Chapter 1
ISLA
Libraries have always been my second home.
Give me walls of books, the cozy scent of ink and paper, a peaceful, anonymous quiet that no one will dare to interrupt, and a hot cup of chai latte, and I’m in my element.
Sitting alone at a sleek, granite-topped bar at a hotel in the Caribbean? So not me.
But here I am anyway, with a half-empty lemon drop on the polished stone bar, staring at the lights glinting off the ocean beyond. It’s a killer view, even in the dark. The air is humid with a pleasant breeze, the aroma of salt and citrus in the air.
I’m in paradise, but it’s lost on me.
When my bestie first told me about her plan for a destination wedding in St. Thomas a few months ago, I was thrilled. Luna is like a sister to me and the closest thing to family I have, and being her maid of honor is a dream come true. Even better? I decided to make it a romantic getaway for my fiancé and me.
Perfect, right?
Except, a month ago, I found out Christian was cheating on me with one of his students. Needless to say, our wedding is off, along with our relationship. And the only romance in thisgetaway for me is going to be happening courtesy of my vibrator, which is currently sitting in my suitcase somewhere inside Miami International instead of here with me.
Note to self: pack all important things in carry-on next time.
Picking up the martini glass, I toss back the rest of my drink, trying not to wince. Holy vodka, that’s strong. When it comes to drinking, I’m a lightweight. But I got in late, thanks to a delayed flight, I’m missing my luggage, which—fingers crossed—will arrive tomorrow, and Luna is off on a date night with the groom. I’m not officially on maid of honor duty for now, and my life has imploded. I deserve a second round.
No place to call my own? Check. I moved in with Christian a year ago, and since Studentgate, I’ve been bouncing around hotels and an Airbnb while I figure out what’s next for me.
Unemployed? Check. I quit my position because teaching alongside Christian after I found out he’d spent the last semester dicking a nineteen-year-old just wasn’t something I could bear.
Single as fuck? Double check. See: self-explanatory.
In other words, damn it, I’m going to have another lemon drop.
I jerk myself from my misery, glancing around for the fatherly bartender who took one look at me when I plopped myself on this barstool and instinctively knew I needed a friend. I think he told me his name was Johnny. He has graying hair, soft brown eyes, and a contagious smile, and he reminds me of someone’s grandpa.
But Johnny isn’t behind the bar anymore. A new guy is. And this guy is as far from friendly grandfather as you can get. He’s dressed all in black from head to toe, and he’s easily over six feet and mesmerizingly jacked, his back to me. Maybe it’s the lemon drop, but I catch myself staring at his ass before forcing my mind and eyes out of the gutter.
You’re not here to ogle bartenders, Isla. You’re here to support your bestie and make sure she has the best damn day of her life when she marries her man.
It’s a reminder I need. This isn’t about me. It never was. This trip has always been about Luna. Luna having the wedding of a lifetime. Luna getting the happily ever after she deserves. I can have a pity party later, when this is all over. I’m not even going to tell her about Christian cheating on me with Harlow—that name,ugh—or that we broke up. I’m keeping this shit on lockdown until Luna rides off into the sunset.
For now, all I need is another lemon drop.
And to breathe.
Yeah, that too.
I take a deep breath, but my plan instantly goes sideways. The breath freezes in my chest, because Bartender 2.0 turns toward me. He’s shaking a cocktail, and with his black shirt rolled to his elbows, he isthedefinition of forearm porn. But my overloaded brain barely registers all that. Instead, I’m drinking him in like he’s the martini I’ve been waiting for, only he’s better than any lemon drop could possibly be.
His hands are tatted. His eyes are the same color blue as the Caribbean Sea with the sun setting over the gorgeous waters. And he’s beautiful. Black hair, high forehead, angular jaw, cheekbones that could slice you, and his mouth. Sweet baby Jesus, his mouth. This man could have just walked off a runway with those looks and that smolder. He’s one part dangerous, one part sex.
And he’s walking toward me, smiling, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes me feel like I might fall right off the barstool. My body is suddenly overwhelmed, my nipples hard under the oversized, comfy tee I wore for traveling. It’s a good thing I cared enough to wear a bra, because I’d be saluting Hot Bartender right now.
He’s coming closer.
Closer.
He’s in front of me, and I swear, those eyes burn a hole right into my soul. Is it possible that this deliciously handsome man is interested in me? The second the idiotic thought pops into my mind, I cancel it.
No, it’s not possible. I’m wearing a Jane Austen T-shirt and leggings, I haven’t slept properly in weeks, and I’ve spent the day dashing around multiple airports, trying to get myself here. I don’t even know if I brushed my hair this morning.
