Swiping a rough, frustrated hand over my face, I sit back in my own seat because it’s either let her dismiss me or give in and shake her silly.
Or kiss her.
I might give in and kiss her.
Two weeks.
How the hell am I supposed to do this dance with her for two fucking weeks? I’d ask her but Millie doesn’t seem to know, any better than I do. So, instead, I sit back and stare out the window while trying to figure out how the hell I got here and how the hell I’m going to make it out without doing something stupid.
Because that’s what I am when it comes to Millie Blackwell.
Stupid.
It’s all I’ve ever been.
“She played us, you know?” I say it quietly while the town car that picked us up rolls to a stop under the resort’s white marble portico, valets and bellhops running amok in ridiculous Hawaiian shirts and white linen pants. “It took me a while to figure it out—hell, I wasn’t even completely sure of it until Friday night in the limo—but by then it was too late. She’d already won.”
See what I mean?
Stupid.
Turning in her seat, Millie looks at me. Brow furrowed. Mouth open like she wants to say something but can’t figure out what that something is, just as my car door is opened from the outside.
I don’t give her a chance to figure it out. Instead, I do that other thing I can’t seem to stop doing when it comes to Millie Blackwell.
I walk away.
TWENTY-THREE
By then it was already too late. She’dalready won.
Before I can ask him what he’s talking about, Dean’s gone. Seconds later, my own door is opened and I’m given little choice but to follow after him. Within minutes, we’re escorted to a luxury golf cart by a tanned, middle-aged man in a floral shirt, named Mateo. As soon as we’re seated in the back, Mateo takes off, zipping along the narrow, two lane, cobblestone path, turning this way and that, working us deeper and deeper into the lush, green landscape. Next to me, Dean sits with his arms crossed over his chest, listening while Mateo expertly rattles off his spiel about where we’ll be staying for the nexttwo weeks.
The island is divided in two—the west side offers a more family friendly experience, while the east side of the island is adults only. Both sides of the island features a main resort that boasts over two hundred rooms, as well as several private, ocean front bungalows throughout the property. Each bungalow offers its own private, glass-bottomed pool, hot tub, and beach access. Your bungalow is unique in that it also offers a dedicated chef, aesthetician, and massage therapist, ready to offer round-the-clock services, and me, your personal concierge. If you need something—anything—I insist that you call me, regardless of the hour. If at any point you’d like to see what the island has to offer, all you have to do is give me a call, and I’ll be happy to drive you—or if you prefer, there is a golf cart outside your bungalow, waiting for you to explore the island on your own.
“Here we are—bungalow 10,” Mateo says, taking a hard right that puts us directly in front of an adorable, thatched-roofed bungalow with a wrap-around porch and a golf cart of its very own parked next to a cobblestone walkway. “Your bags have already been delivered and unpacked, and chef has taken the liberty of preparing an assortment of his specialties for you to sample.” Hopping out of the driver’s seat, Mateo offers his hand to help me out of the golf cart while Dean climbs out on his own.
“Thank you, Mateo,” I say, offering him what I hope is a grateful smile. It’s nearly nine o’clock at night. Allister and Iwere supposed to spend our wedding night at the Hawthorne in New York before flying to the cay in the morning. All the preparation for my early arrival was done at the last minute. “I appreciate everything you’ve done on such short notice.”
“It’s what I’m here for, Mrs.…” He throws a look over my shoulder at where Dean must be lurking somewhere behind me. No doubt my guest information mentioned that I’d be here on my honeymoon. I imagine Dean and I look about as far away from a couple of lovebirds on their honeymoon as we can possibly get.
“Miss,” I correct him gently. “Ms. Blackwell.”
“Of course.” Giving me a quick head bob, he lifts a hand. “If you’ll follow me Ms. Blackwell.”
“No need—we can take it from here,” Dean says, appearing next to me, out of nowhere. “Thanks for the ride.” Before he has a chance to argue, Dean pulls out his wallet, stuffs a few bills into his hand, leaving a stunned Mateo to stare after us while he practically drags me up the walkway and inside.
“I know you’re upset with me,” I say, turning on him the second he shuts the door, “But that’s no reason to be?—”
“Rude?” He lets go of my arm, moving away from me to flip on the lights. The bungalow—an open, airy space—offers a comfortably appointed sitting area and a fully stocked wet bar, facing a wall of floor-to-ceiling, glass sliders that are open to let in the balmy ocean air. Aside from a round, teak table and chairs, and a matching sideboard that’s practically groaning under the weight of the buffet the chef prepared for us to sample, the only other furniture is the bed, flanked by a pair of nightstands.
“Yes,rude,” I bark back at him, stacking my hands on my hips. “Mateo was just doing his job.”
“Sorry, Princess—I’m hungry and tired and I’ve been stuck in this goddamned suit for too goddamned long.” Stopping at the foot of the huge, four-poster bed, Dean starts yanking at his tie like it’s trying to choke him. “Right now, I’d fucking killMateofor a shower, which sucks considering I don’t have so much as a pair of clean underwear to change into.” Tie pulled loose of its knot, he tosses it on the bed with a relieved sigh. “So, please forgive me for beingrude—not all of us were able to properly plan their escape.” Reaching up, he gives the top button on his collar an impatient jerk like he’s releasing apressure valve before he starts working on his cuffs. Glare aimed at his wrists, he pulls a cufflink loose before tossing it on top of his tie. “And for the record, did you ever stop to consider that being forced to share a bed with you—even one that’s roughly the size of Texas—isn’t exactly a dream come true for me either?”
What?
Feeling panic tighten its grip around my chest, I look at the couch on the other side of the room. Not ideal, but it looks comfortable enough. Surely?—
