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“You’re sweaty,” she mutters, but she also hugs me back, letting herself sink against me for a moment. Her hair tickles my nose with the smell of girly spa products, and damn, she feels like she was made to fit in my arms.

  We stand like that until I can feel my dick starting to spring to attention. “Come on,” I say, releasing her abruptly and clearing my throat. “You wanna go hit a few balls, blow off some steam?”

  Olivia looks skeptical. “I mean, I’m not exactly a sports girl,” she says.

  “You?” I make an exaggerated face of shock. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Hilarious.” Olivia rolls her eyes. “Have it your way, QB. Let’s go.”

  We say our goodbyes to the others and head out onto the abandoned green. It’s quiet out here now, just the idle buzz of the occasional mosquito and the faint laughter of some middle-aged lady golfers a few holes away.

  “You know, just for the record,” Olivia announces out of nowhere, “I’m not always like this.”

  That stops me. “Like what?” I ask.

  She makes a face like I’m being thick on purpose. “You know like what,” she says. “Like, exactly who Vanessa and her friends think I am. Some silly, disaster-prone, Type-A harpy who can’t just go with the flow and be happy for anyone else.”

  “Seriously?” I blink, surprised. “I don’t think you’re any of those things.”

  Olivia’s eyes narrow, like she’s looking for the trick. “You don’t?”

  “No,” I say honestly. “I think you’re smart, and generous, and funny as all hell. And I think your new stepmother is . . .” I trail off, trying to figure out how to put it delicately.

  “A tacky bitch,” Olivia supplies. Then she claps a hand over her mouth. “See?” she says. “Disgraceful.” She lets out a heavy sigh, then nods at the golf clubs. “All right, sports star,” she says—redirecting the conversation away from herself one more time, I can’t help but notice. “Hand me one of those and let’s get this over with.”

  I pull a driver out of the bag and hand it over. “This is for a guy my height,” I warn her, “so it’s going to be too big for you.”

  “Oh, right, because the size of the club is what’s going to make all the difference here.” She takes a couple of practice swings, hitting the grass hard enough to make giant divots. “Whoops,” she says with a grimace, dirt spraying up over her immaculate white sneakers.

  I raise my eyebrows. “You want some pointers over there, Tiger Woods?”

  “No,” Olivia says, then immediately proceeds to take another giant chunk out of the perfectly manicured green. Jesus Christ, at this rate they’re gong to kick us off the course for destruction of private property. “OK,” she admits, wincing a little. “Maybe a few.”

  I smile, I can’t help it. “Make a triangle with your arms,” I instruct. “Hands overlapped. Back straight, and then bend your knees.”

  “Like this?” she asks—wriggling around trying to get her stance right, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ears. She looks criminally adorable, dressed in a chambray button-down and white denim shorts that expose miles of toned, creamy thigh. I want to sling her over my shoulder and haul her off to bed like a fucking caveman, then park myself between her legs until she screams in pleasure.

  “Um.” I clear my throat. “I mean, a little less like you’re trying to twerk, but yes, close.”

  Olivia’s face snaps up. “I’m not—” she starts, then breaks off, her mouth falling open into a perfectly outraged O.

  “I’m kidding,” I say with a grin, ignoring the flash of her wet pink tongue. “Kind of. Come here.”

  I put my arms around her from behind, gently positioning her hands on the golf club and telling myself I’m not paying any attention to her curvy waist or the smell of her neck or the way her body fits perfectly against mine.

  Olivia glances over her shoulder, smirking like she’s onto me. “Is this really necessary?” she asks, but it’s not like she’s making any effort to move.

  “Uh, yep,” I say, guiding her arms back carefully. I can’t tell if she’s pushing her ass against me on purpose or not. Dear God, I hope so. “Just like that, see? And then follow through with your whole body.”

  She actually hits more ball than grass this time, surprisingly. It rolls to a slow stop a couple of yards from the hole. “There you go,” I tell her. “See? You’re a natural.”

  Olivia laughs. “Sure,” she says. “Go ahead and sign me up for the PGA tour.” She looks at me over her shoulder again, raising her eyebrows mischievously. Her cheeks are pink and sun-kissed—she’s got her color back, that’s for sure. “Are you impressed that I knew what that was?”

  “Totally,” I promise. “You’re an impressive woman.”

  “Well, that’s a fact.” Olivia winks. “OK, here, let me try again.” She lines up and swings, following through with her entire weight just like I showed her—only instead of rolling neatly into the cup, the ball sails far and wide, disappearing into the great wide yonder.

  A moment later a noisy crash echoes out across the green.

  For a beat Olivia and I just stare at each other, horrified. Then, she giggles. “I told you I wasn’t a sports person,” she announces with a grin. “Let’s go get a drink.”

  11

  Olivia

  After my “adventures” in the spa, I could use a day of real R&R, but Ryan has us scheduled for our big lunch with Mason and his wife, so the next morning the two of us set off to meet them at a private marina along the shore. “Nervous?” I ask as we drive over.

  “Me, nervous?” Ryan arches an eyebrow, all confidence—and almost certainly full of shit. “No way.”

  “OK,” I agree, hiding a smile. “It would be fine if you were, but for what it’s worth you’ve got no reason to be. You’re going to be great. Guys like Mason are easy.”

  He glances at me sidelong. “They are?”

  “Yes.” I nod. “First of all, he obviously likes your whole aw-shucks, all-American thing, so play that up. Flatter him, but not too much. I’m guessing Mason prefers going toe-to-toe with someone, instead of just a brownnoser. Besides, the person you really want to impress is Arianna.”

  Ryan looks surprised. “Really? I mean, she seemed nice and all, but she’s not officially part of his company, or on the board of execs at all.”

  “I know, it may not seem like it, but my guess is she’s the one making a lot of the business decisions in that partnership. She’s got a mind like a steel trap. And she’s super into philanthropy, so make sure to mention that work you did with the Boys and Girls Club.”

  Ryan stops short at a red light, glancing over at me in surprise. “I never told you about that.”

  I grin, popping my notebook back into my bag. “Lucky for you, I’m great at research.”

  “That is . . . not surprising to me,” he says with a chuckle.

  “I’ve been handling guys like Mason my whole life,” I tell him, reaching out and patting his thigh before I can stop myself. “You get in a jam like the other night, just give me a signal and I’ll come bail you out.”

  Ryan smiles. “Like a secret code?”

  I laugh, I can’t help it. “I mean, sure, if that helps you.”

  He pulls the car up to the valet stand outside the marina, and pauses. “Look,” he begins, “I know we’re both helping each other out here. But I wanted to say thank you for all the work you’re putting in. PowerBar means a lot to me, and I’m definitely sleeping a lot easier having somebody like you in my corner.”

  “Of course,” I say, waving him off even as a pleased pink flush works its way up my body. “I’m having fun.”

  “Yeah,” Ryan says, eyes trained steadily on mine. “Me too.”

  His tone is decidedly non-platonic—at least, I think it is—and my stomach does a slow flip. “Good,” I manage, swallowing hard.

  “Good.”

  For a moment we just stare at each other, neither one of us saying anything. Ryan’s eyes flick
down to my mouth. His gaze is like a lightning bolt of desire that I feel right between my legs—it takes every ounce of restraint in my body not to climb into his lap right here in broad daylight, wind my arms around his neck and—

  God, Olivia. Control yourself.

  “OK,” I say, clearing my throat as the valet arrives. “Time to go sell PowerBar.”

  A guide leads us out to the slip where Mason and Arianna’s boat, Carpe Diem, is docked. “Hey there, lovebirds!” Arianna calls, waving gaily from the deck. She’s wearing an immaculate white sundress and a pair of bright red espadrilles, her hair in a tasteful chignon at the nape of her neck. “Welcome aboard!”

  I meant what I said to Ryan in the car—in my line of work, I’ve been around more than my fair share of super-wealthy guys like Mason—but the Dubecks’ yacht is still impressive even to me, a tricked-out 75-footer with a full gym and an infinity pool tiled in brightly colored mosaic. In addition to the crew and private chef is a full wait staff, including a dark-haired cocktail waitress who hands me a flute of Dom Perignon as we settle ourselves on the wide, sunny deck.

  So this is how the super-super-super rich live.

  “Ah, there they are!” Mason says, strolling out of the cabin and shaking Ryan’s hand before pecking me on the cheek. He’s every inch the captain of industry, dressed in a pair of red chinos and a rumpled linen shirt, plus a pair of well-loved boat shoes. All that’s missing is a captain’s hat to complete the look. “So glad you two could sneak off for a jaunt. How’s the wedding prep?”

  We fill them in on our latest misadventures, snacking on fresh fruit and caviar-topped blinis while the boat cruises smoothly out onto the ocean. Mason and Arianna are as easy to talk to as they were the other night, asking questions about my business—private events consulting, I explain vaguely—and telling stories about the safari to Tanzania they were just on, the highlight of which was locking the keys in their jeep while a hoard of hungry rhinos descended.

  “I about lost my mind,” Mason says sheepishly, “but Ari here was cool as a cucumber.”

  “I’m good in a crisis,” Arianna admits.

  He grimaces. “Thank God one of us is.”

  Arianna smiles modestly, laying a casual hand on his knee. “Opposites attract, right?”

  “You’re telling me,” Ryan says, curling a hand around my hip and squeezing playfully. “I don’t think the two of us could be more different if a professional matchmaker had paired us up that way on purpose.”

  “There’s nothing more important in life than finding the right person to share it with,” Mason says, plucking a fat red strawberry off the fruit plate on the coffee table and popping it into his mouth. “But you two obviously know that already.”

  I glance at Ryan—watching as the sea breeze ruffles his hair, that dimple popping mischievously in his cheek. “We make a good team,” I agree.

  It’s a beautiful day, the heat and humidity cut by the cool breeze coming in off the water. Mason takes me on a tour of the yacht, and I add private theater and steam room to its list of amenities, not to mention its professional grade kitchen and seating for twenty in the massive glass-walled dining room. Because you never know when you’ll want to host a formal dinner out on the ocean.

  “The two of you ever want to take your friends out on this old girl, just say the word,” Mason offers expansively. “Arianna and I will be at our place in Provence all summer anyhow, so she’ll just be sitting here.”

  “Thanks,” I say faintly. I don’t think I could fit this grand salon full of people, even if I tried—or invited all Ryan’s ex-teammates. “That’s very kind.”

  “Mr. Dubeck?” one of the crew interrupts politely. “You have a call coming through. Tokyo.”

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Mason exits, and I begin to feel a little queasy with the rolling of the boat, so I head back to the upper deck and take some deep breaths to settle my stomach. In the distance, I can hear Ryan and Arianna talking about their charity work, and I smile. Right on script.

  I know it can seem fake to people on the outside, all this schmoozing and networking, and it was that way to me, too, at first. But then I realized it’s like traveling to a foreign country: every nation has its own language and customs, and if you learn the rules, you don’t stick out like a sore thumb. I have clients coming to me from all kinds of industries: movie stars, and business titans, and even some minor royalty, too, and every partner I set them up with, I tell them the same thing: it’s not about pretending to be someone you’re not, it’s about showing you respect them enough to play on their terms.

  In a way, Ryan is the odd one out here, not me. Sure, I’m tagging along as his fake girlfriend, but I know how this world works, while he’s the one trying to fit in for the first time. But it sounds like he’s doing a great job, charming the palazzo pants off Arianna, and by the time she slips inside to check on lunch, I’m pretty sure he’s closed the deal.

  Ryan comes up to join me on deck. “So how am I doing?” he asks quietly, laying a familiar hand between my shoulder blades. Even though there’s no one around to see us, no reason to play along, I melt a little against his touch, his fingertips just brushing the sensitive nape of my neck. “Am I playing up my aw-shucks All-American thing?”

  “Yup,” I manage, trying to ignore the hot, pleasant way the skin is prickling all over my body. “You’re doing great work.”

  Ryan smiles. “I had a good teacher.” He reaches down and laces his fingers through mine, pressing a kiss against the back of my palm. I don’t know if it’s all part of the act, but either way, my heart skitters a little in my chest, and I have to look away from that gorgeous, blue-eyed stare.

  “So let me ask you something,” he continues, smiling. “That little notebook you keep all your client dirt in. You got anything about me in there?”

  I laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  Ryan’s plays at being wounded. “Seriously?” he asks. “You’re not going to tell me, even though we’re . . . ?” He pauses.

  “Even though we’re what, exactly?” I ask quietly.

  Ryan considers that for a moment, his smile turning into something else altogether. “You tell me, princess.”

  “Hmm,” I pretend to muse, teasing him. For a second I allow myself to imagine teasing him in other ways—raking my nails down the packed muscle in his stomach, catching the elastic of his boxers in my teeth and—

  Shit.

  So much for keeping this professional.

  My X-rated thoughts must be written all over my face, because Ryan’s smile has taken on a new, hungry intensity. He steps closer, his hard chest pressing against mine as he tilts his head to the side. I feel myself mirroring him, instinctive, and for a moment I’m almost certain we’re about to—

  “Hey lovebirds!” Arianna calls cheerily. “You hungry for some lunch?”

  Saved by the belle.

  Or something like that.

  “Starved,” I say, heading down the stairs and across the deck—anything to put distance between me and the kiss that definitely shouldn’t have but almost just happened. “How can I help?”

  “Oh, just relax, honey,” Arianna says, waving me toward the table set up on the deck—it’s draped in a heavy white cloth, with a gorgeous display of fresh flowers and silverware. “It’s all taken care of.”

  Holy shit, is she ever not kidding. It’s not like I was expecting PB&Js and individual bags of Cheetos, but the lunch spread is next level. The Dubecks’ personal chef has prepared a seafood tower worthy of a four-star restaurant, plus tenderloin sandwiches with Camembert cheese on crusty baguettes and a warm potato salad served over peppery arugula. For dessert, there are individual lemon tarts, tropical parfait, and the best gelato I’ve ever tasted—flown, of course, from Arianna’s favorite spot in Rome.

  It all looks amazing, but as we start to eat, my stomach turns another few ominous flips. I thought eating would settle my queasiness, but it seems to have done the oppo
site. The sea may be calm, but my guts are pitching wildly. And it’s only getting worse.

  “Lobster?” the waiter offers.

  “No, thank you,” I mutter quickly.

  “Oh, you must!” Arianna insists. “Sven catches it fresh for us, have a whole tail.”

  The waiter plunks a massive lobster tail on my plate and adds some sides, too.

  My stomach turns another few somersaults. Not the happy, flirty gymnastic moves it’s been doing every time Ryan touches me. Nope, these are ominously stormy.

  I try to pick at my food, to be polite, but I can’t even pretend to enjoy it.

  I must be looking a little green, because Ryan puts a hand on my arm. “You OK?” he asks quietly, nudging a glass of water in my direction.

  “Uh huh,” I manage, too dizzy to even enjoy the feeling of his warm palm against my bare skin. My stomach gurgles again, and to my horror I feel my mouth fill with saliva—that unmistakable pre-barf sensation that means a serious ralph is only seconds away.

  And all that stuff about respecting my hosts’ customs? I’m guessing they don’t include puking all over the lunch spread.

  “If you’ll just excuse me,” I manage, shoving my chair back and looking around wildly, but the bathroom is all the way downstairs in the cabin. Oh God. A fresh wave of nausea rolls through me, and there’s no time to do anything but run for the side of the boat.

  I make it, but just barely, and lose my lunch so violently that it’s over before I even realize Ryan is standing behind me, holding my ponytail out of my face with one gentle hand.

  “So,” he jokes as I gingerly stand upright. “Was it something I said?”

  12

  Olivia

  Back at the hotel, I lay sprawled on the bed with a wet washcloth on my forehead. I’m back in my tourist T-shirt get-up, the most comfortable thing I have, and after a good hour in the bathroom, I think the worst of it has passed.

  Either that, or I’m dead.

  “OK,” Ryan says, letting himself in, “I cleaned out the gift shop. We’ve got ginger ale and Alka-Seltzer, plus some Pepto-Bismol just in case.”