The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 28B

I check my reflection, noting I've majorly caught the sun during my time here. I'm glowing and tanned. My hair has developed some new highlights among my chemical ones, which catch the light, giving me a blonder look.

I grab my bag and chuck in the everyday essentials: cell, book, sunscreen, and sunglasses, despite Jake giving me his. I put his back on my face instead of my own; I like having them on as a reminder of how well he takes care of me.

I'm ready and meet him back on deck quickly. Now I can see him standing and not cast in shadow; he's in jeans and a T-shirt, with that superman body; his hair is still damp. He's had a shower or been for a swim before waking me. He appears relaxed and casual, as usual. I'm always in awe of the way his clothes sculpt his powerful body; it should be illegal to look that good in everyday wear.

He smiles as I close the gap between us. He automatically ruffles my hair, lingering to twirl a strand, before he makes me follow him down to the lower deck behind him. He seems in a better mood as we head to the back of the yacht, where a small speed boat is anchored, ready and waiting.

***

His father keeps a car ashore for mainland visits, and Jake's as good at driving the low, rumbling sports car as he is the speedboat, effortlessly confident and capable, and it's seductive. Seeing a man capable of driving an expensive, powerful machine is a turn-on. He drives fast, but I don't feel unsafe. He molds to the roads and the curves like a pro while I'm left to ogle the surroundings in awe. The scenery is breathtaking, and we don't talk much as music blares from the speakers, wind in my hair from the open roof.

We don't need to talk; we mastered this companionable silence through forced proximity long ago, and I'm glad of it now. We have scatterings of meaningless small talk but mostly quiet. I glance at his profile and watch the concentration etched on his face; he's too handsome to be real sometimes.

I can't help but linger on his mouth and get lost in the memory of how his kiss had felt last night, of how it had made me feel. Allowing myself the brief memories before guilt and shame push them away. He glances my way, catches my eye, and smiles, all soft and relaxed, and I can't help but return it shyly. Sometimes he looks so young and welcoming, and I forget that he is my boss and that this is beyond complicated and could never work.

We still haven't spoken about last night, and I'm not sure I want to; in fact, I don't. I want to forget it happened, forget what it felt like, and act like everything is the same. I need this job; I need my mental faculties to deal with this job, and I feel that going to bed with Jake would probably alter that for an eternity. He's watching the road again, so I relax back in my seat, sighing.

This is not simple at all, and I ponder many things.

My friendship, career, and fear of being used and hurt. Just fear.

My inability to let a man in or trust him fully, there's no simple solution when it comes to Jake and me. He's the poster child for casual sex and commitment phobia. Complicating everything last night with drunkenness was stupid. I try focusing on the scenery to clear my mind and not dwell on this, but he hasn't even told me where we're going.

"So, are we literally just driving then?" I ask brightly; he's uber-focused on the road and giving off a weird vibe.

"Nope." He's still in that weird mood, preoccupied and tetchy, monosyllabic despite seeming okay at first.

"No clues?" I try, irritation rising. Jake doesn't do vague very often, and I wouldn't say I like it when he does. I hate vagueness and surprises.

"None!"

Hmmm.

"How do you know I'll like it?" I try a different approach to coax answers, shoving down the surge of annoyance in the pit of my stomach. He only shrugs.

Why is he being so … so pissy and closed off, for God's sake?

"It's not fun, is it?" he responds. His voice is tight, but he's still focusing on the road.

"What?" I snap back, catching his face turned to me for a second, his eyes narrowed; he looks minorly pissed off.

What the hell? Where did that come from?

"Being closed out." He has a hint of humor in his eye now, but I know he's being serious, sarcastic, and not friendly. I frown at him and go back to my sight-seeing, confused by his manner, trying hard not to rise to it and inwardly churning up with anxiety.

"What does it take, Emma?" That edgy tone in his voice betrays a lousy mood looming up.

Why today?

I curse inwardly. Jake's negative moods are the worst; maybe he's hungover and still tired. He shifts gear as we round a rather craggy coastal turn, focusing on the road, his brows furrowed and a tightness to his jaw that screams of tension.

"Jake, please … what are you talking about?" I squirm in my seat and adjust my clothes to distract from the awkwardness of my movement.

How have I closed him out? He's seen more of me and knows more of me than anyone on the planet. Does he not see that?

"You're not even going to mention last night? Is that another conversation over?" he snaps, and I bristle.

"You didn't mention it either," I spit back, a little too aggressively, riled up by this attack; it's like he's getting his period.

"I was waiting to see if you would," he retorts, eyes cool green and face tense; he's in stubborn and challenging mode.

Great!

"Why?" I snap, but he shrugs again.

Oh my god.

He can be so infuriating. I think he's still exhausted for sure, and he's being crabby as hell. I don't want to fight; I want to go back to playful, fun Jake. This is not the little outing I was expecting.

"Jake, it shouldn't have happened; we crossed a line," I plead, trying to make him see sense, stop this fiery conversation and get back to something lighter.

"And there she is! Right back to square one." The sarcasm is thick in his tone, his body stiffening in his seat.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I turn to him angrily.

"Anytime you get close, Emma, even a hint of letting go, you snap right back in and shut the door. No conversation, no acknowledgment of it, just wham. Over!" he barks at me, all hope of not fighting out the window, and my emotions tank.

"What?" I hiss with a sarcastic laugh. "Because I won't sleep with my boss, I'm not letting myself go? That's being closed off?" I turn away, anger flaming my face, downright furious now.

Fuck you, Carrero. Why is it always about sex with him?

"I don't think there was any doubt about it last night. That's not the issue; it's the afterward, Emma." His voice is laced with venom, anger seething from every pore, his body tense. I stay silent, anger prickling my scalp. I'm as wound up as him now.

"I was drunk, being stupid; anyone can make a mistake," I huff.

Stop being an asshole and ruining this.

I shift in my seat to turn away from him, trying to face the side window fully. I'm suddenly thrust forward as he slams on the brakes, and we screech to a halt, kicking up dust and stone around the car, throwing everything loose toward the front with a violent clatter.

What the hell?

I snap my head at him, shocked. He's gripping the wheel aggressively, staring straight ahead, and taking a calming breath. I notice he's swerved us into the side of the road, out of the nonexistent traffic. He unbuckles, gets out of the car, and stalks off toward the other side of the road overlooking the vast drop-off over the cliff edge. Every muscle in his body is tight and flinching with rage.

What the actual hell? Where did this even come from? What should I do?

I've never actually been the focus of this version of angry Jake, not like this, not with this kind of rage. I feel sick, unbearably emotional, and I reel it back in, taking deep, heavy breaths, trying to still my hands, and not letting him get to me while my stomach ties itself in knots.

He returns to the car and slides in stiffly, making me jumpy and nervous. He's not looking at me and doesn't put his belt back on. I don't know what to say. Angry, aggressive men as big as Jake are my worst nightmare.

Why is he reacting this way?

I've no clue what happens in his head sometimes, and I watch him warily, every nerve ending in my body on high alert.

"It's not about sex, Emma." He's quiet and reflective, and his hands move back to the wheel, but he doesn't start the car. "It's about this eternal need in you to stay in full control, never letting anyone in, never letting yourself enjoy anything, and never letting your guard down. Always keeping me at arm's length." His voice is gruff and edgy with an undertone of aggression.

"That's not true." I do enjoy things in my life; he has no idea. And he's the closest person to me in the world.

"Really? Emma, I've been with you for months now; I've seen just about every version of you there is, tired, grumpy, bossy, happy, PMS-ing like fuck." He's calmer, but his voice is still strained with that edge to his tone. I sit stiffly, focusing on his hands, gripping and ungripping the steering wheel as he talks. His body language speaks volumes about his inner hostility. "I've seen you vulnerable only briefly." He flicks his eyes at me, and I spin away, hating that he's even seen it. "I get it, Emma; you're strong. You want everyone to see that. You don't need anyone. But it's not who you are. And it's not true." It's almost an accusation.

"Yes, it is! Do you ever think that maybe you overthink it and try to see stuff that isn't there?" I spit angrily. I hate him analyzing me, trying to make out that I don't know myself inside and out. He has no clue what goes on inside of my head.

"I think I know you better than most people."

He's right; he does know me better, but it doesn't mean he knows all of me. I think of my mom and Sarah and push both images away. I don't think I've cried in front of either of them since puberty.

"What if I don't know how else to be, Jake?" I turn to him in frustration at his know-it-all ideas. "You keep pushing, telling me to let go, and what if I can't? What if this is me? This is all I know. I'm not capable of doing it any other way, or needing other people, because I don't know how." I'm yelling at him. Why am I shouting?

Because he's hit a nerve, and it hurts, and I hate him for it, hate him for stripping me bare. I don't get a second of warning before he bridges the gap between us, instantly molding his mouth to mine, completely unexpected.

His lips are warm and soft, swiftly pushing mine apart. His tongue is in my mouth, caressing, and it feels like heaven, instantly crushing my defenses and melting my armor. His hands bury under the layers of my loose hair, and I kiss him back, tangling my fingers in the collar of his shirt so I can pull him closer, instinct taking over. Breathing heavily, I'm getting lost in the sensation of his touch, his sensual mouth, which does amazing things to my very soul. We moan lightly as the kiss deepens, my stomach lurching with desire, and I almost let go.

My head reels around full circle as though trying to slap some sense into me, and somehow I mentally recoil.

I can't do this; I can't.