Page 5 of How Dare You
“Something that matters.” His hand at my waist keeps me locked in close. “You’re naked in my arms.” I arch a brow, and he’s quick to add, “Which I’m not complaining about, but I want something intimate from in here.” He accentuates the last with a tender kiss on my temple.
Something about Rhett, his laughing demeanor, the way he’s taken control of the whole evening and keeps wrapping me in his solid embrace has me feeling safer and more protected I should. He wants me to give him something that matters. What would it hurt if I did? This is a moment in time, one that I’ll keep in my pocket and pull out on tough days. He doesn’t realize it yet, but after tonight, I’ll never see him again.
He doesn’t rush me, doesn’t tell me not to think too hard. I get that one a lot. He just rubs rhythmic circles at my waist, letting our legs intertwine under the water, his dark gray gaze locked on me. Would it kill me to take it deeper than surface level?
These last few hours with Rhett have been a reprieve from reality I didn’t realize I needed. But now, his very real question has it all rushing back. Every spare moment I’ve had lately has been spent trying to solve the issues with my business and seeing Trina’s work at Lemon + Sway tonight reminds me that I’m not the powerful competitor to her that I should be.
She is an icon in the industry, and I’d been following her work in magazines since I was in elementary school. Landing a job with her straight out of college was a dream—but like many dreams, it didn’t turn out to be what I was expecting.
To Trina’s credit, she is capable of creating truly phenomenal designs. There is a reason she’s an icon. I wouldn’t trade the experience I gained working for her even after the unfortunate way it ended, but the admiration I gained for Trina after years of watching her career also led me to trusting her much more deeply than I should have.
She is at the point in her career where she works a few hours a day, shakes hands with clients, and puts her name on the work of the designers she employs. I looked up to her, so when she told me she’d find a way to pay me more, maybe make me partner, give me credit in publications like the ones I grew up reading about her in, advance my own career in a meaningful way—I believed her.
After five years of working early mornings and late nights without Trina making good on any of those promises, I finally saved enough to take the jump to go out on my own and start Friday West Interiors. It’s fairly standard in our industry for designers to eventually leave larger firms and start their own, but Trina took it personally when I left and revealed a vindictiveness I should have seen coming but didn’t. She called me selfish and disloyal and said I’d never be successful on my own. After looking up to her for so long, I had the choice to take that personally or move on and do it better than she ever did.
Some people have a competitive streak. For me, it’s who I am. I know what I’m capable of, and I won’t accept any less. I told myself if Trina believed I couldn’t be successful on my own, then I’d have to become successful in a way she couldn’t ignore. Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done. After a year of small to mid-size projects, I was able to get an office space and hire my friend, Bea, as an associate designer. When it comes to the bigger projects, like massive custom homes and jobs where there is a lot more flexibility to push the edge on design, like bars and restaurants, I haven’t been able to win many over Trina. I don’t have proof, but I’m fairly certain she’s stooped to bad-mouthing me to potential clients.
Rhett watches me intently as I bring one of my hands to his shoulder, trying to find balance in the water before answering, “I’ve got something, but I don’t want advice and I won’t answer questions.”
“I can work with that.” His voice is slow and steady, accompanied by a warm smile.
“I own a business, and I have this sort of rival.” He nods along to show he’s listening. “And she’s winning our little war. And I hate that. Hate it.” The drinks have mostly worn off at this point, so I can’t blame them for what I say next. I’ve never given it voice before, not to my mom, not to my best friend and roommate, Allie, and certainly not to Bea, who this would affect the most. But in this moment, I can’t imagine not spilling to Rhett. “She keeps on stealing clients from me, and if I don’t figure something out soon, I could lose everything.” He tilts his head to the side and rubs a soothing hand up and down my spine. Once the words start, there is not stopping. I finish my confession with the most terrifying part. “I don’t know who I am if I lose.” Once the words leave my lips, a wash of relief flows through me. This is followed immediately by a terrifying vulnerability that has my heart uncomfortably racing in my chest.
He opens his mouth to say something but sucks in a deep breath instead, pulling me close for a tender kiss. When he lets go, he speaks quietly, “I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that matters.”
Our confessions hang heavily between us, him continuing to rub soothing circles at my waist, me toying with the hair on his brow. After a long minute, his lips curve up into a sly smile. “But for now, this feels pretty important.” And then he’s kissing me again, holding onto me as he moves us across the pool without breaking our kiss, his bare chest bumping against the pointed peaks of my nipple as our legs brush under the water.
He presses me into the wall of the pool, the cool tiles against my back a contrast to water, still warm from a day in the desert sun, his cupped hand blocking my head from the concrete lip of the pool deck.
My hands run through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes,” he says against my lips. “Touch me.” So, I trail my fingers across the tops of his shoulders, delighting in the strength there. “Touch me anywhere. Everywhere.”
His hands travel from my waist, over my hips, hesitating right above my ass, but when I wrap my legs firmly around him, he squeezes, pulling me close and bringing his hardened cock to press firmly against the outside of my sex with the tip pressing against my clit. His eyes lock with mine in a silent question. I nod, inviting him to move, and he slides his cock against me in a smooth thrust.
I’m about to have sex with a stranger in a pool I just broke into. Who I just spilled my deepest secret to. What? No. I don’t sleep with strangers. I don’t break in places. I don’t skinny dip in public. I don’t admit weakness. Suddenly whatever mental fog Rhett McCoy had me wrapped in all night clears, and I drop my legs.
He lets go immediately, lifting his hands in the air and moving back so he is no longer trapping me against the wall. His brow furrows in concern. “You alright?”
This is unacceptable. This isn’t me. I have to get out of here. “I can’t do this.” I turn around, bracing my hands on the edge of the pool.
“Hey. That’s alright.” He mistakenly assumes I need comfort. “We don’t have to—”
“I’m leaving.” My words are firm. He can believe I’m angry. People usually perceive me like that anyway.
Rhett follows close behind, the water splashing wildly as pushes himself out of the pool and comes to standing on the cement surround. “Okay, let’s go,” he agrees, missing my rejection.
Water rolls off my body, leaving a trail of puddles against the concrete as I make for my clothes. If I leave on the opposite side of the golf course from where we came in, I’ll land in my neighborhood. I pass this golf course on my running route, so I know I’m three quarters of a mile from a hot shower and a rushed night of sleep.
“I’m close to home. I’ll walk.” The navy linen of my dress clings to my chest and hips when I pull it over my drenched body. I shove my bra and panties into my handbag and sit down to slide on my sandals.
“I’ll walk with you. I don’t have to come inside.” He has his shirt on but can’t find his boxers and jeans. They’re six feet behind him next to a lounger. Under different circumstances, the sight of a man wearing nothing but a t-shirt might be comical. Currently, I’m just glad he can’t leave without them. He looks up as I’m hopping back over the fence. “Give me a minute to find my pants. You can’t be walking around by yourself, soaking wet in the dark.”
Whirling on him, I say, “I’m not asking permission.”
Rhett calls after me, but I’ve disappeared into the dark by the time I hear him reach the fence. Guilt twists in my stomach as his voice gains a frantic quality. He didn’t do anything wrong. He was frankly wonderful. It’s not his fault I’m being irresponsible. But I have to be at work in six or seven hours. I can’t afford to think about it further.
§
“New shirt?” Bea asks, coming into step with me on the street outside the jobsite.