His Plus One by Kate Aster
Chapter 8
- GRAYDON -
Morning number two.
As I think it, there’s a part of me that dreads morning number three.
That first morning I’d awakened in this suite had been easy. Hailey had been slightly drunk the prior night after the Sail Away party, and it’s impossible for me to want to make a move on a woman in that state.
So I slept like a baby after she’d conked out, still fully clothed, on her bed. It was all I could do to get her to take her contacts out first.
But last night as she went to bed stone sober, I couldn’t wipe the memory of the feel of her lips against mine during a kiss that turned a lot hotter than I’d intended.
I wanted to make a move. I really did.
That’s… not good. And if my interest in her continues accelerating at this rate, morning number three will be borderline painful.
She’s my co-worker. A resource that I’ll need to tap in the future, and I need to keep my focus when I’m around her.
Hell with that. She’s also my friend—a person who has never expressed an interest in dating a SEAL and enduring all the turmoil that comes with it.
She’s here as a favor to me. I’m sure as hell not going to repay the favor by making a move and then turning these remaining five nights into something that could be awkward as hell.
Fact is, she goes for brainy men. Guys like Stephen who can talk about… I don’t know… whatever the hell computer geniuses talk about in their free time. It annoys me just thinking about it.
I suppose I’ve been kind of spoiled when it comes to women. I’m a fit guy—have to be in my line of work—and it doesn’t hurt that I’m in uniform most of the time. Most women, if they’re single, tend to be interested in something more than friendship from me.
But with Hailey, I don’t get that vibe.
That annoys the hell out of me right now. I’m smart, but not Hailey-smart. Intelligent and forward-thinking as she is, she probably looks at me and thinks we’d make less-than-genius kids. While if she snagged a guy like that Stephen twerp, their kids would probably rule the world.
Resolute, I frown, tapping on Hailey’s door. “You ready yet?”
I had been looking forward to this moment since I first stepped onto the ship. With three days to explore Bermuda, I might actually get a break from my family, which are, as some wise person once coined, like fish in your refrigerator. Fine for a couple days, but after that, it’s time to move on.
And after last night, being cornered into kissing Hailey by Max who—for the record—was just as much of a pain-in-the-ass back when she was ten years old, I’m in dire need for some time off from family.
“Almost,” Hailey answers, and I hate the way her voice sounds to me this morning. Familiar, and yet tempting at the same time.
Get ahold of yourself.
She’s here only because she wants a few selfies. Not because she wants me.
Even though her kiss last night suggested otherwise. I mean, seriously, just knowing that brainiacs kiss like that makes me want to stop meeting women at the gym and start crashing Mensa meetings. I wonder if they card at the door.
“If you’d rather do one of those city tours or history tours or something… we could get your selfies doing that instead. I know you said you’re not a beach type of girl.” I hate saying it, hating that the only thing I really am to her is an opportunity to get back at her shitty ex-boyfriend.
Because when she kissed me last night—when I kissed her—all I could think at that moment is that my brothers were right when they said I’ve been dating the wrong kind of women these days.
Hailey may not ever spend her free time training for some damn triathlon with me. But we have plenty in common. We’re both committed. Competitive. Loyal. Funny. Scary-smart.
Wait—scratch that last one. Because my brain isn’t playing in the same league as hers.
Yet there’s enough we share in common to make me want to say to her, “Hey, you know that free dinner we won for tonight? How about making it a real date?”
But, ethically, I can’t.
Because there’s a pretty good chance she wouldn’t want to. And then she’d be uncomfortable for the rest of her trip—stuck on a ship sharing a suite with a guy who is, right now, getting a quarter-chub just wondering what she’ll look like when she steps outside of her bedroom door this morning.
God, what am I? Twelve?
“No way,” she answers, opening the door, wearing a bathing suit that looks a little like those 1940s pin-up models used to wear—the kind you see in old war movies that guys like me watch when no one is looking. “I’m here to have fun. To do all the things I don’t normally do.”
“You mean, for selfies?”
She shakes her head. “Not just that.”
Crossing my arms, I give her a long-suffering sigh. “All right. That does it. Are you ever going to tell me what this is really about?”
She stares at me blankly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re just not the type of person who would go to all this trouble just to get back at some loser ex.”
The slight smile on her face hints of relief. “I’m glad you know that.”
“So what is it?”
She frowns. “It was something he said when he dumped me. That he had money now, and he wanted to have fun with it. And that… I’m no fun.”
I feel almost grateful to hear it. Strange. It’s like every time I hear she’s less likely to ever go back to him, my relief ratchets upward. “He’s a titwad. Don’t listen to him.”
“I know. But it bothered me because he’s right. I was always so serious in school—working at the same time I was a student from sixteen years old and on. I didn’t do all those stupid, crazy things that everyone else seems to do. Then when Stephen and I got engaged, I was just working hard to pay the bills.”
“Kind of necessary since he wasn’t chipping in.”
“Yeah. Necessary. But no fun. That’s what bothers me most. I mean, my mom died from cancer when she was just thirty-four. That’s practically around the corner for me.”
I sit on my bed with her, wishing that it looked more like a sofa than it does in its current state. “First off, eight years is hardly around the corner. At least I hope not. Because I’d like to have a SEAL command by then, and I have a lot more work to do first. And secondly, just because your mom died of cancer so young doesn’t mean the same will happen to you.” My heart breaks for her as I say it, thinking of her learning the lessons of mortality at the same age my brothers and I were flicking boogers at each other.
“I know. But if anyone knows how fleeting life is, it should be me, right? Don’t get me wrong—I’m loving all the selfies I’ve got on my Facebook page now. And I think Stephen’s the only one who hasn’t given any of them a like.”
Her giggle as she says it is just a little sinister, as though she’s enjoying that thought way too much. It makes me grin, seeing all these new sides of her I never see at work.
“But really,” she continues, “I just want to do all the fun things I feel like I should have been doing all along.”
It makes sense to me, on more levels than one. I’ve done my own share of letting loose when I was in my early twenties. Maybe not quite as much as my brothers just because I had to learn something from witnessing their hangovers. But I certainly had a hell of a lot more fun than what she seemed to have.
“Well, let’s get moving then.” I struggle to stay focused on getting us out the door because I’m hoping being in the public eye will help me keep my body and my intentions in check.
She looks way too cute—too real and accessible—in that bathing suit.
I reach for one of the swim coverups she hung in the closet. “And you better cover all that up if you want to keep this platonic,” I add, using the same words she threw at me yesterday.
I grab our beach bag and head out the door with her.
When we step off the ship, we’re greeted by a few people trying to sell us tours—one in a lobster costume, another in historical garb, as well as one gorilla pushing his snorkeling tours even though I’m not quite seeing the connection between a gorilla and snorkeling.
We follow the signs to the taxi line, where cars are lined up neatly and every driver seems to know exactly where we’re headed before we even say the words.
“Horseshoe Bay, please,” I say anyway when we climb into his car and sit back to enjoy the winding, scenic road the driver takes.
When we arrive at the beach, the ocean stretches out in front of us, its undulating waves brushing up against a broad swath of pink sand.
“It really is pink,” Hailey breathes out as I spread out our towels at the furthest point of the beach’s crescent, where there are the fewest tourists.
“Were you expecting otherwise?”
“Well, yeah. I figured it would be a disappointment. You know, photographers always use filters and stuff. But this is definitely pink.”
I watch her as she stretches out on a towel with dark sunglasses that hide eyes that I took too long to notice are blue.
While she soaks up the sun’s rays, I head into the water and scope out the best spots to view the fish. After a bit, I coerce her into joining me beneath the waves.
I hold her hand as we swim—strictly a safety precaution because I’m a much better swimmer than she is. And I enjoy it too much, feeling us joined together in this way as her face lights up every time she spots another brightly colored fish.
I love watching her like this, doing something she’s clearly never done before.
And I can’t help wishing I could be one of those new experiences she enjoys on this trip.
I want to date her.
No more of this quid pro quo bullshit.
I don’t want to just be a selfie opportunity—and I don’t want her to be nothing more than a way to escape the rabid matchmakers in my family.
After we’ve had our fill of the ocean, we walk to the beachside bar to grab a couple sandwiches, a beer for me, and a margarita for her. She sits close to me on the bench, so close that our skin touches, and I love the way it feels. I glance at her, the pinkish, oval dent around her eyes from her too-tight snorkel mask reminding me somehow of the glasses she usually wears—a distraction from those eyes.
“Why did you get into computers?” I ask, having a hard time reconciling the person I always thought her to be with the woman I see her as now.
“Oh, they were my babysitter. Dad bought me my first notebook computer when I was about three years old, I think.”
“Three? Seriously?”
“Yeah. My mom, she was really sick then. And he spent a lot of time with her. Dealing with the side effects of chemo and radiation. But he knew that when I was sitting in front of my little notebook computer playing my preschool games, I was safe. Nothing could pull me away from it. I wasn’t turning on the stove or eating dish detergent, you know?” She laughs, then takes a long sip of her margarita. She licks her lips afterward, but a few grains of sea salt cling to the side of her mouth.
I’d love to kiss them away, aching to taste her again like I did last night. But I hold back, brushing them away with my fingertip instead.
“Why did you want to be a SEAL?” she asks.
“My dad was a government contractor. So we always lived near military bases. Moved a lot, up until my brothers hit middle school and it started hurting their grades. Anyway, one time when I was about six, there was some community thing that Joint Forces had—you know, where the military sort of shows off their stuff. I remember there was an Army Drill Team there and a speaker from the Marines, and a couple helos we got to check out. And there was this Navy SEAL—young guy, a lieutenant like I am now—talking about being a SEAL. I was in awe. I wanted to be him.” I smile at the image in my head.
“And now you’re the lieutenant. And a SEAL. You’re him.”
I chuckle. “No. I’m definitely not him. He’s an Admiral now.”
She squints her eyes, curious. “Which one?”
“Admiral Shey.”
“Admiral Shey?” she laughs.
Considering she’s got TS clearance, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that she recognizes his name. The man is a bit of a living legend.
“None other.”
She gives an appreciative nod. “Well, you had a talent for picking a good role model at the young age of six.”
I chug some more of my beer, enjoying the taste of it a lot more with sand between my toes.
Cocking her head suddenly, she looks thoughtful. “Are you staying in the military until twenty years?”
I give my head a quick shake. “Thirty or longer if they’ll keep promoting me.”
Eyes widening, her face elongates. “Aiming to be an admiral?”
“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone that though. I don’t want my brothers looking at me with sympathy when the Navy dead-ends me at Captain.”
“Oh, I think your brothers could picture you as an Admiral. They think you’re the most likely Adler to get a Medal of Honor.”
My chin jerks inward toward my chest. “What?”
“They think you’re the most likely Adler to get the Medal of Honor,” she repeats.
“Let me guess. They told you this when they were half-drunk at the welcome dinner?”
“No. Max told me that first night of our cruise. She says that’s what they’re always saying. You’re the one who’s quickest to jump into the action. They’re just hoping you don’t get yourself killed doing it.”
My face screws up, just trying to imagine any one of my three brothers saying something like that. Nope, just can’t do it.
“Max must have been half-drunk then, when she said it.”
“No. She seemed sober as a judge. Have you noticed that she never drinks when she’s handling her camera? It’s like it’s her precious baby.”
I chuckle. “It is her precious baby.”
Even as our conversation weaves around new topics—from Max and her camera to Freya to how the hell any woman would ever want to marry into our family in the first place—I can’t stop thinking about what Hailey said.
My brothers said I’m most likely to get a Medal of Honor? It’s hard to believe when I’ve always thought they all still think I’m that eight-year-old they used to pin down while they’d dangle loogies in front of my face.