I make a strangled sound.
West's shoulders shake with silent laughter.
"This isn't funny—"
GRACE: I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.
GRACE: STARTING WITH WHO IS HE AND WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE HE COULD BENCH-PRESS A VOLKSWAGEN
"She's not wrong," West murmurs.
"Not helping!"
GRACE: ANSWER YOUR PHONE OR I SWEAR TO CALL THE RESORT AND ASK FOR “THE GUY WHO JUST DEFLOWERED MY SIS.”
My face burns hotter than the Anguilla’s rising sun. I fumble with the phone, water dripping from my hair onto the screen.
“I think I accidentally included a picture of us when I sent her a bunch of scenic shots I took of the resort.” I jab a finger at the screen, displaying the incriminating evidence.
"No, no, no…"
West leans over my shoulder, dripping onto me. His warm, chlorine-scented proximity isnothelping my ability to form coherent thoughts. He rescans the texts, his expression unreadable for a terrifying second. Then, a slow, devastating grin spreads across his face.
It starts at the corners of his mouth and reaches all the way to his eyes, crinkling at the corners. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest.
"Snog-festing?" he reads aloud, his voice rich with amusement. "Deflowered? Your sister has a way with words."
"This isn't funny!" I wail, mortification warring with panic. "Sheknows, West! She knows I was… you know… inexperienced! And now she thinks I'm…" I gesture wildly at the phone, at him, at the general aura of post-coital bliss radiating off us both, "…doing advanced-level snorkeling with a professional athlete!"
West's chuckle deepens into a full laugh. It's a warm, resonant sound that does things to my insides that are entirely inappropriate given the level of sibling-induced crisis unfolding. He plucks the phone gently from my shaking hand.
"Relax, Jane," he says, still grinning. "She's your sister. She's worried. Or jealous. Or both." He scrolls through the texts again, his thumb pausing. "She wants proof of life. Or proof of… non-deflowering-related distress." He holds up the phone. "Video call her."
My eyes widen. "What? No! Absolutely not! I am not subjecting you to Grace in full interrogation mode while I look like a drowned cat who just participated in a water-based orgy!"
"First," West says calmly, tapping the screen, "you look amazing. Drowned cat is not the vibe. More like… water nymph who just bested Poseidon."
He ignores my sputter. "Second, she's clearly freaking out. Ignoring her will only make it worse. Third…"
He hits the video call button before I can stop him. "…I want to meet her."
Grace answers on the first ring.
She's in our apartment, textbooks scattered around her, dark hair piled on top of her head, wearing an oversized sweatshirt.
"JANE! Where the hell have you—Holy—”
Grace's voice, tinny through the speaker, cuts off abruptly as her eyes bug out, taking in the scene: me, dripping wet, wrapped in a beach towel, my hair plastered to my head, standing next to a very tall, very shirtless, very amused-looking Weston Prescott, who's holding the phone.
Her eyes go comically wide before she blinks. "You're real."
"West Prescott," he says smoothly, like he takes video calls with his fake girlfriend's younger sister every day. "Nice to meet you, Grace."
Grace's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound comes out. Her face cycles through expressions: shock, disbelief, dawning horror, and then, finally, a kind of awestruck paralysis. She looks like a goldfish that's just been told it won the lottery.
"You know my name."
"Janetalks about you constantly."
