“I’m in business. Why?” The look he gave her was wary.
“Are you doing business here?”
“No. I’m just here enjoying a little R&R.”
“With your assistants?”
“My assistants could probably use a little R&R, too.”
She tugged at her dress, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Rob, I don’t want you to think that I’m dating you for your money . . .” Her words trailed off as he threw his head back and laughed, and she felt a twinge of annoyance. “What’s so funny about that?”
“You,” he said, looking over at her with such a broad smile that she felt weak in the knees. “Sweetheart, I know you’re not dating me because of that.”
“Not your sweetheart,” she reminded him.
“Not yet,” he agreed cheerfully. “But the night is young.”
***
The rest of the night, Marjorie decided, was downright magical. They headed off the island again, which surprised her, but Rob said he wanted the privacy. So they took another chartered boat and headed over to a nearby resort for ice cream. They got cones, two spoons, and sat at a tiny table in the back of the cafe and talked, sharing occasional bites out of each other’s ice cream. And they talked for hours and hours, which surprised Marjorie. She’d thought that they’d sit down and find they had nothing in common . . . and while there were plenty of differences, there were also a lot of similarities. Rob was an only child, like her. Rob grew up without parents around, like her. However, though she’d been raised by loving grandparents, Rob had spent his childhood in a state home. They both shared an intense sweet tooth, a like of Johnny Cash’s music, and dogs instead of cats.
More than common interests, though, Marjorie found Rob fascinating. She loved to hear him talk and tell stories of growing up, of famous people he’d met, of the run-in he’d had when he was in the Army with a drill sergeant that had screamed at all the men so much that they’d played pranks on him all through basic training. And she found herself opening up about her own past, her friends, her dreams. She even told him about the not-to-be-believed job that Brontë had offered her, and they’d celebrated with a shared root beer float. She’d reached for the straw and gotten whipped cream on her fingertips, and Rob had grabbed her hand and licked it clean, which made her feel giddy and needy all at once.
And when the date was nearing its end and they could eat no more ice cream, Marjorie grabbed Rob’s hand. “Why don’t we go down to the beach and enjoy the nighttime surf?”
Rob—brash, confident Rob—visibly shuddered. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d be happy never seeing another beach again.”
“What? Why?”
“You know why,” he said with a grin. “Some classy girl had to come and save me before I got pulled out to sea. I’d prefer not to have that happen again.”
“I bet it wouldn’t.”
“I wouldn’t take that bet.”
She shook her head. “Then why remain at a resort on an island?”
“I found something here that made me want to stick around,” Rob told her. And his hand moved over her own, and he rubbed his thumb on the back of her knuckles.
And Marjorie found herself blushing all over again.
They went back to the resort, fingers locked together, and Rob walked Marjorie back to her room since it was late. They stood at her doorway, talking in soft voices, and when Marjorie reluctantly told Rob she had early plans in the morning, they got to the goodnight kiss. Rob’s hands went behind her neck and he pulled her against him, and they kissed for what seemed like forever, and when they parted, her breasts were pressed against his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck, and she was flushed and out of breath.
“’Night, sweetheart,” he told her in a husky voice.
“Not your sweetheart,” she said automatically.
“Not yet,” he agreed. They kissed one more time, and then he left her for the evening, and she went back to her room, flopped down on the bed, and touched her fingertips to her mouth.
They’d only kissed. Rob had been a perfect gentleman.
Why was that so thrilling and so disappointing all at once? Why did she want so much more? Wasn’t she waiting for love? Not lust? She’d waited this long, what was a few dates more, right?
But . . . she kind of wanted to see if Rob was interested in experiencing other bases with her. Hugging her pillow against her front, Marjorie thought about their next date.
She wanted more than just a kiss. Now . . . how to get it?
Chapter Fifteen
As he left Marjorie at her doorstep, Rob adjusted his aching cock and headed into the elevator, toward his new room under the name Ron Glasscock. His time with Marjorie had been a pleasant idyll tinged with aching every time she laughed or licked her lips, or brushed up against him, because he wanted her with an intensity that was driving him mad.
But he had to play it carefully, because she was a virgin. He didn’t want to scare her away. He’d go slow, even if it killed him.
By the time he got back to his room, his cock was aching even more. Time for his nightly jerk-off session to Marjorie. But first, a call.
One of his assistants picked up. Smith. “Yes, sir?”
“The Tits crew. They’re filming here, right?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“One of them approached Marjorie. My Marjorie.”
“I take it she wasn’t flattered, sir?”
“No. Absolutely fucking not. She was devastated. You tell those jackasses that if they come near her again, I will fucking ram their cameras down their goddamn throats, understand?”
“Understood, sir,” Smith’s voice was cool. “Whom shall I describe for them to avoid?”
“She’s fucking six feet tall, Smith. Tell them to avoid any girls that are taller than them. Christ!” He terminated the call, and when that didn’t feel like it had enough oomph, he went to the room phone and slammed it in the cradle, over and over again.
His own fucking crew. His own goddamn crew made the woman he liked feel like she was attacked. Jesus fucking Christ.
How was he ever going to tell her what he did for a living?
Rob groaned and rubbed his face, his erection gone.
***
“How do I get a guy to notice me?” Marjorie asked at the bridesmaids’ breakfast four days later, her fork toying with her scrambled eggs. The long table in the private dining hall was filled with Brontë’s bridesmaids . . . well, minus Angie, who’d found a new guy while hanging out at the resort and was spending all her time with him instead of the bridal party. In her seat sat Violet DeWitt, who was dating one of the groomsmen and was becoming a close friend of Brontë’s.
All the women turned and stared at Marjorie as she spoke, and the table got quiet. Inwardly, she quailed, but she forced herself to repeat the question. “I want a guy to really, really notice me. How do I swing that?”
“Boobs,” Gretchen said between mouthfuls of fruit. “Guys love boobs.”
Audrey rolled her eyes and pulled off a corner of her dry toast. “You’ll have to forgive my sister, Marj. She doesn’t believe in things like ‘politeness’ or ‘filters.’”
“Sure I do,” Gretchen said. “But I believe in honesty more.” She pointed her fork at Marjorie. “Boobs. Trust me.”
“Or legs,” Violet called across the table. “Some men like legs, and I bet yours does, Marjorie.”
“You’re not helping,” Audrey said, but a smile dimpled her round face.
“A good blow job,” Maylee chimed in.
They all turned and stared at the angelic-looking blonde.
“What?” she asked, an impish smile on her face. “Don’t tell me y’all don’t do that kind of thing in the north?”
“I’m suddenly looking at stuffy Griffin in a whole new light,” Gretchen said.