"Here—let me," I say, stepping in to steady her and lift the bag back onto her shoulder.
"Thank you, dear," she mutters, clearly annoyed at the situation more than the help.
“I’m afraid this area is reserved for platinum-level guests only,” the staff member walks by and addresses the elderlylady, polite but dismissive. “The general guest services desk is—”
“I know where I am, young man,” the woman snaps, her accent pure New England aristocracy. “I’ve been coming to this resort since before you were born.”
He’s already turning away, scanning the area for more important people to assist. Two other staff members pass without slowing, neatly categorizing her assomeone else’s problem.
Heat flares. I know that feeling—being invisible, being dismissed, being treated like you don’t belong.
“Actually,” I say then, lifting my voice to full project-confidence volume, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
The staff member turns back, eyeing my dress and designer accessories—thanks to Barbie's styling budget—with newfound attention.
I slide my arm through the elderly woman's, steadying her bag. "My friend here was just telling me about the platinum concierge service. Perhaps you could direct us to someone who canactuallyhelp?"
The magic word—friend—combined with my borrowed outfit does the trick. The staff member's entire demeanor shifts to apologetic efficiency.
"Of course, madam. Right this way."
As he bustles ahead, the woman looks up at me with sharp dark eyes that miss nothing.
"That was smoothly done," she says. "Though I suspect you're not actually platinum level any more than I look like someone who needs rescuing."
I grin despite myself. "You looked like you could handle him just fine. I just hate watching people get dismissed."
"Mm. Are you with the wedding party?"
"Sort of. I'm Barbie Wintz's plus-one."
Something flickers across her face—amusement, maybe. "Ah. The bridesmaids. Well. Good luck with that, dear."
She pats my hand—a brief gesture that feels oddly significant—and disappears into the concierge office, leaving me with the unsettling sense that this interaction mattered more than it should have.
No time to analyze. Blake has reappeared near the infinity pool, and this time he's alone. Finally.
I take a breath, roll my shoulders back, and channel every rom-com heroine who's ever transformed herself for a man.Chin up. Confident smile. Eyes that say "mysterious and intriguing," not "help, I'm drowning."
Time for Operation Honeypot: Phase One.
Blake is exactly as advertised—tall, classically handsome, expensive everything. He's leaning against the poolside bar, drink in hand, looking like a recruitment poster for "Generic Rich Guy #3."
I approach from his left, timing my steps to arrive just as he takes a sip of his whiskey. Casual. Accidental. Definitely not choreographed in my hotel bathroom this morning.
"Blake?" I let a note of pleased recognition creep into my voice. "I'm Jane Cooper. Barbie's friend? She said you were the one to ask about the best spots on the island."
It's a terrible line. But Blake's face lights up with the kind of practiced charm that probably works on ninety percent of women.
"Jane! Right, Barbie mentioned you might be coming." He gestures to the empty lounge chair beside him. "Welcome to paradise."
Score one for Team Fake It Till You Make It.
I perch on the edge of the chair, crossing my legs at the ankle the way I saw the other women doing. Elegant. Refined. Definitely not like someone whose idea of luxury is name-brand cereal.
"This place is incredible," I say, letting my voice carry just the right amount of breathless appreciation. "I can see why Natalie chose it."
Blake's smile tightens almost imperceptibly at his fiancée's name. "She has excellent taste. Though I think I had some influence on the final decision."
