Nicholas Sparks novel.

“Your expenses will be charged to the room,” Mason says, stiffly.

Lucas winks. “Within reason. Careful not to rack that bill up.”

My hackles rise at the assumption, but again, I don’t say anything. It’s clear Mason’s partners have no use for me. Which is fine. I’m not exactly psyched to hang out with them either, based on first impressions.

“Shall I order anything for you?” I say to Mason.

Holden tsks.

My cheeks burn with humiliation—the question sounded far more intimate than I intended, and it’s too late to take it back. Obviously I need to get better at setting professional boundaries.

“I’ll be joining my business partners for dinner,” Mason says, leaving no room for discussion. Not that I know what there is left to discuss. Any newfound confidence discovered on the flight to Maui has slowly begun to seep from my pores, leaving me with a sense of vulnerability and aching tension in my belly.

“I’ll ring you when I return,” Mason says. His eyes land on the stack of folders tucked to my chest. “We’ll discuss the rest of your notes then.”

Right. The notes.

Mason hasn’t given me one whiff of hope that this trip is anything more than a working retreat, and yet, I cling to the notion that he’ll change his mind. His earlier words echo back at me, reinforcing the very clear lines he’s drawn in the sand—yesterday’s indiscretion must never happen again. I get it.

I cast a longing glance at the pool, then another at Mason’s retreating form. The lightweight slacks mold to his butt and thighs, derailing my good intentions to keep my thoughts professional.

Okay fine. No touching. Mason has complete jurisdiction over that.

But he has no control my personal thoughts.

A lump forms in the base of my throat. For that matter, neither do I.