He’d never been this bad over a woman before. Never.

What was fucking ironic was that he was okay with her being a virgin. He knew it going in, and he’d figured that he’d wine and dine her, seduce her into giving up her V-card, and then forget all about her. But the more time he spent with Marjorie . . . the more it didn’t matter. Having her comfortable with him, seeing her laugh and her animated smiles was worth so much more than pushing her to have sex just so he could get his rocks off.

Not that his rocks didn’t want to get off. They did. It was just that . . . Marjorie was more important. He could wait a month or two, or three. However long it took for her to be ready.

Marjorie was his. He knew her time here at the resort was growing limited, and he was working on a plan to see her again after the resort.

He just had to figure out a way to bring up who he was and what he did for a living.

It still amazed Rob that they’d known each other for a week and she hadn’t once googled him to find information out about him. She . . . trusted him. And that was both humbling and terrifying.

And it made him even more determined not to fuck things up by being his usual self.

“Rob? Are you listening?” Her brilliant smile faltered slightly.

“I am,” he lied, and then took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “I was just a bit distracted watching you.”

Her cheeks pinked in that adorable way. “Watching me?”

“It’s my favorite pastime. I fucking love watching you.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but she smiled.

“So . . . when is the wedding?” he asked. “Has to be soon, right?” After all, his crew had already filmed two episodes’ worth of footage for Tits or GTFO in this week, and it hadn’t flushed Logan Hawkings out of hiding just yet. Rob was running out of opportunities.

Strange how thinking of his original motive for coming to Seaturtle Cay made him feel guilty. Marjorie would hate him if she knew the truth. He shouldn’t have hidden who he was, but he felt cornered; he didn’t have a choice. If she knew the truth, she’d loathe him. So he kept his mouth shut and pretended to simply be a run-of-the-mill business guy on a business trip.

And Marjorie was so trusting that she believed every word of it.

“The wedding?” Her expression dimmed a little. “It’s in three days.”

He rubbed his thumb over her hand, enjoying the simple act of touching her. “You don’t seem thrilled.”

“It’s not that. I’m ready to go to New York and start my new life. And I’m excited for Brontë and Logan.” Her smile returned, but it didn’t have the spark he was used to. “I just, well. I’m not ready for this week to be over yet.”

“I know the feeling.” Christ. Her upcoming job in New York was going to be another kink in his plans. Bad enough that he lived in California and only flew in to New York for business. How could he date Marjorie when she spent every minute with Brontë, as her assistant? She was sure to get her ears filled with tales of how awful he was.

Briefly, he contemplated somehow sabotaging the job offer that Brontë had extended . . . but then discarded the thought. Even he wasn’t that big of a dick. It’d be selfish to ruin Marjorie’s life just because he wanted her all to himself for a bit longer.

A mischievous look crossed her face and she got up from her chair. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” she told him, and tugged at his hand.

He tossed money down on the table to cover the bill and allowed her to lead him out of the dark, atmospheric restaurant, intrigued by this turn of events.

But a few minutes later, he protested when Marjorie took off her high heels and began to pad through the sand toward the beach. “Oh, come on. You know I fucking hate the water.”

She only looked over her shoulder at him, her expression playful, and kept strolling toward the beach, her hips swaying with her movements.

And he found himself following her after all. “Are we going to walk on the beach? Because I’m fine with that as long as we don’t go any deeper.”

Marjorie simply laughed, and when she got to the edge of the water, she stripped off her dress. He experienced a moment of shock, then realized she was wearing a bikini.

And . . . damn. When had his modest Marjorie bought a bikini? He stared at the tiny string tied at the center of her back, at the small stripey panties that barely covered her luscious ass.

“Do you want to swim with me?” she asked, easing into the water. Her long legs were gorgeous in the moonlight.

He was glad the beach was empty, because his pants were growing uncomfortably tight across the groin. “If I say no, are you going to get dressed?”

She looked back at him, smiling, and ran her fingers over the surface of the water. “You want to come in here with me. You know you do.”

“This part of me does,” he agreed, pointing at his dick. “This part of me isn’t so sure.” He pointed at his brain.

Her laughter floated up between the crash of the waves. “It’s still warm. You’ll love it, I promise.”

“The last time I went out higher than my ankles, I nearly became worm food,” Rob called out, but he found himself taking off his shoes and socks anyway. Like a dumbass.

“I’ll hold on to you,” she offered enticingly, and then walked further out into the water, until it was up to her breasts. And then she beckoned him. “Come join me.”

Rob sighed. His hands went to his hips and he studied the beach. It was near midnight, the tide high. The moon was shining down on the dark waters of the ocean, and the waves rolled in rhythmically. The beach, normally crowded in the daytime, was completely empty this late at night. It would just be him and Marjorie.

He stalled a moment more. “I’m not wearing a swimsuit.”

“Are you boxers or briefs?” She called out to him, splashing water in his direction.

“Will it bother you if I say neither? I go commando. Always have.”

Her shocked giggle floated through the night air, making his dick even harder. “Really?”

“Really. You still want to swim?”

“I do,” she called out. “I promise not to look.” And she turned her back to him.

Well, dammit, he kind of wanted her to look. Virgin, he reminded himself. With a sigh, he glanced around and then shucked his pants into the sand. This was going to be a huge fucking mistake, he just knew it. But he was drawn toward the frolicking, bikini-clad Marjorie like a moth to flame.

The water was fucking cold and he yelped as it hit his bare nuts. “Jesus, you’re a fucking liar,” he called out. “This is like ice!”

She only giggled, her hands moving through the water as she continued to stare out into the ocean, obediently not looking as he eased into the water. He wished she’d look, though. He wanted her to gaze at him with wondering eyes, to check out his package like she had that morning in the hotel room.

Then again, considering that he was probably shriveling thanks to the cold, it was likely for the best that she didn’t check out his stuff. Yet.

“You’re a horrible, horrible little tease,” he growled under his breath, wading out to her. The water grew deeper, now at his waist, and when the tide rolled back, it sucked and pulled at his legs, and panic stirred in him again. “Come back,” he told her. “Don’t go out so fucking far.”

“This isn’t far,” she said lightly, dancing a few feet away. “I’m barely at chest height.”

“Yes, but I’m shorter than you,” he said. “I might drown if I go out that far.”

She turned around and splashed him, scowling.

He put up his hands to block the icy water, chuckling. “That got your attention.”

“Cruel man,” she said in a tone of voice that implied he was anything but. Hell, just that teasing note in her voice made his dick get all hard again, icy water or not.

“You’re the cruel one—trying to drown me in the water here.” He skated a hand over the surface. “Do sharks swim at night? Do we need to worry about that shit? What about riptides?”