"Mine don't come with a choreographed routine."
"Pity… and how about you? Planning on getting a lap dance? Maybe some… private attention?"
The words taste sour.
West's gaze sharpens. He takes a step closer, invading my personal space. The scent of chlorine and warm male skin is suddenly overwhelming.
"Jealous, Cooper?"
"Please," I scoff, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere near defensive shrew.
"We’ve a fake relationship, Prescott. Get as many lap dances as your heart desires. I'll be busy taking notes on gyrating techniques as well. For the case."
Crisis Level: 6/10. Threat: Own Stupid Mouth. Recommended Action: Shut. Up. Now.
He watches me, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, a slow, dangerous smile curves his lips.
"Good to know the boundaries are clear," he says, his voice low. "Fake hearts have needs too."
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "But just so we're crystal clear… the only person whose lap dance I'm interested in is yours."
Heat floods my face, warring with the stupid, treacherous thrill his words send through me.
Before I can formulate a coherent response—or, more likely, do something embarrassing like kiss him senseless right here, right now—he straightens.
"Come on. Let's get you to the bridesmaids' brunch. Barbie's probably drafting your eviction notice for lack of progress."
The reminder of Barbie, the job, the fifty thousand dollars, is a bucket of ice water. Grace's shiny silver stethoscope shimmers in my mind's eye.
Right. Focus.
Chapter 12
The Detonator
January 29 | Day 6 Anguilla Noon | T–2
Jane
West drives me to the restaurant where I’m meeting Merritt, Barbie, Sloane, and Katelyn.
His arrival in a resort golf cart, shirt still slightly damp, hair still gloriously messy from our swim and subsequent towel-drying, causes a minor ripple.
"You're causing a scene," I murmur.
"Good." He slides his hand to my lower back. Possessive. Deliberate. "Let them look."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're beautiful."
Before I can respond to that—to the casual way he says it, like it's fact instead of opinion—he tips my chin up and kisses me.
Not a peck. A statement.
When he pulls back, I'm pretty sure I've forgotten how words work.
"See you tonight," he says, grinning at whatever my face is doing.
