Now I'm standing in a casita with packed bags and a man who looks at me like I'm the view, and we have maybe ten minutes before we absolutely have to walk out that door.
"I'm going to miss this coffee," I say. What I mean is:I'm going to miss everything about this room and you in it.
West sets his mug down. Steps closer. His hands find my hips.
"We still have ten minutes."
His thumbs trace slow circles on my hipbones through my dress. My body leans toward him the way plants lean toward sunlight—involuntary, cellular, a little embarrassing.
"Ten minutes isn't enough time for what your thumbs are suggesting."
"My thumbs aren't suggesting anything."
"Your thumbs are writing essays."
His mouth twitches. That almost-smile that took me two days to earn and makes me feel teenage fan with a backstage pass every single time.
Eight days. I've had houseplants longer. Granted, I killedthem, but the comparison stands.
My phone alarm blares from the counter. The one I set at midnight because I knew—knew—that if left to our own devices, we'd still be in this casita at sunset, ordering room service and pretending the outside world was optional.
"Commercial flights," I say. "International check-in. Ninety minutes before departure."
"I know, Jane."
"I'm just establishing—"
"I know."
His forehead drops to mine. We stand there, breathing the same Caribbean air.
The salt-tinged breeze through the window we left cracked. His soap. His skin. The sound of his exhale mixing with mine.
I should have bought him something.
A gift from the resort shop. A keychain or a shot glass or something equally ridiculous that he'd never use but would prove I was here.
But every time I thought about it, my throat closed up, so I didn't.
I must've said that out loud—the thought leaking through—because his voice cuts through my spiral.
"You gave me plenty."
I blink at him. "What?"
His mouth curves. Slow. Dangerous.
He taps a finger against his collarbone, right where his T-shirt collar gaps open. Then lower, where I know there are scratches I left when he had me against the wall last night. And lower still.
"I'm counting at least five love bites," he says, voice dropping half a register. "I plan on referencing them extensively."
Heat crawls up my neck. "That was—those were—"
"Enthusiastic?"
"Accidents!"
"Sure they were." His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. "Either way, I'll be thinking about them. A lot."
