Regardless of how attractive this jerk is, I have to handle this situation. I can’t spend half of my afternoon staring at his abs, or trying to reason with him to turn his music down.
“Do you want to come in and pick a song?” he asks. “Maybe you have a favorite?”
I imagine kicking aside pizza boxes, and his discarded clothes, to make my way to the stereo. I don’t think so.
“I don’t have a favorite,” I retort. “Recognizing the artist does not mean appreciating. I have…eclectic taste in music, as it is.”
“I’d love to invite you in to discuss music,” he steps aside, inviting me to enter the villa. In the sweeping gesture, I read an awareness of my confusion last night. That he knows I expected to be invited in, and that now he’s mocking me for that assumption.
I do not go into his villa. I hate being mocked. I hate the light in his teasing blue eyes. I hate that he’s the most interesting thing at Seascape Villas, by far, and that he was in here with those two girls last night. Do I have no self esteem, lusting after this guy? Anger wells up, mostly at myself, but I use it against him.
“Look, your name is Cruise, right?”
“Yeah.” He narrows his eyes at me. For the first time, this conversation is getting real and he doesn’t like it.
“I have a job to do here. I’m employed by the hotel, and I need to get back to work. In order for me to do that, I need you to turn down the music.”
“Need it, do you?” He lingers over the word need, and my knees go a little weak. He grins, and I have this feeling he knows exactly what I need, far better than I do.
“Yes.” It comes out in a smaller voice than I meant, and for a moment I think he feels sorry for me. But not sorry enough to turn down the noise. “Whichever neighbor has been complaining has probably called the front desk three times by now, and whoever is manning the desk must be cursing my incompetence. Please turn it down?”
The slow smirk is a new, and utterly fascinating expression.
“I like it when you beg,” he says, and heat rushes between my legs.
“Seriously?”
“Okay, fine. I’m going to turn the music down, but in return, you have to do something for me.” His voice is just suggestive enough that I know exactly what kind of thing he’s going to propose.
“I’m not doing anything for you,” I snap. “You can call on one of your friends from last night for that.”
Damn. Did a touch of the jealousy I felt come through when I said that? His blue eyes twinkle with amusement.
“Now, did I say it was something like that? I think you are putting…words…into my mouth, Miss Bennett.”
My face must be as red as villa nine, which is painted fire engine red with white and blue trim. A very patriotic cottage.
“I wouldn't dream of putting…words…into your mouth. Your voice—the suggestion was there.”
“I can’t help it. I have a sensual voice.”
I can’t argue with that, but I’m not going to admit it.
“So, what do you want?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.
“I want you to have lunch with me tomorrow, at the Clam Shack. Do you know it?”
“No,” I say, meaning that I’m not familiar with the Clam Shack. I’m too surprised to respond to the offer of lunch yet, but he takes it as a refusal and wags his finger at me.
“No lunch, no cessation of said music.”
“Cessation?” I’m still trying to get my brain to function correctly. Lunch with him? Why does he want to have lunch with me? My first thought is, what could it hurt? This could be my chance for a little bit of flirtation. A mini-adventure. I’m too careful to get carried away, even if such a thing was a possibility, but sitting across from him in a restaurant, it could be fun. And though I’m not a fan of clams, a seafood place is quintessential Seascape Bay.
“Yes, cessation of the obnoxiously loud music,” he repeats. “You aren’t the only one to have an association with Webster’s Dictionary, my innocuous friend.”
“Did…you just call me boring?”
“Sorry, I meant my innocuous music-loving friend.” He grins. “Believe me, you won’t be boring if you go to lunch with me. I’m never boring.” His grin is evil, and infectious. I feel my lips twisting into a smile to mirror his.
“Turn the music down?”
“Go to lunch with me.”
I tap my foot, unwilling to accept a lunch date under this kind of pressure.
“Lunch?” his eyebrow goes up.
“Fine,” I mutter.
“Victory is mine.” He saunters across his room, and turning to give me a sly smile, hits the power button on his speakers. The music fades away.
“Isn’t that beautiful?” I say, without meaning to speak aloud.
“What, blessed silence?”
“No. The sounds of the beach.” I hear seagulls crying, the pounding of the surf. A crash from the kitchen, children laughing. The sounds of summer and relaxation.
Cruise watches me, like I’m making fun of him, or speaking another language.