Blake's hand disappears from my knee so fast I almost wonder if I imagined it.
"West. Come meet Jane Cooper." Blake's smile doesn't waver, but something cold flickers behind his eyes. "I was just telling her about some of the island's hidden gems."
"I'm sure you were." West's tone is perfectly polite and absolutely lethal—like a knife wrapped in silk.
"Jane, wasn't Barbie looking for you? Something about dinner plans."
He extends his hand to help me up, and I take it without thinking.
Big mistake.
His palm is warm, calloused from hockey sticks and weight lifting. His fingers dwarf mine. When he pulls me to my feet, I end up closer to him than I intended—close enough to catch his scent, something clean and woodsy that makes me want to lean in and—
No. Nope. Abort that thought immediately.
"Right," I say, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. "Dinner plans. I should... go find her."
I extract my hand from West's grip, which takes more willpower than I care to admit.
"See you around, Blake. Thanks for the island tips."
I walk away on legs that feel like they're made of overcooked noodles, hyperaware that both men are watching me go.
When I'm safely out of earshot, I duck behind another marble column and pull out my phone.
Me: Phase One complete. He's interested.
Barbie: Details.
Me: Knee touching. Invitation to secluded beach. Definite predator vibes.
Barbie: Perfect. Keep it up.
Keep it up. Right. Because that went so smoothly.
I lean against the marble, trying to process what just happened. The seduction attempt worked. Blake was definitely interested. I successfully projected confidence and sexuality without completely humiliating myself.
So why do I feel like I'm about to throw up?
And why can't I stop thinking about the way West's hand felt when he helped me up?
Twenty minutes later, I'm attempting Honeypot Phase Two.
This time I've repositioned myself near the buffet station, where the wedding party is gathering for passed appetizers that probably cost more per piece than my lunch budget. I've practiced my posture in the reflection of a serving tray—shoulders back, chin up, mysterious half-smile firmly in place.
Blake is near the raw bar, telling some story that has his audience laughing appreciatively. Perfect. All I have to do is join the group, contribute something witty, and work my way into a private conversation.
I'm three steps away when West appears.
Not in my path this time. He doesn't block me or redirect me or materialize between us like some kind of inconvenient magic trick.
Instead, he bumps into me.
It's so smoothly done I almost don't realize it's intentional.
He's carrying a plate of appetizers, walking with the casual confidence of someone who belongs here, and then somehow we're colliding. His shoulder catches mine with enough force to send me stumbling. His free hand shoots out to steady me, fingers spreading across my ribs through the thin linen, and the heat of his palm burns through the fabric like a brand.
The contact lasts maybe two seconds. But I feel it everywhere.
