Page 68 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)

Makai

“Don’t try to fuck this guy. He’s married,”

Skylar said as she handed up the surfboards I needed for the morning’s lesson.

“Is that even a risk? I thought the guy was some aristocratic British twat.”

I tightened the ratchet strap on the surfboard rack, then jumped down out of the bed of my truck.

“Turns out the twat was his assistant, Kyle. Well, maybe they’re both twats. You never know with twats.”

“Skylar, stop saying twat.”

“Twat.”

Skylar stuck her tongue out at me.

“Anyway, your twat is hot as hell.”

“I don’t have a twat. I’m a man.”

“Nice one,”

she said, completely deadpan.

“Seriously though, he’s movie-star handsome. Handsome enough that I know you need to be warned. We all know you get horny around pretty people. Also, mildly attractive people, now that I think about it.”

She hauled out a few tubs full of gear, and I lifted them into the back of my truck. One held wetsuits; the others were Skylar’s pet preparedness project, fully stocked with a first aid kit, snacks, and extras like sunscreen, towels, beach blankets, and flip-flops. Someone always forgot or broke something.

“Is it possible that as a pansexual person, I have a wider range in what I find attractive?”

I asked as I lifted the first crate up into the truck bed.

“Wait, how do you know what he looks like? You hacking hotel databases again?”

“Of course not.”

Brushing off her hands, she walked over to the deck and plopped down in the porch swing, picking up her laptop as she abandoned me with the rest of the manual labor.

“I typed his name into a search engine, and he popped right up. He’s stupid rich and lives on an estate in the English countryside. It looks straight out of a Jane Austen movie. He paid for the entire week up front.”

She glanced up with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“And get this: his name is Hamish.”

“Hamish,”

I repeated, laughing.

“Well, I guess we won’t have to worry about me fucking him, because that’s a very unsexy name.”

“So posh and British,”

she agreed.

“I bet he calls people ‘old chap’.”

“Blimey, this is rather spiffy, innit, old chap? Shall we take a jaunt ‘round the harbor for tea and crumpets?”

I dropped out of my bad British accent, tilting my head.

“What are crumpets, anyway?”

“Oi, bloody hell, bloke, you don’t know what crumpets are? Or perhaps you’re having one over on me, you cheeky tosser.”

Skylar joined in, her accent even worse than mine.

“Fancy a spot of surfing before the queen’s coronation? Pip pip, cheerio!”

We went on like that for a while, until we were both wheezing with laughter, proving once again that we were idiots.

Skylar snapped out of it when her phone beeped, and she frowned down at a text message. “Makai...”

She looked up from her screen, eyebrows raised.

“Did you park at the lower cannery lot yesterday like I asked you to?”

I busied myself checking straps on the roof rack. “Maybe.”

“Makai.”

“What? A beautiful British woman comes to visit me every time I park in my favorite spot in a public parking lot. Why would I change? It’s becoming the highlight of my week.”

“The wedding lady doesn’t come to visit you. She comes to yell at you!”

I grinned, remembering the sexy wedding planner, thinking about how her hazel eyes had flashed with annoyance, how her sexy accent had gotten more clipped as she lectured me about professional courtesy and proper parking etiquette. There was something about making uptight people lose their cool that I found deeply satisfying.

“The upper lot is a public lot, too. Just because there’s a new hotel next to it doesn’t mean it’s now private property.”

“The Cannery Hotel is sending us a ton of new clients. We need to maintain a good relationship with them.”

She slowed her voice to sound like a kindergarten teacher’s.

“If they like us, we make money.”

“So… You want her to like us? It sounds like you’re saying I should flirt with her?”

Skylar rolled her eyes so hard I worried she might strain something.

“You’re such a child. Park in the other lot.”

“But what would be the fun in that?”

I checked my watch.

“She’s hot when she’s angry.”

“You think everyone’s hot.”

“Not true.”

I considered this.

“That guy who tried to pay us in homemade kombucha last week was not hot.”

“Low bar.”

She closed her laptop and stretched, the swing swaying beneath her.

“Everyone but that guy. But I guess she’s safe. With your commitment issues, you’d never date a local.”

“What? My taste for tourists is merely a coincidence.”

“Not buying it. Now go.”

She shooed me off with her hands.

“I have work to do on our new website. And don’t be late picking up Mr. Fancy Pants. His surf lesson is scheduled for nine. He requested a pick-up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I gave her a mock salute.

“Try not to traumatize the guy. According to his booking notes, he’s never surfed before.”

“I would never traumatize someone!”

I said as I yanked open the door. She was still lecturing me even as I climbed into the truck. Typical Skylar. This was why she handled the logistical side of our business, and I handled the fun.

“Remember, Makai, your threshold for danger is different from most people’s.”

She called after me as I climbed into the driver’s seat.

I turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, its familiar vibration settling into my bones and cutting out some of Skylar’s nagging. Through the open window, I heard snippets of something abou.

“professional boundaries”

an.

“keeping it in your pants”

as I backed out of the driveway.

The drive into Friday Harbor took me along winding roads that cut across the island, curving through beautiful farmland and winding coastal forest, offering glimpses of the water between stands of madrone trees, their red bark peeling like sunburned skin.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about the week ahead. A full schedule of bookings with the same client could be a blessing or a curse. It meant I could skip out on hustling for customers, setting up the booth at the marina, maybe offering discounted sunset tours to keep cash flowing. But this Hamish guy had booked—and paid for—an entire week of premium adventures.

As I navigated the steep streets of Friday Harbor, morning fog still clinging to the harbor below, I wondered what kind of man this Hamish was.

I parked in the hotel’s circular drive, killing the engine and taking a moment to check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Satisfied with my messy hair, I grabbed my phone, checked the room number Skylar had texted me—I had no idea how she’d gotten it, but I hoped it had involved asking the client. Time to meet the nervous Englishman.

My friend Leah was at the front desk, but I bypassed the temptation to flirt and went straight to the elevator, heading for the client’s room, and checking my watch as I knocked. Exactly on time. Skylar didn’t know what she was talking about.

The door swung open, revealing a sleep-rumpled vision of a man that made my morning significantly more interesting. Skylar was right. This guy was fucking beautiful.

“Yes?”

The man stood there shirtless, dark hair mussed from sleep, eyes narrowed against the hallway light as if it had offended him. His chest was muscular and defined, not gym-sculpted, but fit, with a light dusting of hair trailing down to disappear into gray sweatpants, hanging low on his hips.

Who needs to flirt with front desk clerks when you can flirt with your dead sexy clients?

“Morning.”

I tried not to stare, but it was a losing battle. He had the brightest blue eyes, and soft pink lips that were made to be wrapped around a dick.

“I’m Makai Yamamoto from Salish Sea Adventure Tours. Your surf instructor. You requested a ride to the beach?”

He blinked, confusion washing over his face.

“Apologies, I’m a bit jet-lagged. What day is it?”

His accent was even posher in person than I’d imagined, each word precisely formed despite his obvious grogginess.

“It’s Sunday.”

I leaned against the doorframe, amused.

“Surf lesson day.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes, followed immediately by panic.

“Oh God. I must have overslept.”

He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more.

“Look, about the surfing, I tried to call last night. I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I didn’t realize how cold it would be. I’d like to cancel.”

“It’s not too cold.”

I pushed off the doorframe.

“The water’s perfect today. Light offshore breeze, small rolling waves. I couldn’t ask for better conditions for a beginner.”

“Yes, well, I’m not exactly...”

He trailed off, glancing over his shoulder into the room as if searching for an escape route.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for surfing. Perhaps we could reschedule for something less... cold and wet?”

Before he could close the door, I stepped forward and into the room. He backed up, startled, and I caught a whiff of expensive cologne mingled with sleep-warm skin.

“You’ve already paid for the full package.”

I let the door swing shut behind me.

“All week, if I’m not mistaken. And it’s non-refundable.”

I was pretty sure he’d try to find a loophole in our policy if I didn’t give him some kind of value for his money, so I pushed on.

“You have me all week, you might as well make use of me.”

“I’m perfectly fine with forfeiting the money.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, muscles flexing in a way that made my mouth water.

“My assistant booked these activities. I’m not entirely sure what he was thinking.”

“I’m guessing he was thinking you wanted to have some fun.”

I moved further into the room, pretending to admire the view.

“How about a compromise, since you already paid?”

“A compromise.”

“Yep. We go down to the beach. No pressure to surf. We’ll check out the conditions, enjoy the scenery, and maybe wade in if you feel like it. If you hate it, I’ll drive you back and you can cross ‘awkward morning with annoying surf instructor’ off your tourist bingo card.”

He hesitated, eyes searching mine like he was trying to find the trap.

“Just the beach?”

he asked finally.

“Just the beach,”

I confirmed, stepping back to give him space.

“Although I brought a wetsuit that would fit you perfectly, if you want to try surfing once we get there.”

I let my gaze drift deliberately down his body, not bothering to hide my appreciation.

“I’d guess you’re a size large, given your height and broad shoulders.”

A flush crept up his neck, and for a moment he stood there, studying me. He sighed, shoulders dropping in resignation.

“Fine. The beach. But I’m not promising anything more.”

“Wouldn’t dream of asking.”

I grinned, victorious.

“I’ll wait while you change. Put on swim trunks under your clothes. Because you never know.”

Huffing, he grabbed a few items from his suitcase and disappeared into the bathroom without another word. I heard water running, the sound of teeth being brushed, and wandered to the window, impatient.

The bathroom door opened, and Hamish emerged wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt that somehow managed to look expensive, even though they were basic. He’d tamed his hair and splashed water on his face, looking significantly more awake and significantly less rumpled. Shame.

“I suppose I should grab a jumper?”

he asked, glancing toward the window.

“Good call. It’s only about sixty degrees out there.”

I watched as he bent to retrieve a light sweater from his suitcase, the khaki shorts pulling tight across his ass. Very nice.

“Come on, Mr. Adventure. Your chariot awaits.”

We rode the elevator in silence, his discomfort radiating off him in waves. In the lobby, he nodded stiffly to the staff, maintaining that peculiar British formality even while following a stranger to an uncertain fate. Outside, he hesitated at the sight of my truck, eyeing the surfboards strapped to the roof rack with suspicion.

“That’s your vehicle?”

“Yep.”

I opened the passenger door for him, gesturing with a flourish.

“Your assistant didn’t pay for the limo upgrade.”

He climbed in reluctantly, and I closed the door behind him, circling around to the driver’s side. The cab wasn’t large, and when I slid behind the wheel, our shoulders brushed as we both reached for our seatbelts. He jerked away like I’d burned him, fumbling with the buckle.

“Sorry,”

he muttered.

“No problem.”

I started the engine, stealing a glance at his profile—straight nose, surprisingly long eyelashes, that aristocratic jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. I loved getting tightly strung people to unwind, loved seeing what could happen when they relaxed.

Preferably while naked.