Attraction

“I guess because I don’t have much experience with boys, so I’m trying to figure something out.”

“What is it? Maybe I can help.” He nudged me with his elbow.

I shook my head, not ready to talk about it yet. “I’m not ready to discuss it. I need some time with my thoughts.”

His intelligent eyes flicked over me, his expression growing distant and impassive. At length he shrugged, grim-faced, and gave his attention wholly to the road. We didn’t speak again until we arrived at the house.

And by house I mean not a house at all. It was a behemoth.

Once inside I marveled at the opulence. The giant foyer steps were a blue marble, resembling turquoise, with inlay brass. A grandiose and gracefully curving staircase dominated the left side of the entrance, while a three-story single-paned window provided natural light and a breathtaking view of the ocean beyond. In the center of the space was a wide fountain with a surprisingly tasteful sculpture of a mermaid blowing water out of a conch shell.

Everything was overly detailed. The wooden carvings on the staircase had carvings. The brass inlay danced beautiful oceanic patterns over the floor. Glorious mosaics of blue and copper decorated the fountain.

It was all too much. It didn’t feel like a house, it felt like the lobby for a huge, swanky hotel.

When I realized I was gaping, I snapped my mouth shut and glanced at Martin to see if he’d caught my oddball display of horrified amazement. He had. He was glaring at me. Again.

I was starting to wonder if I’d imagined his laugh back on the plane and if he were capable of anything other than heavily lidded severe stares. Don’t get me wrong, he still looked heavenly even when he was administering heavily lidded severe stares, but that was only if one wasn’t the recipient of said stare.

I was on the receiving end now, his focus on me, and he looked unhappy.

Therefore I gave him a buggy-eyed nose scrunch, followed by a full-on weird face—tongue out, eyes crossed, teeth bared like a rabbit—and then refocused on his features to see if it had made any effect.

It had. Now he was looking at me like I was a crackhead.

“Parker, what are you doing?”

“Making a funny face in an effort to make you stop staring at me like I murdered your beloved goldfish. What are you doing?”

I was pleased to see his eyes lighten with something like confused wonder, but before he could speak, the sound of voices entering the house pulled my attention back to the massive doors. I opened my mouth to announce where we were, but the words never came because Martin put his hand over my mouth—abruptly but gentlly—bringing my attention back to him.

He put a finger to his lips in the universal symbol for shhh then fit his hand in mine and pulled me around the fountain, down a hall, beyond the massive, three-story window overlooking the sea, through a large living room with a giant fireplace—fireplace? On a tropical Island? Rich people were crazy—and into a massive bedroom suite done all in sterile whites and shades of blue and sea-green.

He shut the solid teak door then backed me up against it, staring down at me, holding me in place with his eyes and the promise they held. My heart thudded painfully in my chest and I was drowning in his intense focus.

I opened my mouth again to say something, anything really, but it was lost because he was kissing me. The hot, urgent slickness of his tongue robbing me of my breath, his solid body against mine warming me beyond the humid stickiness of the tropics, permeating to my center.

We kissed and kissed then kissed some more. It wasn’t until he tore his mouth from mine that I realized I was holding fistfuls of his hair and was on my tiptoes.

His forehead met mine and he growled, a low sound laced with frustration, before he said, “You are too fucking cute.”

“You too.”

He exhaled a disbelieving breath, and swallowed. “I’m cute?”

“As a button.”

He chuckled, stealing another kiss. “I wish we were here alone. I wish…God, I just want you to myself.”

A prickle of unease made the short hairs of my neck stand at attention. On one hand, it was a lovely thing for him to say. On the other hand, he’d just figuratively urinated a circle around me in his blatant display of caveman possessiveness. Maybe I was overreacting, but I had no baseline for comparison. This was all very, very new territory for me.

I needed time to think, away from his lips and mesmerizing looks.

Luckily, I was pretty certain this place had some nice closets.

***

“He’s the alpha male.” Sam said this from my bed where she lay with her arms and legs spread out. I was next to her, my arms and legs also spread.

We weren’t touching. The bed should have had its own zip code.

After my lovely kisses with Martin, he informed me that the gargantuan and beautiful suite was mine. The voices of our co-travelers grew louder, closer, and so he told me to stay put. He explained people would be bringing in my luggage as well as food. Then he left.

People did arrive with my bags. Again, random people seemed to appear out of thin air—an older man in a suit directed a younger man where to place my things. Then a woman about ten years older than me showed up with a tray of decadent food, sparkling mineral water, and asked if she could draw me a bath or arrange for a massage.

I politely refused both, but insisted on introducing myself to these apparitions. Ultimately I had to press them for names because at first they offered me only titles.

The older man was the staff director - Mr. Thompson.

The younger man was one of the groundskeepers - Peter.

The woman was the house manager - Mrs. Greenstone.

I tried to modulate my tone to offhanded and nonchalant as I asked how many other staff members were present at the house. After Mr. Thompson listed the cook, cook’s aide, three other groundskeepers, and two maids, I stopped counting. The house staff outnumbered the guests.

Sam found me just as Mr. Thompson was taking his leave.

That’s right, taking his leave…like some grand butler from regency England. I’d entered the bizzaro world of the obscenely rich where baths were drawn and leave was taken.

Now Sam and I were munching on the tray of food and staring at the vaulted ceiling. An immense, beautiful skylight showed me the late afternoon sky was a cloudless blue.

Sam continued voicing her theory while munching on grapes. “You know, like a pack of wolves. He’s their alpha.”

I grimaced and twisted my lips to the side to hide my expression, not that she was looking at me.

“That’s silly,” I said.

“No, it’s totally not. They all…well…they all basically worship him, I think. Eric said that eight seat, Martin’s position, is arguably the most important seat in the boat. He sets the rhythm for the rest of the boat, pushes them. Even Lee, who freaking steers the boat, follows his lead. They do what are called ‘power tens’ during practices and races. It’s where they all row as hard as they can for ten strokes—well, Martin decides when and for how long. He’s only a sophomore and he has the most coveted spot on the team, and he’s team captain. The rest of the guys are juniors and seniors.”

“Maybe it’s because he’s from such a fancy family,” I said flippantly, because Sam was starting to make it sound like this stuff mattered. Granted, she was a competitive athlete, therefore I could forgive some of her wide-eyed expression and excitement in her voice.

Whereas I’d never understood sports and team dynamics. I’d tried playing soccer once; everyone was so serious about it. I kept thinking how silly it was to run around a grassy field, kick a ball into a net, and think of it as an accomplishment.

Finishing War and Peace, now that was an accomplishment.

“No, I asked Eric how Martin got his seat,” Sam said, turning to face me, her elbow and hand propping up her head. “He said Martin has the best erg time—it has to do the rowing machine they use, the ergometer or whatever it’s called—and that he has the best form by far. Honestly, it’s like Eric is brainwashed or has a crush on him or something. They talk about him like he invented the sport.”

I shrugged, but my mind was caught on the “pack of wolves” metaphor, Martin as an alpha to a pack of hard-bodied rowers. It might explain why every time he spoke it sounded like a demand. As well, it explained the pack mentality in the limo and on the boat. He was younger than they were. I wondered if all his dazzling wealth had anything to do with why he was able to command their respect so completely.

I could feel Sam’s eyes on me. I kept my attention focused on the sky.

After a while she said, “You are beautiful, you know.”

My eyes jumped to hers and I automatically frowned, her earnestly spoken words catching me off guard.

“What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”

She gave me a little smile then pushed on my shoulder. “You, being beautiful. You are beautiful. You don’t focus on your looks or even seem to care about them, but you’re really quite spectacular to look at.”

I turned my head completely toward her and folded my hands on my stomach. “And you think this is why Martin is suddenly whisking me and my foul-mouthed friend off to private beaches? Because he thinks I’m beautiful?”

“It’s definitely part of it. The boy has eyes and urges.”