The Sex Diet. Rhonda Nelson
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Samantha blinked out of her reverie. “No,” she said, exasperated. “I would like to have the accommodations I reserved.”
Her smile faltered. “I’ve told you—”
“I don’t care what you’ve told me,” Samantha interrupted tightly. She clawed at her belly, an insistent reminder that she needed those antihistamines now. Her ace-in-the-hole sex diet had one distinctly uncomfortable disadvantage—it primarily consisted of seafood…which she just happened to be mildly allergic to. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
She’d invested—and ingested—too much to turn back now.
Her entire plan hinged on this vacation. She blew out a frustrated breath. “Where’s Gladys?” Samantha asked impatiently. Gladys would take care of this snafu and all would be well.
“Somewhere on the Pacific Ocean.”
Sam blinked. “What?”
“She got married last week. She’s on her honeymoon.”
Gladys got married? Crusty old Gladys snagged a husband? Hank had definitely not mentioned that, Samantha thought absently as she managed a sick smile. That she would have remembered.
Sam contemplated that disheartening little revelation and wished that she were a big enough person to be happy for Gladys without feeling sorry for herself, but apparently she wasn’t, because all she could think was how more pathetic her life seemed now that even Gladys had gotten married.
That settled it, Samantha thought determinedly—she’d get laid this week and have a damned orgasm, or die trying.
“Well, that’s nice,” Sam finally managed weakly. “What about Hank?”
Another prickle of irritation surfaced. Quite honestly, she’d wanted a minute to freshen up before she saw Hank—a moot point since he didn’t care what she looked like—but she couldn’t help but look forward to seeing his reaction to her new-and-improved self. She didn’t expect him to turn into a lust-crazed maniac—she wasn’t stupid enough to even so much as hope that would happen—but a flicker of surprise would be nice. Vain? Yes. But after the effort she put into making herself more attractive, she thought she deserved a little gratification.
Tina blanched. “H-Hank?”
“Yes, Hank,” Samantha replied slowly, intrigued by Tina’s oh-hell expression.
“Er…he’s not here at the moment.”
Samantha’s eyes narrowed as she watched Tina gnaw nervously on her bottom lip. “I can see that,” she said patiently. “Where is he?”
Tina paused, heaved a protracted sigh with a roll of her eyes. “He went to fish a sand crab out of the pool,” she admitted begrudgingly, and lifted a small walkie-talkie from the desk. “I’ll call him.”
From the tone of her voice, a pelvic exam conducted by Captain Hook held more appeal.
Tina depressed the call button and spoke into the black-and-neon-green gadget. “Hank, could you come to the front desk please?”
Static, then, “Is there a problem, Tina?”
Jeez, Samantha thought, just hearing his voice made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end, forced her to repress a shiver. A current of electricity zinged up her spine, tingled her nipples and buzzed her sex with warmth.
Hank Masterson was the epitome of the quintessential beach bum—tall, tanned, built, blond and gorgeous. He had the clearest, most beautiful sea-blue eyes and a lazy, slumberous smile that made a woman’s brain melt and her blood simmer. He exuded easy, effortless charm and had cornered the market in sex appeal. In addition to being absolutely gorgeous, he had a great personality and a brilliant head for business. Hank was the total package and if a woman ever managed to hook his attention even for a little while, she had better net him while she could. Men like Hank were few and far between.
And, Samantha thought with a grim, melancholy stab of regret, completely out of her reach.
She might be able to go from geek to chic for a week, but a permanent transformation was more than she could reasonably hope for. Besides, she knew Hank well enough to know that over the years he’d considered her as many things, but regrettably potential girlfriend or lover had never been one of them.
A smile caught the corner of her mouth. The word nuisance leapt immediately to mind. As children, Hank had grudgingly tolerated her presence with the sort of martyred stoicism reserved for pesky little girls. But miraculously, by the time she’d reached her teens, she and Hank had developed a very close friendship—one they’d maintained over the years via e-mail, phone calls and yearly visits—and she would have liked nothing better than to parlay that special connection into something more.
Hank, though, had never been remotely interested.
Her lips twisted with wry humor. Hell, if it hadn’t been for that ill-fated almost-kiss, she wouldn’t have been convinced he’d even noticed that she was a girl. God knows, he’d always treated her just like one of the guys. He’d never displayed the least amount of modesty around her, had routinely stripped and gone skinny-dipping right in front of her drooling, flaming face and, oftentimes, had even shared intimate details of his relationships with other women with her. Things, she was sure, he shared with his male cronies. Items that had made her squirm with longing and jealousy, made her want to break things and scream.
Of course, she’d never done any of those things. She’d always smiled, listened and teased and been her typically amiable self because she’d rather be flayed alive and dipped in boiling oil than to admit her feelings were anything more than platonic, that she’d wanted more from him than a chuck under the chin or a friendly pat on the back. Samantha knew that if Hank ever discovered her true feelings for him, she’d go from being his friend to an object of pity—which was completely intolerable.
When she’d first considered the sex diet, for one blazingly beautiful dramatic moment, Samantha had allowed herself the luxury of dreaming that it would work on him—after all, being drunk almost had—that he would take one look at her, be utterly bowled over by his attraction for her, that he’d curse himself for a fool for never realizing what a prize she was.
Then she’d burnt herself with the curling iron and reason had returned—if he hadn’t figured out what a prize she was after all this time, realistically, what were the chances of that happening now?
None.
She’d long ago resigned herself to be content with the relationship they had. She’d wasted enough time lamenting what might have been and had decided to put the remainder of her energy into an attainable goal—finding a lover for this week who would and could induct her into the Big O Hall of Fame.
Hank could, without a doubt—just thinking about it made her thighs quiver with repressed longing—but there was a huge difference between could and would, and she knew he wouldn’t.
“We have a small reservation error, yes,” Tina glumly admitted.
“Another one?” Samantha detected a slight hint of annoyance in his tone.
Tina closed her eyes miserably. “Yes.”
A deep sigh, then, “All right. I’ll be right there.”
Clearly hers wasn’t the only booking error dear Tina had flubbed up, Samantha thought and offered up a sympathetic smile.
Tina’s nervous gaze found hers. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
Samantha nodded, confident that Hank would see to this mess, and absently scratched the inside of her arm. She was quickly running out of time—she needed an antihistamine and a shrimp-cocktail snack. More blasted seafood, the main ingredient of this damned diet. Besides, every moment spent standing at this desk was a moment she could be using to size up possible lovers, officially put her diet to the test.
Her lips curled. Who knew?