Jane
The water felt like liquid silk against my skin, warm and forgiving in the early Anguilla morning.
The early morning swim was West's idea—something about "clearing our heads" and "resetting before the chaos."
I watched West do laps like a man trying to outpace his own thoughts. Relentless and sexy.
I gave him fifteen minutes before I joined him. What followed was a lot of underwater groping, me shrieking when he dunked me, and West’s smug grin when I retaliated by stealing his swim trunks and flinging them onto the deck.
Now we float on our backs, fingers loosely linked beneath the surface. The world is quiet—just the gentle lap of water and the distant cry of a gull.
West floats beside me, a study in relaxed power. The faint purple bruise blooms across the bridge of his nose. On him, it looks… rakish. Like a Viking who’s just won a particularly satisfying brawl. Which, I suppose, isn’t entirely inaccurate. My stomach does a complicated little flip-flop that has nothing to do with treading water.
Crisis Level: 1/10. Current Threat: Excessive Hotness. Recommended Action: Stop Staring
"Stop staring at my nose, Cooper." He murmurs, eyes still closed, a faint smile playing on his lips. The man has sonar, Iswear.
"I'm not staring. I'm… assessing structural damage." I give his hand a gentle underwater squeeze. "How's the nose? Seriously."
He cracks one eye open, gray-blue and amused. "Still attached. Breathing's optional anyway." He shifts, rolling onto his side to face me, sending ripples across the water. Droplets cling to his eyelashes, catching the sunlight. "You?"
He means the faint, fading red marks on my wrist where Blake grabbed me. The ones West kissed last night with a tenderness that still makes my breath catch.
"Fine," I say, pulling my wrist up to inspect it. The marks are barely visible now. "See? Cooper resilience. Built for endurance."
Unlike my emotional state, which currently feels like a Jenga tower one block away from collapse.
He reaches out, his thumb brushing lightly over the spot anyway. The touch sends a warm shiver through me, chased by a familiar, terrifying pang.Love.
T-minus 48 hours and counting.
West's gaze lingers on my face, thoughtful. "You're thinking too loud over there, Cooper."
Before I can formulate a lie—or, worse, the truth—my phone, perched precariously on the edge of a nearby lounger alongside our towels, erupts. Not a ring. Not a text chime. This is a full-blown, multi-alarm notification symphony.
"Grace," we say in unison.
My stomach plummets from its pleasant floaty state straight down to the pool tiles.
Oh, crap.
Grace only deploys the multi-alarm barrage for true emergencies: apartment fires, surprise exams she's forgotten about, or the tragic discontinuation of her favorite brand of instant ramen.
I kick frantically towards the edge, hauling myself out of the water in a graceless, dripping scramble. West follows, moving with that unsettlingly efficient grace of his, grabbing towels as he comes.
He tosses one to me as I snatch up my phone, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The screen is a warzone of notifications. Missed calls. Voicemails. And texts. So many texts. The most recent batch screams at me in all-caps fury:
GRACE: JANE ELIZABETH COOPER.
GRACE: EXPLAIN. NOW.
GRACE: YOU JUST SENT ME A PICTURE OF YOU LOOKING LIKE A WET DREAM SNOG-FESTING A HALF-NAKED MAN!
GRACE: HE LOOKS FAMILIAR! WHO IS HE? WHY ARE HIS HANDS ON YOU?
GRACE: YOU WERE A VIRGIN LAST WEEK. A VIRGIN!
