“I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be delusional than pathetic,” she taunts me. “Forget about your weird Blackwell family obsession, Dean—does Millie know that while I was jerking you off under the table at dinner, Friday night, that you were staring at her tits, imagining it was her who was touching you?” Paige’s tone going shrill like she’s trying to convince an imaginary audience that she’s the victim in all this. “Or that sometimes, when we fuck, you call me by her name?”
“I doubt it,” I say, fighting to keep my tone casual. “Maybe I’ll tell her the next time we talk about what a narcissistic bitch you are.”
“That’s okay, Dean…” Paige says, shifting into that same sugary tone. “I’ll be more than happy to tell her for you.”
Shit.
“Paige—”
I have no idea what I’m about to say but it doesn’t matter. The line is already dead.
THIRTY-SEVEN
When I get back to the bungalow, it’s tofind Dean already showered and dressed for dinner in a light-weight, charcoal gray suit over a crisp white button down that’s open at the collar, just enough to show the off the tattoos on his neck and chest. Standing on his side of the bed, head bent, he straps on his watch before tucking his wallet into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. Finished, he looks up at me.
“We have to be there at six,” he says, adjusting the cuff of his shirt around the bulk of his watch. “Are you going to have enough time to get ready?”
Dinner.
Right.
We have dinner reservations.
Thrown off by his casual, matter-of-fact tone, I nod. “Yes,” I tell him, like hewasn’tfucking me from behind in an ocean view cabana, little more than an hour ago. “I can be ready.”
Looking up at me, Dean gives me a flat smile. “Okay.” Letting his gaze wander over me, he nods. “I’ll wait outside,” he tells me before turning toward the open sliders and the deck just beyond them.
“Dean?” His name is out of my mouth before I can stop it, the sound of it enough to make me want to stuff my fist in my mouth.
Stopping in the doorway, he turns back to look at me, giving me that closed, unreadable expression of his. “Hmmm?”
“Is everything okay?”Jesus, Millie. Shut up.“Did I do something?”
His expression softens slightly. “No,” he tells me on a head shake. “Everything is fine.”
Even though it’s an obvious lie, I let it go because I know what he’ll say if I push him.
So we fucked, Mills—it’s not a big deal, remember? Not if we don’t make it a big deal.
And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I’m making it a big deal.
Pushing a smile onto my face, I swallow hard against the tightness building in my throat. “I’ll hurry,” I say before turning away from him to move toward the bathroom. Closing the door, I flick a quick look through the thick pane of glass that separates the bathroom from the rest of the bungalow. I can see Dean outside, standing on the edge of the deck, back toward me, looking out over the beach and the ocean stretched out in front of him.
Quit it, Millie. Quit making such a big deal out ofeverything. So Dean Mercer fucked you. He’d fuck just about anyone—it hardly makes you special.
Hand hovering over the switch, I hesitate, but only for a few seconds before I toggle it, frosting the privacy glass so I can get ready for dinner.
Stepping out onto the deck, thirty minutes later, Ifind Deanexactly where I left him. Clearing my throat, I fight against the urge to go back inside and change before he sees me.
Too late.
As soon as Dean hears me, he turns around, the flat, distant smile on his face faltering when he sees what I’m wearing. His gaze rakes over me, settling on my ankle for a moment before it bounces back up to meet mine.
I don’t know what possessed me to buy it, let alone decide it was a good idea to pack it for a honeymoon trip I had every intention of taking alone. Checking the label of the dress I wore to dinner, Friday night, I combed every store website that carried that particular designer until I found it.
And then I bought two more just like it.
