Page 11 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

I fold my arms, examining him. He couldn’t have moved me with this outlandish little stunt, could he?

But it wasn’t the stunt. It was the way he said “I won’t treat you like shit.” The seriousness in those words. Damn, my bar is low.

“You know, I get along with everyone,” I say.

“Would you believe me if I say I do too?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, not everyone,” he concedes. “But despite my reputation, most people are…agreeable around me.”

“That’s because they’re on your payroll.”

Something I swear looks a little like hurt flashes over his face.

I bite my cheek to keep from saying something like I’m sorry . Because I’m not sorry. This guy needs to learn some manners.

I take a long breath. “Okay. Listen. I don’t need this job.

I have a job.” That’s not exactly true. The only way I could get Mac off my back was to tell him I quit.

He couldn’t force me to stay. But he accepted like a deeply worried dad.

“You come back the moment it goes south,” he said.

There was no if. The unspoken words there were and you know it’s going to go south.

I shove Mac and the Rusty Dinghy out of my mind.

Instead, I stare directly into Hopper Donnach’s crystal blue eyes, almost falling right into them.

I swallow to bring the saliva back to my mouth.

“I’ve never worked for someone I don’t—” I cut myself off.

I almost said I don’t respect . But that’s a little too harsh, even for him.

I really don’t know him beyond what I’ve seen in passing.

Or in tabloid headlines I glance at when I wait in line at the supermarket.

“I’ve never worked for someone like you,” I amend.

Hopper’s quiet for a long moment. “I have lots of people who work for me,” he says finally. “But hardly anyone actually knows me.”

The words are cryptic, and it’s possible he means that in a way that’s trying to garner sympathy.

But I don’t think so. Because as he says that, I see something flash in his eyes.

I’d swear on everything I own—which, admittedly, doesn’t amount to much—that Hopper Donnach feels alone.

I feel so certain about it because being lonely while being surrounded by people is so breathtakingly familiar it’s like a gut punch.

“Okay,” I say quietly.

Hopper waits patiently for me to continue. Because somehow he knows I’m going to keep going, even before I do.

“I’ll stay,” I say.

Hopper grins, his charming face back on like it was never gone. I have to look away. Like one does with the sun.

“I will do this job for Tru ,” I emphasize. “Since she deserves to have time at home with her baby without another giant baby needing her attention.”

Hopper nods, not even blinking at the insult. “Okay.”

Okay? That was easy. Too easy.

“So that’s it?” he asks, clearly thinking the same thing. His hands go to his hips .

“No,” I snap as I force my eyes not to follow. “That’s not it. We’re going to put some ground rules in place.”

Hopper’s hands drop to his sides. But his eyebrow goes up.

At that, to my absolute panic, the spot between my legs clenches.

It surges with something warm and desperate.

Because that’s a Duke expression. I look up to the sky.

I can’t look at that face anymore, or risk looking anywhere else on him.

All I see is the Duke. All I feel are those lonely nights feeling sorry for myself over the past few weeks, watching the Duke and his Daffodil in my bedroom, reciting every word he says.

And in the steamy bits? My hand drifting down…

My insides flutter like a whole flock of birds just took off in there. The stark reminder that I have fantasized—and more—about my potential boss—is not what I need.

“Well?” Hopper demands. “You going to share with the class?”

I grit my teeth.

When I look back at him, I swear he’s taken a step closer. Close enough I can see specks of gray in that sky blue of his irises.

Oh God. My pulse quickens, heat spreading even hotter down low. How does he do this? Just a look, and I completely lose my freaking mind?

You want me to share? Really? Okay, when you made your Daffodil come on screen, I came too! More than once, picturing those very hands—that very mouth—all over me!

I want to back up, but the car is there, so I lift my chin instead, hardly able to breathe. Wishing I never spotted that slice of his vulnerability earlier. Hating everything that draws me to him, from that to that fucking brow lift.

“Ground rules,” I croak. The words are to remind myself. To come back to myself.

Chris. Come on.

I force myself to remember how Hopper had a whole entourage come into his bedroom for a meeting because he was too lazy and uncaring about my time to respond to any of Tru’s meeting time requests. How he wasn’t even going to leave his doorstop until I kept walking away.

That helps. I straighten up, returned from the spell. I’m going to do this job for Tru, just like I said. I’m going to take a bunch of his money to do it, then I’ll be gone. But until then, I’m not putting up with his entitled Hollywood bullshit. So yeah, we’re going to set ground rules.

I step forward, forcing him to pull his head back as he steps back. I hold up a finger. “One. You listen to me first. Not the other way around.”

I expect pushback, but he says, “Done.”

Bolstered, I keep going with a second finger. “Two, we’re going to have a dick jar.”

“A what now?” His expression tells me he’s seriously wondering if this is a sex thing.

“Every time you act like a dick, you’re going to write something nice on a note and stick it in a jar.”

He looks relieved it’s not a sex thing.

Why does that make me just the tiniest hair disappointed? Probably because I’m just cute, where he has his pick of stunning.

My stomach twists at the old jab of low confidence. I’m better than this now. I’m in a good place.

But Hopper’s moved on from the thought I lingered on. He’s frowning. “Wait, I have to write?”

“Shoot, do you know how to do that?” I ask sweetly.

Hopper levels a glare at me. “I mean, what do I have to write?”

“It doesn’t matter. Use your creative skills. You’re just going to write the nice things down, so that in the future, when you get that little tickle telling you to be a dick again, you’re going to go through the jar and read what you wrote.”

Hopper opens his mouth to argue, but I don’t let him.

“It’s nonnegotiable,” I say. “But it’ll be the honor system,” I concede. “I’m not going to do a bunch of emotional labor reminding you to do it. If I ask you to show it to me, you will, though. Capisce?”

Hopper’s lips quirk. “ Capisce , Grandpa.”

“People still say capisce.”

“I would argue they do not.”

I hold up a third finger. “Three!”

He straightens, nodding like he’s ready.

“I’m not alerting you to meetings in your bedroom,” I say, remembering Tru and Cindi had to go in there to wake him up. “It’s weird.”

“Come on. Sometimes I have a hard time waking up.”

“You’re a grown man.”

“You noticed?”

I narrow my eyes. “That gong is going to live beside your door. If you’re not awake, I’m going to hit it repeatedly until you are.”

“That’s a little excess?—”

“Which brings me to number four. ”

He lets out a huff of breath. He’s annoyed now, which is good. It’s easier to focus on how much I can’t stand him this way.

“Four.” I continue. “You wear clothes when you talk to me.”

He waggles his brows. “Too distracting without them?”

Luckily the rage I feel at his cockiness is hot enough to mostly drown out the rush of hormones that flares through me remembering him shirtless in the kitchen.

“No. I prefer not to have meetings with toddlers. Or did you forget that part?” I think back to how furious he got when I called him a toddler at the restaurant.

But his brows are knitted together. He did forget.

I huff. “Clothes,” I say. “No exceptions.”

“What if I’m on working out?”

“There are clothes for that.”

“On set?”

I give an exasperated huff. “One exception.”

“What if it’s hot out?”

“Shorts are fine.”

“What if I’m in the pool?”

I grit my teeth. “Don’t be pedantic, Donnach. Shirts, where applicable. No pants and you get a…a… one-hundred-dollar fine.”

“That’s it?”

“Five hundred dollar fine!”

“Okay, Drill Sergeant. Anything else?”

I pinch my lips. There is one more thing. It’s the one I should have said first. The one Tru already confirmed, but I know I need to hear it from his mouth.

“You will never bullshit me.”

He blinks, which only makes me meet his eyes. His incredibly sexy, stupid, naturally smoldering eyes. “Some things are private, bangles.”

I swallow. He’s right, of course. He likely has private projects and NDAs all over the place. What do I know? But before I can say anything else, he says, “But if you ask me a question, I’ll give you a straight answer, okay?”

I consider this. Really, I can’t ask for much more. I pinch my lips. “Fine. Also…there may be more rules forthcoming.”

“But we’re done here?”

I want one last dig—a win to show him I’m in charge. But those thick-lashed eyes bore into me, making my mouth become devoid of saliva, let alone anything smarmy to say. “We’re done,” I say tersely.

He leans in. “Great. See you…”

“Tomorrow,” I say, feeling suddenly warm at his proximity. “This was just an introduction meeting. That was supposed to happen yesterday, as well as the day before.”

“Right. Well, can’t wait to see how a full day goes.”

He’s completely ignored the fact that it’s his fault those meetings got bumped.

And I know why. It’s because he can see his effect on me.

I try to roll my eyes. To give him another snappy comeback, but with him standing so very close—has he moved closer?

—every hormonal cell in my body feels like it’s shorting out.

“You know, maybe that’s the trick,” he says.

“What is?” I ask, though it comes out more like a squeak .

He knows the power he has. That star power I better become immune to very fucking fast.

“I think,” he says, leaning in so his face is beside me, the heat from his cheek radiating against mine. “You have less to argue about when we stand closer together.”

I want very badly to knee him in the balls. That would put an end to the white-hot liquid… something that’s swirling around in my stomach. Instead, my absolutely treasonous body melts at the feel of his warm breath filtering through my hair and onto the shell of my ear. But I can’t fucking move.

When he pulls back, he’s not just smirking.

He’s giving me a dazzling, full-on grin.

I can see the dimples under the shadow of his beard, and I swear to God, my underwear feels slick.

Because that grin, right now, is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

And it’s 100 percent my Duke. While he doesn’t know my connection to his characters, he damn well knows what he does to me. How can he not?

I’ve lost this round. It’s a total KO.

“See you tomorrow, bangles,” he says.

If I wasn’t already speechless, him revealing that he remembers the details of that meeting right down to the name he called me would get me there.

So would the wink he tosses me over his shoulder.

I’m still scrambling to get my head back in the game as he jogs back up the path.

My flabbers are so gasted I can’t even enjoy any satisfaction over the way he has to walk with his arms out as he navigates the sharp pebbles of the path.

I let out a sharp growl of frustration.

When he reaches the stoop, I finally find my voice. “You know, you’re not as hot as you think you are! Not with that ugly personality.”

“That right?” He’s reached the stoop.

“Yeah, that’s right.” I know I’m being juvenile, but if I’m going to keep this job, I can’t let him get to me. “In fact,” I say, planting my hands on my hips, “You’re so ugly that if my dog had a face like yours, I’d shave its ass and make it walk backward!”

This, unfortunately, makes Hopper howl with laughter. It’s funny, but it wasn’t meant to make him laugh.

I grit my teeth. Then I get in the car, slamming the door. When I peel off, he’s still laughing in the rearview.

I make it to the road again, but immediately pull onto the shoulder. I toss the car into park, yanking up the emergency brake. Then I grip the steering wheel, squeeze my eyes shut, and scream. I take a breath, then do it again.

This was Dad’s trick when things got too scary or intense.

“Gotta let that adrenaline out somehow, pumpkin.” He said he did it on his way home from particularly harrowing jobs, and he made me do it when I came home from school sulking over being teased or failing a math test or after being in a fight with one of my friends.

I scream again, pretending Hopper’s right in front of me.

That dog line was my dad’s joke too, and Hopper had the same reaction my dad would have had. How is it that this is one of the few times I’ve thought about my father where it didn’t feel like my heart had been pulverized? Why did it have to be with Hopper?

Usually, after screaming, I burst into tears .

But this time, I feel alive in a way I haven’t in years. And that’s the scariest part of all.