“You’ll see when we go surfing tomorrow.”
“Surfing? Tomorrow? In the ocean?”
“Surfing lessons. The ocean is kind of a requirement.”
“Did I tell you that tomorrow I’m missing my alarm and sleeping in all day?”
I love her sense of humor. At least, I hope that’s humor. “You did look at the schedule when you signed up, didn’t you?”
“Of course. Things are just different in the . . . abstract. Thinking about a boat versus getting on one, for instance.”
She’s not wrong. Thinking about my rules when she’s not around? It’s a no brainer.
But with this gorgeous woman in front of me, tempting me, smiling at me, it’s hard to stop my hands off the client rule from flying out the window.
I need to remind myself who she is—someone who could decimate our business with a terrible review.
Someone who’s eventually going to leave.
“You remember when you first arrived, Ms. Professional Shopper, I asked what would look good on me, and you said you’d tell me after you’d had a beer?” I ask, successfully changing the subject from intimate to abstract.
She shakes her head, dabbing her mouth with a napkin as she finishes a bite. “Can’t. It would be against the rules to tell you.”
“Personal shopper rules?”
Another shake of her head, slower this time, her eyes holding mine. “Your rules. The no side, entrée, or dessert rule.”
I swallow, unable to stop myself. “Go ahead and tell me.” How bad could it be?
“Well . . .” Pink flares across her cheeks. “Nothing.”
I frown. Her blush doesn’t match the word.
“Nothing would look good on you.”
Ohhh. Now I get it.
“As in . . . nothing at all?” I ask, just to be sure.
“Yes. What’s underneath all your clothes. That nothing.” She smiles, a little devilish, a little naughty, and holy hell, that’s my new favorite smile. “My professional opinion is that nothing would look good on you.”
I should resist, and yet I’ve zip-lined past resistance. She’s too fun, too flirty, too fascinating. Right now, she’s turning me on too much for me to care about rules. “Only your professional opinion?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Happens to be my personal opinion too.” There’s a hint of come up and see me sometime in her voice, and I like it.
“Well, Skyler,” I say, quieter, more secretive. “I happen to think nothing would look good on you too.”
She keeps her gaze locked on mine, and her eyes say she wants me to break the rules. Her words, too, when she says, “I told you that my answer would break the rules.”
“But we’re not breaking them . . . tonight.”
The waiter appears using whatever stealth technology lets him sneak up on us like that. “So . . . dessert, anyone?”
Skyler and I lock eyes again. Dessert.
She breaks first.
While the woman dissolves into laughter, I tell the confused waiter, “No, thanks. We really can’t.”
9
Skyler
As the stars flicker in the Hawaiian sky, I stand on my balcony, staring at the water, FaceTiming Katie.
Full reports are required.
“I had a burger and beer with Mr. Hot Tour Guide, and it was one of the top five evenings I’ve ever had. We talked about everything, and then we flirted, and then I may have told him he would look good in . . . nothing.”
Her eyes twinkle with dirty thoughts, that turn to dirty words. “On a scale of one to movie star, how is his birthday suit?”
“Oh hush. I can’t give that a rating, because I haven’t seen it. And I’m not going to see it, because it’s against the rules. And he’s a rules guy. Plus, that’s not the reason I’m here.”
“Blah, blah, blah. I feel like I should be supportive and say something affirmational about your willpower, like, ‘Yes, stay true to your man-batical.’ But I can’t.” She brings her face closer to the screen, and stage whispers. “Because I’ve seen the tour company’s Instagram feed.”
“You stalked their Instagram?”
She nods as she stretches on her couch. “One, it’s not stalking, it’s appreciating their social media marketing. Two, it’s in the friend code. Rule three, section five, provision ten: thou shall check out all potential suitors and render a Verdict of Suitability. Assuming he’s the one with the dark-blond hair, perfect cheekbones, and those eyes . . .”
I sigh happily. “As blue as the ocean.”
“Then my verdict is—break the rules.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Okay, then. Bend them. Because provision eleven dictates: thou shall report back to said good friend on all rule-breaking activity while on a tropical island. It’s the Tropical Tryst Addendum,” she says, with a wink.
As an island breeze gently blows my sundress, I say, “First, the Tropical Tryst Addendum would have to state that one’s friends should engage in tropical trysts.”
“Exactly. It’s an addendum. Follow it!”
“You are such an enabler,” I tease, moving from the balcony to the lounge chair, as the waves lap against the shore in a gentle nighttime whoosh.