TAHITI AND ME? It’s love at first sight. When I stagger off the nine-hour flight from Los Angeles, the sky is dark and a rainstorm has just passed through. The tarmac beneath my sneakers breathes that wet, lush scent of asphalt into the air. And then when I breathe in, there are flowers. So many flowers.
The lines that form for immigration snake outside the tiny airport, but I don’t care because there’s drumming and singing, two sarong-wrapped, floral-shirt-wearing men banging out a primal rhythm as they sing that’s echoed faintly by the ocean drumming on the reef close by. The unfamiliar words of a love song wash over me. I can’t tell if they’re happy or sad, but they’re beautiful.
As is the dancer.
Did you think I’d miss her?
Barefoot, wearing a long grass skirt and one of those ridiculous coconut shell bras, she dances joyfully, arms extended, feet moving in ancient patterns. Someone’s dressed her up to match the postcards, but her long, dark hair ripples down her back as she moves, lost in her own world.
She’s neither young nor skinny and most of her audience is jostling for position in the immigration queues, but she dances with undeniable magic. I stand there until the line’s almost gone, watching, learning, smiling. My first instinct is to text Max a picture, which is when I remember that there are four thousand miles (and more) between us. I still take my phone out, though, checking to make sure that it’s no longer set to airplane mode and that it’s picked up the local cell phone service.
I have new messages from Lola and my agent.
But not Max.
Because we’re not a couple. We were definitely nothing like the endless line of honeymooners or even the slightly lumpy American couple in khakis and polo shirts bringing up the rear of the line. They’re bickering quietly, passing bags back and forth while they search for something. And whatever it is—a pen, the passports, the extra jackets she brought for the plane or the new camera he bought on impulse in the duty-free—they eventually find it and he slides an arm around her shoulders and she leans into him while they wait their turn. They look happy.
I mouth a thank-you to the dancer and move on. I have a job to do.
When I wake up the next morning, my hotel room’s so close to the ocean that salt spray lands on my deck. Dark blue water rolls away in the bay, and a few miles away, on the other side of the fringing reef, there’s a second jewel-green island almost within touching distance. It’s almost enough to make me forget that I’m here alone and not celebrating a romantic anniversary with my man.
In fact, I’m not alone at all. I mean, not entirely alone. The athleisure company that hired me has also sent a small support team in order to guarantee high-quality content. I have a photographer, a stylist and an assistant/manager. The first two days are a whirlwind of jet lag and photoshoots on the black sand beach in front of our hotel.
I pose in various yoga outfits, Instagram my best tropical fruits, and do yoga both on the beach and by a mountain waterfall with a melodic, polysyllabic name. It’s my dream gig. Everything I dreamed it would be.
Except that I can’t stop checking my phone.
Over and over.
When we fly to Bora Bora, I’m almost relieved. This is the island everyone dreams about, a legendary place for lovers. And indeed, the airplane is absolutely stuffed with lovers. I’ve never seen so many honeymooners in one place. They’re like octopi, flashing blinding diamond sets, touching, embracing and somehow entwined with each other no matter what the circumstances. And then there are the babies.
Yes, babies.
Honeymooners: pay attention. The tiny airplane that flies us from Tahiti to Bora Bora is like a bizarre Polynesian version of The Love Boat. Apparently, since there’s just a clinic on Bora Bora, the local women fly out to Tahiti a few weeks before their due dates so they can give birth in a hospital—and then make a triumphant flight home with their progeny. They’ve got a huge cheering section when we touch down. It seems as if every auntie, uncle, nana, papi and cousin has crowded into the family boats and rushed out to the airport to say hello to the newest Tahitians in the world, tossing flowered leis over the mamas and the babies and then ambling away in a happy, loud, cheerful crowd. Someone breaks out a ukulele and sings, just because. I can feel my feet tapping, remembering bits and pieces of the dance I watched at the airport.
While I bask in the baby cuteness, my team disappears to claim our baggage (which is neatly laid out on a metal counter for us to grab) and to suss out the rumor that a celebrity guest has just arrived in the sleek private jet that’s parked on the runway near the cheerful blue-and-white Air Tahiti plane. While they reconnoiter, I drink in the blue of the lagoon and the sharp, fierce mountains that stab up from the center. The airport’s on a motu, which means it’s surrounded by water and you have to take a boat to get off it. The passenger pickup zone is a series of small docks rather than the crowded, smelly concrete jungle of LAX and the other airports I’ve passed through.
And then the crowd thins out, the babies are whisked away, and I see him.
Max.
He’s standing by a rack of creamy flower leis, watching me. He looks slightly anxious and a little frazzled. He also looks amazing, which (let’s be honest) makes me mad. I feel stupid and needy—and rather desperate to run over to him and jerk his face down to mine and fuck his mouth in the middle of this airport of people.
Jesus.
Of course that’s his plane.
He plucks a flower lei off the wooden stand and strides toward me. His forehead gets that little crinkle—he’s got a plan and now he’s executing it, so all’s well in the Max-verse.
He stops when he’s right in front of me and drops the lei over my head. He may also draw his hand down my face. Which is sweet. And hot. And totally provoking.
Do you remember how we met? And how I destroyed his laptop and my phone? He either doesn’t—or he didn’t learn. I smirk at him, giving him a taste of his own medicine. And then I reach out and shove him into the lagoon.
He lands in the water with a deeply satisfying splash. For a moment, the whole airport seems to freeze. I hear someone yelling and realize it’s me.
“You don’t call.
“Or text.
“Or come over.
“You WALKED AWAY FROM ME.
“You didn’t want to stay.”
It turns out that therapists the world over are right. It feels good to let it all out, so let it out I do. At full volume. It’s too late to change the course of my relationship with Max, but the locals on the mainland are probably getting an earful. The Tahitians trapped at the airport with me look at me. They look at Max treading water. And then they point out the ladder, giggle and leave us alone. God bless a nation of laid-back, blissed-out locals.
When I finally dial back my volume, he’s treading water and listening. I was stupid to up and leave without having it out with him. We’d never talked about the important things. But I also knew that I didn’t want to hear all the reasons he couldn’t or wouldn’t or shouldn’t choose me. So I held it together and left.
And now here he is MESSING UP ALL MY CAREFUL PLANS.
“What are you doing here?” It’s not the suavest greeting in the world. I’m sure I’ll think of much better lines in the days and nights to come because that’s how it always works, isn’t it?
“Waiting for you.” He swims effortlessly over to the ladder and hauls himself up.
Water sheets off his clothes. His T-shirt’s stuck to his chest and the stupid, hopelessly romantic part of me wants to lick him dry with my tongue. It would take a long time. It’s hardly feasible. But God...look at him.
Or don’t look. Be strong. Bora Bora’s tropical and even at barely noon it feels sort of like we’re standing in an oven. A gorgeous, palm-tree-studded, sunshiny oven, true. Max will dry off and then maybe I can act normal.
“What do you want, Max?”
For a second he looks uncertain, but then he pulls it together. He definitely has a plan. “I miss you. We were good together.”
“The sex was awesome,” I blurt out.
Damn it.
My hookup king nods. Sex. That’s how he connects with women. It’s strangely impersonal in some ways.
“But I needed more than that,” I continue.
He nods. “I figured that out.” He holds out a blue box tied up with a very soggy velvet ribbon. “I brought this for you.”
There’s no way I’m taking it. Whatever it is.
“I don’t need presents, Max. Those are things, and while they’re nice, they’re not what matters. You can’t fix everything by throwing money at it.”
He takes my hand and sets the box in it. “I flew here.”
“In your private plane.” I roll my eyes. Such a hardship.
“Yes.” He’s smart enough to look wary.
“It’s a long way to come for a hookup.”
“I thought we could renegotiate the terms of our relationship,” he says.
My heart pounds as loudly as the Tahitian drums. “By giving me stuff?”
I know that works for some people and I’m not judging. When I was in high school, I fantasized more than once about a boyfriend who’d shower me with Victoria’s Secret and roses. Later, however, I grew up and realized it was better to buy my own stuff. I also realized that I needed to learn to pick different men. Max is simply a gorgeous mistake and I need to move on.
He stares at me. “I made this for you.”
Is he...blushing?
“Open the box,” he growls.
He’s definitely blushing. His face is the bright red of a hibiscus.
I open the box. Or what’s left of it. It’s a little soggy after its swim in the Polynesian lagoon. It half disintegrates in my hand, the sides falling apart once I tug the ribbon free.
I’m holding a plastic bag.
I shoot Max a look and he shrugs. “You said you had no idea how Dev could be so unconcerned about carting an expensive engagement ring around on a surfboard. You pointed out that he could fall in. I was listening.”
I also worried about sharks, but now probably isn’t the time to bring that up as I just dunked him in the lagoon—and I know for a fact that Bora Bora’s famous for its shark population.
“Did you get me a ring?” If he did, it’s enormous—and not in a good way. The baggie’s a quart-sized zipper bag.
He takes a step forward. “Do you want one?”
Do I?
I turn away and unzip the bag before I can have a heart attack and pull out—a phone.
Okay. So that’s not entirely what I was expecting. I mean, it’s nice and all, but as a romantic gesture it’s definitely not in my top ten.
Max puts his arms around me and taps the screen.
Wow.
And wow again. If it had been a ring, it’s safe to say that the bride and groom dance at our wedding would have been epic.
I stare at the naked dancing Max that fills my screen. He hovers by my side—I think he’s making sure no one else at the airport can see. I watch the video again. And then a third time.
Max still can’t dance, but he bobs and gyrates and slowly strips down to his birthday suit. In fact, I think he may have been influenced by that very famous Marilyn Monroe scene where she rasps “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”
“Maple?”
“Give me a moment.”
“I’m dying here.” I hear him swallow, and I look up. The hibiscus red has faded and now he’s looking a little pale.
“Before you can tell me this was a really bad idea and that my following you here is not okay, I just wanted to give you this and tell you something.”
“Wait.” I pause Dancing Max and lean back against Max’s chest. “First tell me why you’re pretending to be a Chippendales dancer.”
He winces. “Because I thought about how we met and how you made a video for your boyfriend. You said you shared it with him because you trusted him and that’s what people do in relationships, so—”
He stops.
“So this is you trusting me?” I don’t know what to say.
“Yeah.” His arms tighten around me. “I had a list. Of all the reasons I trust you.”
“How many?” This is Max. We all know he counted them. Hell, he probably ranked them, too.
His mouth brushes my forehead. “There was only one that mattered—I chose to trust you. So I’m hoping you might make a few choices.”
“Really?” I turn in his arms so that we’re pressed up against each other, arms around each other. I slide the phone inside his (very wet) pocket. He’s staring at me and there’s something there in his eyes, something warm and sweet and very, very Max.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Do you want the list?”
“Always,” I say gravely.
“Item one,” he says, “I love you.”
And then his lips find mine and for a long time, there’s no more talking. Just kissing and his breath in my mouth and mine in his and hands going places they really, really shouldn’t go, but no one seems to mind. He kisses my neck, the corner of my mouth, all my favorite places where he hasn’t kissed me since the last time we were together.
“Is that it?” I ask when we finally break apart. “There’s just the one item on your list?”
“That covers everything,” he promises.
“I think you copied my list,” I whisper back. “Because I love you, too.”
I think there’s about to be more kissing, but then he pauses. “Can I stay with you? And take that chance?”
I nod. “I do have a great hotel room. An overwater bungalow and everything.”
He pulls back, his hands cupping my face. “Not just here. For the whole year. For as long as you want me.”
I laugh and lean up to do some kissing of my own. “Are you hooked, then? No more hookups?”
He smiles at me, a dirty, perfect, absolutely Max kind of smile. “I love you, Maple.”
He pulls me closer still, until I’d swear we were defying the laws of physics or biology, and I swear my heart beats double time because Max O’Reilly is two-stepping me around the Bora Bora airport while people laugh and clap (and someone breaks out a ukulele that does not help his rhythm).
“It’s the only dance step I could learn in two days,” he whispers apologetically. It’s silly and awkward. And yes, there’s some stumbling with the strong potential of falling. But we’re also holding on to each other and I know in my heart that if we fall, we go together. And then we’ll get up together, too.
And I tell him the truth. “It’s perfect.”
Dare to read more sexy stories!
Check out our other Harlequin DARE titles
available this month:
Hotter on Ice
by Rebecca Hunter
Slow Hands
by Faye Avalon
The Sex Cure
by Cara Lockwood
Discover more on Harlequin.com
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Sex Cure by Cara Lockwood.