Broken Enagement Page 3

  She’s plenty sexy to begin with, she obviously takes good care of herself, and even her taste in jeans seems fucking solid—I mean, she looks really good walking away—but she’s got fiery fucking self-confidence to spare, and she knows how to keep up with me the way even Academy fucking Award-winning screenwriters cannot.

  And that, my friends, is sexier than even the shapeliest ass in the most form-fitting pair of designer jeans.

  Yes, based on our conversation, I can tell she’ll be the perfect vacation fling.

  Vacation flings have their own sort of baked-in perfection—once they’re over, they’re over, with all parties involved free from the risk of lingering, festering bullshit that comes with the territory from more serious relationships.

  As much as I appreciate the beauty of a vacation fling, I wasn’t sure if I’d find a single woman on this little jaunt to the Caribbean.

  Especially a woman so immensely fucking alluring and just purely fucking hot as this woman from the bar.

  Her appeal started to light me on fucking fire the moment I saw her, and her sassy, sexy wit and no-bullshit approach—even to a deadly sexy stud such as myself—have added countless alarms to that blaze, which are still ringing loudly as she disappears into the hotel.

  My phone vibrating in my left pocket brings my attention to that part of my body.

  And it makes me realize that my cock might be starting to act up already.

  Yeah, I’ll admit it. I’m just that impressed—but I’ll try to keep things under control for the time being.

  I rearrange myself discreetly while pulling out my phone.

  Looks like my room is ready, too. Nice of them to text me, I guess. I hope it’s still ready whenever the hell I end up going inside.

  I still have half a drink left, which makes me optimistic about this trip. A nice, healthy gulp leaves me feeling even better.

  This bartender makes a mean mojito, but where did he go? I might need another one of these soon.

  Oh well, I can’t stand up and look—I need a little “down time” before that. I look around, admiring the architecture, while willing my cock into submission.

  The bartender, John, lifts my glass and slides a coaster under it. “Would you like another, sir?”

  I’m about to instruct him to just keep ’em coming, but, all of a sudden, I felt weirdly antsy. I would rather get up and walk around now.

  “No, I’ll just finish this. I just got the text—my room is ready.” The fresh minty taste of my mojito seems to awaken all my senses. Leaning back in the comfortable barstool, I watch John work his way around the circular bar.

  This resort is incredible, and I can’t wait to check the beach out. It’s like they designed everything on a grand-enough scale that it would be impressive to every last motherfucker who walked through here, and then they made it larger—from the huge entry doors to the long, vast reception area.

  Even this bar must be twenty-five feet around, shaped into a huge oval. Liquor bottles are showcased on glass shelves behind it.

  There are random clusters of chairs grouped together on every side. It’s quieting down now, transitioning from the rush of sun-blanched tourists inhabiting the area just a few minutes ago.

  The wall behind the bar is all glass, utilizing the natural light and framing the ocean view.

  I savor the last couple of sips of my drink, before returning the cool, ice-filled glass to its coaster. Sliding a tip under the coaster, I wave to John.

  “See you a little later?”

  “For sure. I’ll be here until this bar closes at midnight.” He tosses his hand towel over his left shoulder; I can’t help chuckling at how he reminds me of all bartenders around the world.

  “Until then.” Throwing my duffel bag over my shoulder, I head to the reception desk.

  An older couple checking in are peppering the woman behind the front desk with questions.

  It takes five or maybe closer to ten minutes for her to patiently get through each question. I take the opportunity to admire the expansive layout and decor in this part of the resort. After they’re ushered away, with staff carrying their bags to their room, I step up to the front desk.

  “I’m here to check in—Aaron Michaelson.”

  At least half my career up until now has been spent being lectured by actors, directors, and studio heads about putting hotel and restaurant reservations under my own name. Apparently, I’m crazy for doing that and for not having assistants and other staff around to do everything for me wherever I go.

  “One moment, please.” She turns away to type busily on the computer.

  First of all, I’m only a producer, my face isn’t plastered fucking everywhere, and very few people would give a shit even if they did recognize me.

  “Excellent, Mr. Michaelson. We have your key waiting here.”

  This clerk maybe recognizes me, because she didn’t ask for an ID, but shit like that only makes life easier.

  “It’ll be a moment before I have someone available to take you up.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Do you guys have a map of the resort?”

  And as far as having a full-time assistant and all that other shit goes, I figure that if I stop doing everything for myself, I eventually won’t be able to do anything for myself.

  I can think of few bigger risks than that.

  Obviously having done this a million times, the clerk pulls a map out from a drawer in front of her and leans across with a pen putting an X where we are in the lobby.

  There are aromatic hints of peach and coconut as she leans over. I study her tanned features and dark hair.

  Nope. It’s not doing it for me.

  My mind travels back to the bar for a moment, to that conversation...

  This vacation’s turning out to be quite interesting, indeed.

  And quite fun, fucking certainly.

  My charm hasn’t failed me yet. When I run into the Woman from the Bar next, it’ll be time to really turn up the charm.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I give the clerk a wink and my classic half smirk as I straighten up and take the map.

  She smiles back appreciatively.

  So, it’s not me. From the way the Woman at the Bar shut me down, I couldn’t help feeling like maybe there was something in my teeth.

  Walking into the elevator, I replay our conversation in my head again. I’m laughing lightly as I push the button.

  If she’s half as opinionated in bed, she’ll take me for a real ride.

  I’m certain she’ll be a real firecracker in a whole lot of ways that I’m really starting to look forward to.

  It may take a little smooth-talking, but this’ll be the perfect vacation fling.

  She’s beautiful and apparently single. Who goes on a vacation like this alone if he or she has a significant other at home?

  I exit the elevator and start hunting for my room. It isn’t hard to find, just a few doors down with a big, gaudy red ribbon on it.

  Unlike many of the most celebrated film-industry figures I know, I have no trouble with the simple task of getting myself and my luggage to my suite within a few minutes.

  And that ribbon makes it even easier to find.

  That ridiculous goddamn ribbon.

  Pulling out my phone, I snap a picture. I immediately send it in a text with a helpful caption:

  You avoided a fate worse than death, my friend.

  Fitting, really. It goes perfectly with the “Congratulations” written on the ribbon. He’ll get a kick out of it.

  I can’t even count the number of times I told my best friend what an idiot he is to get wrapped up in this shit time and again—only to inevitably have his heart broken.

  That type of shit—love, relationships, marriage—it’s like it’s all a joke that no one seems to get. I’m happy to have dropped the illusion long ago.

  As for my dear, hapless friend, he just set himself up to hurt and get hurt. And he did.

  By the time the truth c
ame out about the sham he was living, they had passed the refund window on most of their wedding reservations. Lucky me, though!

  And I’m going to take advantage of it.

  Walking in, I toss my duffel bag casually on the sofa and parade with purpose toward what must be the bathroom door.

  Not one to waste time getting into my birthday suit, I undo my belt, letting my pants drop. I drop my Rolex on the floor for safekeeping and kick off my casual Italian leather loafers.

  Pulling my shirt over my head, I drop it to the floor. My boxers are next to go, and finally my socks as I approach the closed door.

  Opening the bathroom door, the steam hits me first—enough to cloud my vision slightly. That’s weird.

  How recently did the last guest check out, anyway?

  Stepping farther in, I’m stunned by a fabulous sight.

  I don’t know when I’d run into the Woman from the Bar again, but I guess our next meeting is now—right in my suite’s bathroom.

  As she steps out of the glass-walled shower.

  As totally and completely naked as I am.

  Fucking hell.

  5

  Macy

  Water drips and pools at my feet as I get out of the shower. Why didn’t I think to get a towel beforehand?

  I look up to make my way toward the towel rack and find myself staring into a pair of chocolate-brown eyes.

  Wait. What?

  It’s him. The guy from the fucking bar, butt-ass naked…in my bathroom. What the fuck!

  I scream. I jump back in terror and, by reflex, place an arm around my breast and a hand in front of my crotch.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I yell. “How did you get in here?”

  What’s happening? I don’t think I even gave him my name at the bar, let alone my hotel number or key card.

  I quickly unfold a towel and wrap it around my body, hoping he didn’t see much. My arms cradle my waist tightly. I’m naked and soaking wet.

  And I’m right in front of him.

  This is exactly what he wanted.

  With his hands, he reluctantly covers his dick. He looks annoyed that he has to.

  At this point, though, he doesn’t even need to. I already got a nice, long look at his prodigious package.

  And his hands aren’t helping. The myth isn’t true—his hands are no indication of how big his dick is.

  Damn, it’s impressive.

  It takes everything in me—every ounce of restraint I can find—to not look down and to only stare at his eyes.

  I saw that he was gorgeous at the bar, with model-level looks. He’s hair falls oh-so-charmingly in a messy but groomed way. His jawline is sharply defined, and his lips are full and tempting.

  I imagine my tongue tasting it, making my way down to his chiseled abs. Hmm. delicious.

  “This is my room,” he says, seemingly unaffected by my terror—or my staring.

  I shake my head, trying to focus myself on the real matter at hand—him in my bathroom. Not his nakedness.

  Other than my carnal attraction, his presence immediately pisses me off. He’s a bigger prick than I thought.

  “Excuse me? Your room? How is it your room when it’s very clearly my room? The person who’s showering and has access to it?”

  “I also have access to it, see?” He looks around the bathroom, removing his hands from his dick and waving them around like he’s Vanna White, showing me the obvious clues.

  Seriously? Arrogant asshole. I’m not in the mood.

  “Are you stalking me? Is that it? I said no to you, and your ego is so wounded that you had to stalk me?”

  He puts his hands up, surrendering. “Woah, woah, take it easy. You’re hot, and I’d love to show you a great time, but I’m not that desperate.”

  That’s it. Tightening the towel around me, making sure it stays in its place, I move toward the phone on the other side of the bathroom. Yes, this place has a phone in the bathroom.

  I never thought I would need to use it. I guessed wrong.

  I reach for the phone, ready to call security. This guy needs to fucking leave before there’s a lifetime movie made about a woman who kills her stalker…while on vacation. Or something like that.

  I stare at him, lifting the phone up to my ear.

  “I’m calling security. You, in my room, naked, is not okay with me.”

  Instead of arguing or doing what a half-decent person would do—like, you know, leave—he strolls over to me while plastering on a delicious and dangerous smirk.

  Against all my better judgment, I find myself fascinated by his self-assured demeanor. He knows what he wants, and he tells you.

  It’s straightforward, it’s direct, and it’s fucking hot.

  Anyone can see that he’s attractive, but seeing him naked in my bathroom, wanting me, throws my rational and controlled self off-kilter. . .his stare sparks something in me, heating me in places I’ve ignored for a long time.

  Thanks to the time- and soul-sapping grind of grad school.

  No, I can’t let myself get taken in. He’s an asshole, and more importantly, he’s a stalker.

  He gently takes the phone from my hands and places it back on the receiver.

  “Now can’t we figure this out by ourselves?” he asks sensuously.

  “And how would you propose we do that?”

  “I have things in mind. Talking might not be one of them,” he says, looking at me with that damn smirk and a daring expression.

  I back away from him, forcing distance between us. I need room to think clearly.

  “You shouldn’t be here. You need to leave. This is my room.”

  “Oh, babe, no. This is my suite. Aaron Michaelson. It says so on the reservation. Ask the pretty lady at the front desk.”

  Did he just call me babe? What a condescending fucking asshole.

  “One, I’m not your babe. Call me Macy, if you have the luxury of calling me anything at all. Second, the reservation clearly says my name. You can go ask the woman at the front desk yourself,” I say, making sure to put his patronizing ass in its place. “Also, can you please cover yourself up?”

  He has thoroughly pissed me off at this point, where I don’t even want to his body. Well, kind of.

  His name’s starting to sound familiar, but I’m way too fucking pissed off to give the slightest damn about that.

  He laughs and reaches over to grab the robe hanging on the back of the door. I watch him with hooded eyelids as each muscle ripples when he puts it on.

  “My friend reserved this suite and gave it to me to enjoy some peace and quiet,” he says.

  What? That can’t be true.

  “No, see, here’s the thing. My friend, who was supposed to be on her honeymoon here, let me have this suite seeing as she broke off the wedding and is no longer in need of it.”

  He leans against the counter, crossing his arms, and looks at me smugly.

  I’m seriously about to slap this asshole, even if he does look fucking amazing in that robe.

  “Now I see what happened. Your friend, the dick charmer, broke off the wedding to my friend. Seeing as they are both idiots—who thought love does exist and marriage is the answer—they gave us both the suite.” He winks at me. “Was her name Cara by any chance?”

  Fuck. I sit on the side of the massive tub, mulling over what he just said.

  “Regardless, it’s mine, as Cara instructed.” There’s no way I’m giving up this room, or this vacation—not for this jerk, not for anyone. “Your asshole of a best friend fucked up, so I shouldn’t have to deal with the repercussions of his indiscretions.”

  I stand up, facing him head on. If he thinks I’m backing down, he’s about to be proven quite fucking wrong. He’ll be the one leaving this room.

  “It’s not my fault your friend clearly dove into something she shouldn’t have and stayed blind to the obvious faults in the whole plan for so long. It’s a tough lesson a lot of people subject themselves to, but it doesn’t
mean you deserve the suite.”

  “What the fuck do you know about my friend? Look, I’m sorry your friend can’t keep his dick in his pants and doesn’t realize he lost the best damn thing he ever had. You two are just the same. Get out. Right fucking now.”

  “I will not get out. This is my suite. I should be telling you to leave.”

  “I will call security and make sure you’re escorted out of here. Want to dare me?” As the last of my patience starts to wane, I walk toward the phone.

  This fucking prick Michaelson walks around thinking he owns the damn world. Fuck that. I won’t bend to his egotistical, self-satisfied ways.

  If he’s anything like Cara’s fiancé, he deserves to be dragged out of here by his hair.

  “You wouldn’t. I don’t even have clothes on.”

  “I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve been in a hotel hallway without any clothes. That is the least of my concerns. Now, get out of here. Do you need me to show you the way out, babe?”

  “Oh, I’m getting to you, aren’t I?” He leans casually back against the wall by the door, wearing a smug expression like the arrogant ass he is.

  My body contradicts everything my mind is saying. Logic is now fighting against my stupid libido, and my libido is starting to put up a hell of a fight, fueled by his annoyingly magnetic looks and attitude and the cocky confidence that just oozes from him...

  But I can’t let that mess up my plans for a relaxing vacation. I’m sure he’s had more than enough vacations in his life. From the looks of it, he has time on his hands.

  “Yes, you’re getting to me. You’re pissing me the fuck off. This is my fucking suite, and I need you to stop ruining my fucking vacation! Right, fucking now!”

  He looks at me with a sharp expression, exasperation filling his eyes. He goes to say something, but refrains.

  He turns away, throwing his hands up. I hear him walking through the bedroom, followed shortly by a loud slam of the door as he leaves the room.

  I sit back, reeling from everything that just happened.

  Who the fuck is he? And why do I want him so badly?

  6

  Aaron