RORIE
“Fuck my life.”
I’m lounging next to a tiki bar overlooking crystal-clear water, a paradise people pay thousands to escape to, and yet, there’s this storm brewing in my chest.
The breeze should be refreshing, but it only stokes the fire of my ever-growing stress. Instead of sipping cocktails and soaking up the view, I’m drowning in a mess of my own making.
The bar is coastal indulgence done right—honey-toned wood, hand-blown glass lanterns suspended from knotted rope, and tropical flowers tucked into every corner. It doesn’t scream for attention. It lures you in. The island knows exactly what you need before you do.
I take it all in. The textures. The mood. The way the space whispers instead of shouts. Every detail’s a seduction, and I’m already filing it away into mental notes, stacking them like cocktail napkins. This is what our pitch needs to be. Confident. Sexy. It belongs here.Webelong here.
Jeremy’s parked on the other side of me, legs stretched out, sunglasses sliding down his nose as he sucks down a colorful drink served in a hollowed-out coconut. There’s a tiny umbrella. A pineapple wedge. A pretty tropical flower to be decorative.
“You look disgustingly relaxed.”
“You look like you’re one mental breakdown away from flippingthis entire bar into the ocean,” he says as if that’s not a perfectly reasonable plan.
And the man responsible for said breakdown? Oh, he’s lounging twenty feet away in an island casual wet dream—slouchy tee, smug grin. He shows me forearm porn every time he reaches for his drink and his corded muscles flex.
“Where’s Maya?” I ask.
“Suspect claims it’s a headache, but I’m pretty sure she’s hiding so she doesn’t make eye contact with Asher and crumble like a waffle cone under a triple scoop.”
My eyes roam back to Nolan, who’s laughing at something one of his team members says. She’s curly-haired and currently rocking an eccentric neon bathing suit that I’m pretty sure was designed during a sugar rush.
He glances this way. Hefeelsme watching.
My pulse flutters. I nibble my bottom lip. And despite the ocean breeze and frozen daiquiri in my hand, I’m sweating under the weight of something I swore I’d never want again.
Jeremy tips his sunglasses down further, gives me theyou’re not slicklook. “Alright, who pissed in your daiquiri? Or, more accurately—what six-foot-four, bicep-blessed chaos demon crawled up your ass and started doing laps?”
“We haveconnecting rooms,” I hiss, clutching the glass as if it’s the last shred of sanity left on this godforsaken island. “Connecting. Rooms. As in, one paper-thin door stands between me and the man who scrambled my brain.”
Jeremy doesn’t even flinch. His brow lifts as he stirs his drink with the world’s most judgmental pineapple wedge. “Rorie, babe. I love you. Truly. But if I have to hear one more tortured diatribe about how the man who emotionally tenderized you had the audacity to push pause, I will personally walk into the ocean and let the crabs take me.”
I glare. “Rude.”
“Is it?” His head tilts. “Let’s recap: He’s too rival. Too enemy. Too smug. Too hot. Too into you. And now he’s—what? Too gone? Boo-hoo. The trauma.”
I scowl. “That’s not what I said.”
“Oh really?” He leans in, eyes sparkling with challenge. “Because for a month, I’ve been trapped in a rerun ofRorie Adams: The Overthinking Years.You didn’t even respond to the man’s ice-cold email and now you’re mad he respected your silence.”
I open my mouth.
“Save it,” he cuts in. “You two are clearly still into each other, the universe keeps shipping you harder than TikTok romance edits. And now you’re mad it stuck you in a shared cottage? Read the signs, friend.”
“Yeah, let’s talk about this shared situation,” I say, spinning to face him fully. “I wassupposedto be next to Maya.”
He blinks, fake-innocent. “You trusted me to check in for everyone. That’s on you.”
My jaw drops. “You switched our rooms?”
“Like I did your airplane seats,” he says proudly. “You’re welcome.”
“Ihateyou.”
He grins. “And yet, somehow I’m still your voice of reason.”
