"For you?"
"My parents love each other. Actually love each other. But the pressure to marry for legacy instead of love? The expectation that you'll prioritize family reputation over personal happiness?" He exhales. "That's real."
I think about his mother. The matchmaking candidates. Aunt Milly's fertility app comments.
Different cages, I think. Mine is money, or the lack thereof. His is legacy. But we’re both trapped.
"So, was hockey the rebellion?" I say.
"Hockey bought me time. And it’s also my choice."
I nod. Let the quiet settle.
There's a question humming under my ribs—something about where I fit in this… architecture, whether there's room for a woman who runs a one-person business out of a leaking apartment and considers Ritz crackers her culinary heritage. Whether the gap between his world and mine is just scenery, or something that eventually wins.
I don't ask it.
Not now.
There's work to do.
"Natalie's not a victim, she’s making a stand. She’s making a stand—just like you did with hockey,” I say.
"She's strategic. She knew what she was signing up for with Blake."
"Until she didn't.”
West tucks a strand of hair behind my ear like a habit. "You showed her there was another option. That she didn't have to just accept it."
"I didn't—"
"The contingency notes, Jane. The exit strategies. You treated her like someone worth protecting. Not a client. A person." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "That's what changed."
A small, unexpected warmth settles within me.
"Alright then. We should figure out the logistics, you andme, sir." I say as I clear my throat.
West reads the shift instantly. Nods. Swings his legs off the bed. "I'll order some juice. Pineapple for me and watermelon for you?"
"Best from the island!” I throw a pillow at him. He catches it one-handed without looking.
Show-off.
The balcony overlooks the bay. Turquoise water. Cloudless sky. The kind of view that belongs in travel magazines and rich people's Instagram posts.
We're sitting in teak chairs under the canopy of the coconut trees right beside the casita. Drinks sweating on the glass table between us, untouched because neither of us has stopped talking long enough to take a sip.
West’s in athletic shorts and nothing else, his hair still rumpled from bed, looking like a pirate with excellent teeth. Me in his T-shirt and underwear.
“Ceremony starts at four,” I say, scanning the wedding day timeline Natalie sent.
“Rehearsal at two, vendor confirmations by noon, and she needs to tell the DJ we’ve got a short surprise tribute to play during the ceremony.”
West raises an eyebrow. “That’s our cover?”
“Yes, it’s plausible. Hidden in plain sight. It can be on the list with everything else,” I wink. “First dance song, mic checks, lighting cues, the works. Scarlett won’t blink at one small change.”
“So you use that window to pair your device.” West absent-mindedly taps me on my knee.
