The Reality of You by Jean Haus Page A

yourself, probably out to be the richest guy
on the planet. But as a male, you wouldn’t miss that .”
    “Out to be the
richest guy?” he echoed in a confused tone.
    “Okay, maybe a bit
of an exaggeration. You’re quite driven though.”
    “So you don’t think
I’m rich?” he asked in disbelief.
    Something told me
that I was out of my element here—and it wasn’t the rum, more like his tone and
confused expression—so I cautiously said, “I think…I’m sure, compared to me,
you’re quite wealthy, just not Donald Trump rich. Yet,” I added with a smirk
for his ego. “I’m quite sure, one
day, you’ll be one of the rich and famous. Maybe even a billionaire.”
    He stared at me for
several long seconds, his eyes wide, his mouth, to my surprise, slightly ajar.
    “What?” I asked,
sensing again that I was somewhere in left field, picking dandelions while the
ball flew over my head.
    “Nothing,” he
murmured, still appearing slack mouthed. He sat back as if registering some
momentous knowledge. After studying me for what felt like forever, he finally
lifted his scotch. “To your victory.”
    “Um…thanks,” I
replied.
    He set his glass
down with a clink on the glass table. “Watching you limbo, I was amazed.
Considering your past performances, I expected the dance floor to be
obliterated.”
    Reaching for my ice
water—I had to slow down or it was going to be a hungover plane ride the next
day—I gave him a coy look, suddenly feeling a bit flirty—must have been the
rum. “Past performance?” I lowered my chin, copying him. “I don’t believe I was
that sauced the other night. Surely, I’d remember that .”
    His gaze burned in
the low light. “Oh, you’d remember that.”
    My stomach curled in
a fast coil of lust at how certain he was.
    He pushed his empty
beer glass to the middle of the table. “First the soccer demonstration, and now
the limbo. Apparently, you aren’t without coordination. Were you purposely
sabotaging every resort activity?”
    “Ah, no,” I said
slowly. “I… You make me nervous. You and sharks.” Rum also loosened my tongue.
    For a second, he
appeared surprised then satisfied. “Why do I make you nervous?”
    Because I’ve been watching you for over
seven months. Oh hell
no. Because you’re hot enough to melt my
panties off. Really hell no. Thinking hard—like burst-a-brain-vessel
hard—within my buzz, I blurted, “Men in general make me nervous.” Lying worked
best as the truth revised.
    Suddenly, he
stilled, frozen hotness across from me. “Why is that?”
    “I, ah…haven’t dated
in nearly three years. Bad, bad end to a relationship in college left me
gun-shy.”
    He blinked at me for
several long moments, his entire form immobile in astonishment. His body
gradually relaxed. “You haven’t been with a man in three years?”
    “Something like
that,” I grumbled, not wanting to be reminded of my long dry spell. “I did say
almost.”
    “Interesting,” he
said, staring at me and reaching for his scotch. He swirled the liquid in the
glass, his heated gaze on me.
    My hands gripped the
arms of the chair. It seemed like I could see the thoughts swirling in his head
while the amber liquid swirled in my peripheral vision. Challenge. Seduction.
That hand holding the glass peeling back my clothes as I trembled with want and
trepidation. Moans. Lots of moaning.
    Or maybe my
imagination was in overdrive, fueled from the rum.
    He lifted the glass
to his lips, and I recalled that first time I’d seen him out of work at the
bar. I remembered the leggy woman’s pant as he’d drawn her to him, and in a
flash, images rolled through my head in which I was getting drawn against his
body then panting and moaning. I
seemed to have a huge moaning thing going on in my imagination.  
    Between his searing
eyes staring at me from over the rim of the glass and me wrapping my legs
around his waist in my imagination, I sprang up before I dove across the table
and