Page 33 of Not Safe for Work

But it’s too late, and they’re both standing, fists balled at their sides. I rub my face with my hands and groan. Why are men?

“Then what is your problem?” Andy asks, their chests just inches apart. Rafe is taller and bigger and there’s that rip-open-the-sky expression on his face I’m so familiar with. Andy stands his ground, but I can sense his understandable wobble of concern.

“Boys. What is going on here?” An icy voice slithers through the tension.

David Gallagher stands a few feet away, wearing a white short-sleeve button-up shirt and khaki shorts, his hand stuffed casually into a pocket like he’s just stepped from the page of a Burberry catalog. He’s the picture of old money and distinguished elegance.

He swirls the glass of whisky in his hand before taking a sip, his cold eyes never leaving his son. “Is this how a Gallagher behaves? I thought I raised you better than that.”

Immediately, Rafe’s entire demeanor transforms, and he retreats into himself. This is his defense mode, I realize. He did the same thing this afternoon when speaking with Hannah.

This is a vulnerable Rafe. This is a Rafe that makes my stomach twist in a foreign way.

Andy backs off, thunder clouding his expression.

David Gallagher sweeps an arrogant glance over both men, who’ve been reduced to scolded little boys. He swirls his glass again, the clink of ice barely audible over the din of the boat.

“Sorry, sir,” Rafe says, and Andy echoes the apology before throwing Rafe a scathing look and stalking off.

We all stare at one another, and I consider tossing myself overboard just to escape this awkwardness.

Then it’s Rafe’s turn to walk away.

I stare at his back until he disappears, and that’s the last I see of him for the rest of the night.

Chapter Nine

Early the next morning, I wave my swipe card against the glass door of the hotel gym.

It beeps merrily, and I haul it open. Inside, the ceiling stretches high overhead, and a polished row of treadmills lines a wall of windows offering a view of the beach.

After the incident with Rafe and his father on the boat, I hung out with Lan and Gabrielle while keeping my distance from Andy, no longer in the mood for any type of male attention.

The problem with a party boat is that you’re trapped. Thankfully, it started raining, and we were forced to return early.

When we docked back at the hotel, I went straight to my bedroom and locked the door before I called down to the front desk, begging them to find us another room. Still no luck. They also politely (but sternly) requested that I stop contacting them until they call me with an update. Next, I tried Belinda since she still hasn’t answered any of my emails, but I’m pretty sure she’s blocked my number.

Rafe was already gone when I emerged this morning. I’ve considered asking again if he can bunk with his dad, but now I’m not sure after witnessing their interaction on the boat last night.

Today, the sky is grey, and it’s still raining.

On my way down, I overheard some hotel staff telling a group of tourists to expect some unusual weather over the next few days—including possible thunder and lightning—which is apparently rare around here. It’s just my luck that it might happen when I’m visiting because storms have made me nervous since I was a kid.

Hopefully it will blow over.

My gym shoes squish against the rubber floor as I head towards the free-weight area. Coming to a halt, I let out a dramatic sigh because, obviously, Rafe is standing in front of the mirror with a giant dumbbell clutched in each hand. Is there nowhere I can hide?

I stand momentarily fossilized as I watch him work.

One. Two. Three.

He’s Hercules, biceps swelling, the veins in his neck straining, and the curl resting on his forehead practically waving at me with coy fingers. Of course he’s here. A man doesn’t look like that without some serious hours logged in the gym.

At first, he doesn’t notice me, which is surprising because it feels like the sound of my panting fills every corner of the room. My mouth has become sandpaper, and I hate that I intend to replay this moment in my daydreams until it disintegrates from use.

His fitted black tank reveals the caps of his rounded shoulders, the dips in his back, and the pronounced swoop of his collarbones. The thin material of his shorts clings to his ass and his thighs and his… oookaaay.

And that’s it—the very last stone has just been turned in the winding corridors of my filthy imagination.