But they couldn’t. Not here. Not in the open. Not with the possibility of being caught in the nude, and who knew what kind of creatures were trawling the sand beside them.
But then Elise scrunched up Harper’s top until it bunched up above her breasts, and whatever reservations she had went right out the metaphorical door.
“Oh my god,” she muttered softly as Elise brushed her nipples with her mouth. “This is so crazy,” she added when Elise’s lips kissed her neck. Then Elise was slipping her hand down Harper’s pants, palming her panties, and every ounce of breath seemed to vanish from her lungs in one dizzying, glorious rush.
Harper shifted her leg so her thigh pressed against Elise’s center, and before Harper could foresee what was going to happen, Elise slipped her fingers beneath Harper’s cotton panties and slid two fingers inside. This had Harper panting. She just couldn’t seem to get her breath back.
In fact, she didn’t. Not really. At least not until her feet landed at Heathrow Airport less than twenty-four hours later.
Chapter Two
Elise Mercier was halfway through her bitter espresso when she decided she might quit television forever. The thought had struck her somewhere between her first and second sip, and honestly, it sounded more delicious than the gleaming round lemons that dotted the lobby of the Hotel Mareluna.
But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. The idea was stupid. Silly even. Television was her life. The chaos. The deadlines. The endless juggling of impossible demands that somehow always ended up being her problem. Not to mention the fact that she’d clawed her way up to where she was. Not any Sally off the street could become the executive producer of one of the greatest queer dating shows on American television. So, she gave herself a mental slap and stepped toward the lobby, ready to check out.
Around her, vacationers in linen outfits and straw hats floated past, all bronzed and unbothered. Meanwhile, Elise swallowed the last bit of her espresso, handed back the keycard to the receptionist who, with her buttery chocolate-colored skin, perfectly lacquered nails, and practiced smile, looked like a Calvin Klein model.
“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” she said, her voice just as silky as her dark hair.
Elise nodded but didn’t smile. It wasn’t that she was impolite, though it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been called that; it was just that her mind was off rewriting half the shooting schedule for Season Eight ofThe Sapphic Match. Which, thanks to the last three disastrous seasons, the internet had lovingly renamedThe Never Rose Show.
Elise tucked her tablet under one arm, the production binder under the other, and looped her tote bag over her shoulder. Since she was still deep in the throes of jet lag, she had spent much of this morning and last night triple-checking every detail of today’s setup: transportation, call sheets, lighting tests, villa readiness, contestant arrival times. Then, because she clearly didn’t trust herself, she had checked everything again.
And yet, there was the unmistakable buzz that something was bound to go wrong. Or maybe it was just the humidity that the hotel’s air conditioning only half-masked. Elise was already fighting sweat between her cleavage. And there was plenty of cleavage.
She pushed through the glass doors and Positano, Italy, hit her all at once. Scooters whirred past like angry bees. Church bells clanged somewhere nearby. A group of women, arms linked and carrying shopping bags, nearly swallowed her whole. Then there was the view. The glittering Tyrrhenian Sea caught the light just so.
“Miss Mercier,” a man called, waving her over. Her driver was a burly man with a husky voice. His head was bald and shone in the morning light. “Where are your bags?” he asked as she approached him. Elise was just about to gesture back to the double doors where a bellman was carrying her luggage when her phone rang. One day soon she was going to throw her phone into the sea.
With a sigh, she glanced down at the screen only for her stomach to knot like a pretzel. Stanley. Perfect. Just the man she wanted to strangle with her phone’s charging cable.
Elise wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear and held up a finger to the driver, which she hoped he would take as give me a minute. “I hope you’re calling to ask me how my flight was?” she asked, hoping she came off as a woman who didn’t want any nonsense today. Or any day. In fact, she was sodesperate for a season of no nonsense that she would give up chocolate for an entire year. Those who knew her would say it was impossible.
“How was your flight?” Stanley asked happily.
Elise rolled her eyes. Stanley didn’t care about her flight. He didn’t care about anything other than himself. This was something that had become more obvious since he had been promoted to executive in charge of production two seasons ago. It was a role Elise didn’t think he deserved, but then who cared about her opinion anyway? Certainly not the network executives and their little boys’ club.
“What do you want, Stan?” she asked. It was too early to play games. She’d only ingested one espresso, and it wasn’t nearly enough caffeine to deal with whatever bullshit he was about to unleash. “I’m about to head to the villa.”
“Well, I replaced Cypress,” he drawled.
“What do you mean, replaced?” Elise asked, spinning on the spot from the shock. Though she knew what it meant. In fact, it couldn’t get any clearer.
“We needed new blood. I had to do what was best for the show,” Stanley said.
“So you fired our lead photographer?”
“And Sara.”
“The director?” Elise hissed. She couldn’t believe this. What the actual fuck? “Sara’s been with the show since season one. She’s been here way longer than—”
“And two of the camera operators,” Stanley added, sounding almost too pleased with himself. Elise wished she could reach through the phone screen and strangle him. Not enough to kill because she wouldn’t do well in jail, but enough to scare.
“We need new energy this season,” he said. “New faces. Reinvention. You understand that, right? You know why I did it? Come on, El, tell me you’re on my side.”
Elise opened her mouth, closed it, and decided the only conceivable reply was silence. And no, she wasn’t on his side. She wasn’t on anyone’s side but her own.
“Don’t worry,” Stanley said brightly. “I’ve already hired the replacements. I’ll email you the list.” With that, he ended the call, and Elise was left reeling.