Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1 Read online

  And at the eleventh second, I find myself across Declan’s knee, panty-covered ass exposed, the EpiPen in his hand, injected into my thigh.

  With twenty hula dancers gaping at me.

  Aloha.

  * * *

  “This place is great! Did you know how great it would be? I never knew how beautiful the ocean is here in Hawaii. And volcanoes! Oh, my God, the volcanoes! They’re so tall! And the rocks are jagged and black, with the sky so blue. Wow, Declan, look at the mints they give you on the pillow here. They’re so big and flat!” I rip open the wrapper and shove the gooey chocolate-coated peppermint into my mouth, talking around it. “Can we get more of these? Of course we can! I’m Mrs. McCormick! I freaking own this place! At least for a little bit longer, right, hubby?”

  Adrenaline is a wonder drug. Adrenaline is my new best friend. Sorry, Amanda!

  I didn’t get stung. Poor Ms. Landau has a swollen eyelid from taking the hit, but I survived unscathed.

  Except for the EpiPen injection.

  Declan turned me into Speed Racer, Hammy the Squirrel, and the female version of the Flash with one well-executed allergy rescue.

  Declan watches me, nodding lightly, his eyes filled with a mixture of appraisal and concern.

  “Yes.” He picks up the phone, murmurs into it, and sets the handset down.

  “Yes to what? Yes to getting more mints? Yes to the volcanoes being so amazing?” I race across the room to our patio, the railing separating our private space from the soft sand, and squeal, “I can’t believe I’m in Hawaii! You brought me here! I’m halfway across the world from everything I’ve ever known and you’ve made all my dreams come true!” I fling my arms into the air and do my best Kate Winslett Titanic imitation.

  Declan makes a strange grunting noise in the back of his throat.

  “Can we go hiking? Look at that hiker up there! He’s wearing blue.” I point to the black cliffs on a volcano behind us. “I want to do that.”

  “Shannon, he’s rock climbing.”

  “That sounds like fun! Let’s go. Right now.” I grab his hand and yank him toward the door.

  “We can’t go rock climbing. The resort doctor barely cleared you for coming back to the room. You need rest.”

  “Rest? Rest? Pfft. Who can rest when the world is so new and inviting and free and ahhhhhhhh!”

  Declan reaches for the paper the clinic doctor gave us. Once we ascertained that I wasn’t in mortal danger, that Ms. Landau isn’t allergic to bees, and that Declan blew his adrenaline wad for nothing, a quick once-over from the resort’s MD cleared me.

  To be fair, Dec did the right thing. The doctor praised him.

  But no good deed goes unpunished.

  “How to counteract the effects of adrenaline injection,” he mutters to himself, frowning. “Hmm. Nothing here.” He picks up his phone and taps.

  “Who are you calling?”

  He gives me one finger.

  I bite it. Hard.

  “SHANNON!” he booms, pulling away, shaking it like a thermometer. Deep tooth marks mar his second knuckle.

  “You taste good.” I smack my lips. “Like a salt lick. Lick lick lick. Ever notice how stupid that word sounds if you say it enough? Lick lick lick lick lick...”

  I suddenly realize that I can touch the tip of my tongue to my nose. Never been able to do that before.

  “Eck! Eck! Eee uht I an ooo ih I ung?” I grunt, trying to get his attention. Adrenaline must make your tongue longer. They should sell it in sex toy stores.

  WOO HOO!

  He gives me a scowl as he talks on the phone. “Grace? I need you to find out how to counteract the effects of adrenaline injection.” He pauses. “Yes, that’s what I said.” Pause. “No, it’s Shannon.” Pause. “She’s fine.” Pause. “Well, fine might be an exaggeration. She’s in no medical danger, but...” He drops his voice to a husky murmur.

  I unpack everything in our bags in thirty seconds, then spot the coffee maker.

  “Oooohhh, coffee.”

  He grabs my arm. “Caffeine is the last thing you need.”

  “But I am a caffeine empress! The Queen of Kona! That would make a great marketing campaign, wouldn’t it, Dec? See, I can work on our honeymoon, too. I am a wealth of ideas.”

  He rubs his hand across his eyes and looks up to the ceiling, as if praying.

  I start undressing, stripped naked in seconds.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Putting on hiking clothes.”

  “Shannon, can you wait a minute? I’m on the phone with Grace.”

  “Nope.” I slide on knee-length Lycra sports pants and slip my arms into a purple V-neck shirt.

  “Grace? What? Nothing? Really. Damn. Thanks.” He slides the phone into his pocket and plants his hands on his hips, staring at me.

  I imitate him.

  “Did you know that putting your hands on your waist like that for twenty seconds or more actually increases testosterone levels in the blood?” I tell him. “And if you do this—” I raise my hands in the air like a runner crossing the finish line, victorious—“it increases testosterone even more?”

  “I did not know that. Where did you learn that?”

  “Pam.”

  “Of course.”

  “Not from my mother!” I laugh. He flinches. “She’s the one who told me swallowing semen clears up acne!”

  Huh. Didn’t know Declan had that many muscles in his face. If he squints any harder he’ll turn into a shrunken head.

  I start jogging in place. “Let’s go! I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who run on the beach. Let’s be that couple, Declan! Let’s run free!”

  “You forgot to put on a sports bra, honey.”

  I look down and nearly take out one of my eyes.

  I stop jogging.

  “Oops. Knew I forgot something.”

  I strip off my shirt.

  Declan grins, closing the gap between us, hands on my breasts. “Now that’s more like it,” he says in a low voice.

  “Take off your clothes,” I order, moving to the closet.

  “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  I fling his workout clothes at him.

  He’s still undoing his tie and gives me a puzzled look. “What’s that?”

  “Workout clothes! Remember?” I grab my sports bra and put it on.

  He looks at my chest. “Your bra is on backwards.”

  I look down. The elastic racerback jersey runs between my breasts, which poke out on either side like headlights.

  I wriggle back out of it and turn it around.

  “Better?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “C’mon!” My purple Lycra shirt’s on in seconds. “Let’s go!”

  “Shannon.” He’s not even out of his business shirt.

  “What?”

  “You’re going to crash soon.”

  “Crash? Fuck no!”

  He startles.

  “What? I can say that word.”

  “You never say it.”

  “Fuck.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Never say never.”

  “Honey, the doctor said the adrenaline surge you’re going through will end shortly. You didn’t get stung, so the EpiPen affects you differently. You’ll get the shakes and need rest. We can’t—”

  I sprint for the beach, his voice in the background, shouting my name.

  I become the wind.

  “Your mints are here!” he calls out.

  I halt.

  I reverse course.

  Mints? Screw the wind.

  Yum.

  I get back to the open wall and find him standing there, in shirtsleeves and suit pants, holding a basket filled with mints, wearing a look of evaluative contemplation that makes me feel like a lab specimen.

  I open five at once and mumble “thank you.”

  “Is there anything else, Mr. McCormick?” The hotel staff person looks at us with bright, cheery eyes. His name tag say
s Frank.

  “Yes! A latte,” I chirp.

  “Decaf,” Declan whispers to the guy.

  “Decaf? No!” I squeal. “What a waste! Drinking decaf coffee is like going to a sex toy shop and the only item you buy is a copy of People Magazine!”

  Mr. Frank Bright Eyes looks panicked.

  Declan waves the guy off and pulls me into his arms. My mouth is sticky and my hands are full of multiple mints in various states of unwrapping.

  “You’re squishing my mints,” I mutter into his chest. He’s undone enough buttons that my lips press against the dark hair that’s sprinkled across his pecs.

  “That’s a new euphemism for breasts.”

  “No, really. The chocolate is melting in my hands, which are pressed against your belly button.”

  “You can lick it off later.”

  “That’s a waste of really, really good chocolate.”

  His abs tighten. He takes a deep breath.

  “Shannon. Shannon,” he stresses, his arms caging me, bands of steel that don’t care if the mints melt everywhere. I’m a live wire and he’s grounding me. “You just went through a huge shock. I’ve told hotel staff to clear the area of blossoms. They’re preparing an interior room for us to avoid any more bee incidents.”

  “No! I want to be on the beach! I researched this! The chance of a bee on the beach is super slim. No, Declan! I didn’t get stung. I want the outdoor room! I don’t want my damn allergy to ruin everything!” My hands turn viscous and sticky. I start to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, soothing me with a hand that strokes my hair.

  “It’s not fair,” I sob.

  “I know. That bee came damn close.”

  “I’m not upset about the bee.”

  “Then what?”

  “All this great chocolate just melted into your belt buckle.”

  He lets out an exasperated sigh.

  And then I begin to shake.

  “Here it comes,” he says in a resigned tone, pulling back. He looks down at his waistline.

  “It looks like a honeymoon Rorschach test,” he notes.

  I just cry. All my energy, all the zing, has turned against me. The adrenaline has become a traitor, now making me feel anxious, tired and wired, like I need to crawl out of my skin, power wash it, and put it back on. His hands go to his hips and I put my sticky, chocolate-coated palms on my cheeks and sob.

  “Shannon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m sticky and the mints are gone and I’m a mess and you’re stuck with me and you married a freak and the bee almost stung me and what am I going to—”

  And just like that, every ounce of energy disappears from me, like common sense fleeing my mother at a rummage sale in a wealthy Wellesley neighborhood church.

  I stumble to the bed, stretch out—

  And the world disappears.

  Chapter 5

  My face is stuck to the pillow. The room smells like a salty Altoid mint. I feel curiously spicy. My hands are pressed between my knees and every muscle is tense and liquid at the same time.

  And someone is pulling my hair in the least erotic way ever.

  I sit bolt upright. The pillow tries to come with me.

  “Dec?” I croak out. A huge breeze lifts the billowing curtains on the side of the room that’s open and facing the ocean.

  “Shannon?” His voice is soft with concern. I hear a shh shh sound as he walks across the room, and then a green bottle, slick with condensation, is thrust into my hand.

  “Drink some water. The doctor said you need to hydrate and eat protein.”

  I dutifully sip. It’s sparkling water, and the bubbles swell at the back of my throat, but I gag it down.

  “What happened?”

  “The Epipen adrenaline got to you. You crashed.”

  “How long was I asleep?” I look outside. It’s dark.

  “Five hours.”

  “Five hours?”

  “You’re jet-lagged, too.”

  I noticed a blue glow in the distance behind him. “Have you been working?”

  He doesn’t even look embarrassed. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wasn’t tired.” He brushes his fingertips along my jaw line, pressing hard, then pulling back. He pops his index finger into his mouth and smiles. “You taste good.”

  I reach up. My face is a wall of goo.

  “Oh, God,” I groan. “I must look awful.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “You’re just saying that because you have no choice. You married me.” I look at my left hand. My fingers are filthy with chocolate around my wedding ring. “You’re stuck with me, so you make the best of it.”

  He moves closer, his body heat preceding him. The air is full and warm, like a lover’s embrace. And then he pulls me in for a sweet kiss.

  No. Really. A very, very sweet kiss.

  I laugh in the middle of it.

  His tongue parts my lips, sweeping along the bottom. We taste like cocoa and peppermint, like salt and sleep, and soon I stop laughing, drawn to the divine between us, his hands under my shirt, mine pulling on the thick hair at the nape of his neck, and he’s moving me onto my back, the pillow finding its place as we warm together, melting.

  Literally melting the sticky confection that covers me.

  And now him.

  “You’re not only stuck with me, you’re stuck to me,” I whisper-giggle.

  He answers with a kiss.

  “We need a shower,” I say suggestively, heat pooling between my legs, the exhaustion of moments ago dissipating.

  “I’ll lick you clean.” His voice is rough and low, filled with a promise that’s almost a threat.

  I shiver as he dips his head down, biting my shirt, suckling. The sound drives me crazy, the feather-light flick of his tongue across my aching nipple forging anticipation in every inch of my tingling skin. He has all of me, rapt with attention, the Pacific breeze accompanying him.

  Tap tap tap.

  I jolt.

  He doesn’t stop, his maddening tongue playing favorites, hand sliding my shirt up to reveal my navel, his mouth covering it, tongue teasing the soft center.

  Tap tap tap.

  “Is someone at the door?” I whisper.

  “Ignore it.”

  Knock knock knock. “Mr. McCormick?”

  With a frustrated sigh that borders on a growl, Declan grudgingly gets off me, walking to the door, flinging it open. I scurry to cover myself. Looking down, I see there’s no way to make myself presentable, so fleeing to hide in the bathroom is my only option.

  “We are so deeply gratified that you’ve chosen our resort for your honeymoon. Our staff has been instructed to give you and Mrs. McCormick the absolute best possible service,” says an obsequious voice, a man with a slight accent. I can’t quite pinpoint it, but I suspect if I peeked, he’d be Japanese.

  “Thank you.” Dec has an accent, too. It’s called Frustrated Hard-on.

  “We begin with an assortment of tropical fruits from our own organic farm here on the island,” he says. I hear the squeak of a room service cart, then a massive cloud of ripe fruit and coconut fills the air, my nostrils widening with interest. My mouth starts to water.

  “We appreciate it, Mr....” Declan’s being polite. Barely.

  “Miyadori.”

  See? I was right.

  “Mr. Miyadori, the attention to detail is most impressive.”

  “We are gratified to serve, Mr. McCormick.”

  “But.”

  I can hear the guy’s face fall.

  “My wife and I would like privacy above all.”

  “Of course! I assure you that you will not be interrupted by the press.”

  “The press? Did you say the press?” Declan’s voice goes low with tension.

  “Yes, sir. The paparazzi have been stalking the
resort since they learned of your plans to honeymoon here.”

  I go numb.

  “How did they learn—oh, God,” Dec groans. “Shannon!”

  I poke my head out the door. “Yes?”

  Mr. Miyadori spots me and bows grandly.

  Do I curtsy? Not sure what to do here. I bow, but stumble, and end up face down on the tile floor, my hands leaving a thick brown swoosh on the clean tile.

  Mr. Miyadori rushes to my aid, Dec on his heels.

  “Oh, my goodness, Mrs. McCormick!” Mr. Miyadori is about two inches shorter than me, and I probably outweigh him by eighty...er, fifty pounds. He is elegant and slim, wrinkled and well-preserved, and he has the instant charm of a man who puts people at ease for a living. “May I help you? Have you had an...accident?” He looks at all the places on my body where chocolate lives.

  I look down.

  Both of my nipples are soaking wet from chocolate and Declan’s attention moments ago.

  I cross my arms over the obvious.

  “I’m fine. Just fell asleep with pillow mints.”

  His eyebrows go up, the only sign of judgment in him. “They are our special secret. I will have a case delivered to your home in Boston.”

  I smile. “You’re my new best friend, Mr. Miyadori.”

  He bows.

  Declan scowls.

  “The press? Shannon, did your mom tip them off?”

  “Why would you assume that? It’s more likely to be your dad! He thinks all the free PR from the wedding fiasco is great. And by the way, he asked me the other day how I felt about having a camera crew at our first child’s birth.”

  “Funny,” Dec says, his eyes disturbed. “Your mom asked me the same thing.”

  My uterus ducks for cover.

  “I do not know, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick, who told the press about you. I assure you that none of my staff would ever breach security. But they do indeed know. We’ve placed you in your oceanside villa under an assumed name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Raleigh!”

  I start gasping. Dec gives me a frown, and then his face slowly turns red.

  “What?” I cry out. “Why that name?” My ex-boyfriend Steve’s last name is Raleigh.

  “One of the managers suggested we pick a bland, neutral name and happens to have a son who attends a university in North Carolina.” He tilts his head, trying to understand our distress. “Is there a problem?”