“Tackled. And one hit.”
“My fake boyfriend is very protective.”
Fake.
The word doesn’t sting.
Like we both know it isn’t true anymore.
Her eyes lift to mine and hold there, steady.
Adrenaline is still burning through us. The kind that comes after a clean, decisive play. When every move hits exactly how you drew it up and the crowd hasn’t even finished cheering. Where everything is locked into place, and you realize you were exactly where you needed to be.
The wedding is cancelled.
The cameras caught everything they needed to catch.
Jane's face is composed. Steady. Not a flicker of doubt. She's watching the screen with the clinical focus of someone who knows exactly which clip comes next and exactly how many seconds until impact. She built this sequence. Curated every cut. Timed every silence for maximum devastation.
And she's executing it flawlessly.
That’s enough.
There’s no drop in my chest. No crash.
Just a ringing stillness, like the silence after a perfect play—when the puck is already in the net and the arena hasn't caught up yet.
I step into her space.
Jane looks up like she already knows what I’m about to do. Like she feels the same current running between us.
I take her face in my hands and kiss her. Not rushed. Not reckless. Just sure.
She laughs against my mouth, soft and surprised, fingers curling in my shirt like she’s been waiting for this.
When I pull back, she’s still smiling.
“How about we get out of here,” I say.
I hold out my hand.
She takes it—no hesitation, no doubt.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter 17
Last Night in Paradise
January 31 | Day 8 Anguilla PM | Wedding Day
West
We walk back to the casita in silence.
Late afternoon sun slanting across the path, everything gilded and lazy—the kind of Caribbean light that turns ordinary things beautiful and beautiful things unbearable. Ocean hush to our left. A parrot screaming from somewhere in the canopy like it has opinions about what just happened.
Jane's walking slightly ahead of me.
