I whirl around to get the camera and connect solidly with Roman’s chest. He’s all man, all muscle, and the impact throws me off balance. He catches me easily, steadying me upright to look into my eyes. I’m awash with fear and the beach breeze makes for an odd contrast, tickling delicately along the back of my neck.

“The camera,” I whisper.

“You didn’t come here to be the social media manager. No, that was only a cover for your real objective. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I wouldn’t see it?”

“I did,” I protest weakly. “When Beau called me with the job offer, I knew I wanted to work here. The experience—”

“Don’t act like this is a line item for your resume. I know exactly what this is. You can stop fighting and admit it, Jenny. Just admit it.” His hands are strong on my shoulders, but he’s not hurting me. He is, in fact, holding me upright. Being this close to Roman in the middle of a surprisingly intimate firing scene has turned my knees into wobbly Jell-O.

“What is it, then?” I can’t help leaning into those hands. Who could? It’s surprising that the resort isn’t thriving based on Roman’s presence alone. A few shots of him on the social media accounts could do wonders. Maybe the next person to have this job will do that.

“You came here to get my attention.” Roman is absolutely sure of himself. Authority rings in his tone. “Stop pretending otherwise.”

My mind can’t process the rush of relief and desire and embarrassment that goes through me. “Why should I?”

“Because you have my attention. All of it.”

12

Roman

I couldn’t stand one more moment of watching Jenny pretend. She’s been so fucking coy the last week that it nearly ended my life. I’d rather have Jenny London in a bikini every day than Jenny London demurely avoiding my eyes every time I see her in the office, which she’s made rare by the fact that she works relentlessly.

And me? I’ve been dying to touch her again.

Sadly, my hands on her shoulders doesn’t even begin to scratch the itch.

Jenny’s eyes are locked on mine, wide and searching, yearning. The expression on her face flickers back and forth between the gorgeous bombshell who walked into my office in that damned red bikini and someone...timid. Someone shy.

“I’m not quite sure what to do with it,” she says, that soft voice raking its fingernails down my back, making goosebumps rise. “All your attention.”

“So far, you’ve used it to torture me. And I think you know that.”

Her smile is tentative, yet satisfied. “How could I know—?”