Get dressed. Meet me for dinner on the beach. Follow the path out your door.
I know his handwriting when I see it.
My stomach flips so violently that I have to sit down. I grab my phone, checking again to see if he’s responded to my text from earlier, and find nothing. Of course.
I unpack with clumsy hands, pulling out the soft bag with the lingerie set I’d chosen inside, the one that made me feel much braver than I really am. The pieces feel like pure luxury in my hands as I pull them out. It takes me a few minutes to get the corset hooked in the front and laced up the back. I’m more than thankful that the woman in the shop this morning had pre-laced it and shown me how to tighten it myself. It hugs my breasts, cinches my waist, and stops about halfway down my stomach, all red, lace, and sheer panels that look and feel like a million dollars. I understood as soon as I tried it this morning why Anthony had insisted I buy something nicer. It’s a world of difference.
I slip on the thong it came with. For once, I’m genuinely pleased with my reflection in the mirror. The lines, folds, and cellulite are visible, but not the center of attention. I look good. I just hope he thinks so.
The silk of the little black dress I’d bought sits a little awkwardly over the lingerie set. The top of the corset pokes out a little, but I don’t worry about that. He’ll probably like it. Or he won’t mind. Maybe.
God, I don’t know. I don’t know much about what he likes or doesn’t like. I’m not even sure if he likesmeor if I’m just an available womb. Would he fuck me if it wasn’t for the sole purpose of having a kid? I’m not sure I want the answer to that.
My hands shake as I touch up my makeup and smooth my hair. I’m not sure if it’s fear or adrenaline. It could easily be both. My mouth is dry and my heart won’t slow. Somewhere out there on a moonlit stretch of beach, Anthony Voss is waiting for me.
————
The path to the beach glows with lanterns stuck into the sand, their flames fluttering in the warm island breeze. Each step I take along the wooden boardwalk feels both heavy and light, like my body hasn’t decided whether to bolt or float. I know I couldn’t get far if I bolted. I’m surrounded by water and not exactly a strong swimmer.
I almost miss it.
I stop dead along the boardwalk, the sand extending from it out to the edge of the water, where a table covered in white linen sits expectantly. A waiter sets a bottle of wine down on it, then arranges the dishes. Near the table, blankets are laid out with plush cushions scattered around, illuminated by the soft glow coming from lanterns hanging from palm trees. It’s a place designed for sprawling, tangled bodies.
I lose every bit of air in my lungs.Is that where he expects us to…?I drag my eyes away before my imagination gets ahead of me. Between the water and the table, I see him. He has his back to me with his phone to his ear. His silhouette haunts my dreams. I gulp and every last shred of confidence in mefalters.
He turns his body just slightly still speaking into the phone, but he’s too far from me to hear him. Then his eyes dart in my direction. When he sees me, his eyeslinger, and a slow smile forms on his lips. I clumsily lean down and slide my heels off my feet, trying not to stare at him and failing miserably. He’s too damn attractive.
He’s wearing a white button-up and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The wind barely rustling the fabric. He’s not wearing a tie, and the top few buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks relaxed and casual in a way I’ve never seen on him. His jaw is freshly shaven; his silver hair is styled but somehow looks softer than ever and blows in the breeze. His slacks are pristinely pressed, so well-fitting that it should actually be a crime. Out here, away from the boardroom and the skylineand the stress of Manhattan, he looks devastatingly handsome. Suddenly everything feels too real when before it had all just been a fantasy in my head. My mouth goes dry, my fingers tighten around the straps of my heels, and my pulse throbs, especially between my thighs.
He lowers the phone from his ear and he turns to face me fully. He takes a few steps toward the table as I walk through the sand towards him.
“April,” he says, his voice is low and far too intoxicating every goddamn time he says my name like that. He looks me over slowly and deliberately. It’s as if he’s memorizing the sight of me against the backdrop of the estate, the palm trees, and the fucking insanity of it all. Something tightens in his expression, and I can’t quite read it. I hate that. I hate when I can’t suss him out. “You made it.”
I swallow hard. “You didn’t text me back. I thought maybe you were shipping me off somewhere to have me killed.” He rolls his eyes and his fingers brush mine. It feels like an electric shock when he takes my heels from me. “I’m a C.E.O., not a mob boss, princess.”
His gaze lingers on the red lace poking up out of my dress before he turns, nodding for me to follow him. “Come on. Before the tide decides to join us.”
I freeze, unsure whether it's the table or the…lounging spotthat he’s instructing me toward. He sets my shoes down carefully by the pillows and blankets, then glances back at me, stuck in place.
“I’m not going to bite, April,” he says, one brow raising. “Unless you want me to.”
The world’s most pathetic noise escapes my throat. “I just…Are we…Now?”
A small, amused grin spreads across his face. “We’re going toeat,” he says, gesturing toward the table. “It’s nearly 9:30. Youmust be starving. Do you genuinely think I’m going to fuck you when we’re both hungry?”
“N-no?”
“Good. Then your brain is still working, albeit slowly,” he says, pulling out the chair in front of him. “Sit down. Let’s eat.”
I glare at him but sink into the chair. The sand pushes up between my toes, and I practically squeal as he lifts my chair slightly to push me in. He sits down across from me, leaning back in his chair like this is the normalist thing in the world. Like we aren’t in Turks and Caicos for the sole purpose of trying to get me pregnant.
The waiter returns and serves us plates of steak and scalloped potatoes. He calls it some French name, but I can’t quite make it out. He pours two glasses of red wine and then disappears back toward the estate, leaving us alone. “What…what did he say this was?” I ask.
Anthony’s lips twitch again. “Filet mignon,” he says.
“No, the potatoes.”
“Pommes boulangère.”
