Just noisy enough to ruin everything.
Darn the wind. Turns out paradise has terrible acoustics.
I just texted West to meet me at the casita, excitement still humming under my skin even as disappointment settles in. Two heads are better than one—and I’m hoping we can come up with a better plan. One that turns what I caught into something ironclad.
Suddenly I hear the stumble behind me before I see him. The heavy, uneven tread on the crushed shell path.
“Jane.”
Blake’s voice is thick, slurred. I freeze, then slowly turn.
I must have been distracted because he’s standing a lot closer than I expected.
He sways slightly, blocking the path. His tie is loose, his shirt rumpled, his eyes bloodshot and fixed on me with unnerving intensity. The smell of expensive bourbon rolls off him in waves.
“Blake.” I keep my voice neutral. “Heading back to the party?”
He ignores the question. Takes a step closer. Too close. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, mixed with something sour. “Been watching you,” he slurs. “Watching you play your little game.”
My pulse kicks up, a frantic drum solo against my ribs. “Game?”
“With Prescott.” He gestures vaguely, almost losing his balance. “Think you’re clever, don’t you? Little townie trash thinks she’s landed the big fish.”
"Excuse me?"
A nasty smile twists his lips.
"Don't act offended. We all know how this works. Guys like West, girls like you—it's transactional." He reaches out, fingers brushing my arm. "So what's your rate? Maybe I could—"
"Stay where you are."
"Relax." His grip tightens on my wrist. "I'm just saying, if you're looking for an upgrade—"
"Let go."
Blake leans in, his breath hot on my face.
"—West's always been soft. Even with Caroline, he couldn't… satisfy—"
Rage, white-hot and blinding, surges through me. Not for myself. For West. For the quiet pain I’d glimpsed when he mentioned Caroline, for the three years of self-imposed exile, for the trust he’d tentatively placed in me.
“Back off, Blake.”
He laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “Or what? You’ll call your knight in shining… whatever the hell he is?”
He grabs my other wrist suddenly, his grip surprisingly strong, crushing. “Think he actually cares? He’s just using you, sweetheart.”
I try to pull away, but his fingers dig in. Panic flares, bright and hot. “Let go of me!”
“Make me,” he sneers, his face inches from mine. The bourbon fumes are overwhelming. “What’s the matter? Not so tough without your babysitter?”
“Let. Her. Go.”
The voice is low. Flat.
Blake actually flinches. He releases my wrists so fast I stumble back a step, skin burning where his fingers dug in.
But then his spine straightens. Ego scrambling to reassert itself.
