"Sorry," he murmurs, his voice low enough that I have to lean closer to hear him. "Didn't see you there."
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. They're darker than I thought. Not quite blue, not quite gray. The kind of eyes that see everything and give away nothing.
"No problem," I manage.
But he doesn't step away. Neither do I. We're standing too close, his hand still resting on my waist, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how much bigger he is than me. How solid. How warm.
"Try the shrimp," he says, offering me his plate. "Best thing they're serving."
His fingers brush mine as I take a piece, and I swear I feel sparks.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
I'm supposed to be focused on Blake. On the mission. On the fifty thousand dollars that will save my business and Grace's future.
I am not supposed to be getting distracted by the man whose job seems to be keeping me away from my target.
"Thanks," I say, stepping back before I do something stupid. Like lean into his touch. Or ask him why his eyes look sad when he smiles.
When I glance toward the raw bar, Blake is gone.
Again.
"Damn it," I mutter.
At this rate, I'll need a GPS tracker and a hunting license.
"Problem?" West's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile, and I want to wipe that smug expression off hisstupidly handsome face.
"Just... having trouble connecting with people. Wedding parties are complicated."
"They can be." He's studying me with that assessing look again, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "Especially when you're not sure where you fit."
The flat note in his voice makes me think he's not just talking about me.
But before I can figure out what to say to that, his phone buzzes. He glances at it, and his expression shifts.
"Enjoy the shrimp," he says, already moving away.
And I'm left standing by the buffet, holding an appetizer I don't want, wondering what the hell just happened.
By the time the welcome reception officially begins, I've attempted to approach Blake six more times.
Six more times, West has intervened.
At the pavilion bar: He strikes up a conversation with the bartender just as I arrive, creating a crowd that forces Blake to move.
On the terrace: He simply appears beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine, and starts pointing out architectural details of the resort. His voice is low, intimate, like he's sharing secrets. I find myself listening despite myself, distracted by the way his fingers move when he gestures, until I realize Blake has moved on.
Near the dance floor: He asks me to dance. Politely. Charmingly. With a smile that makes it impossible to refuse without seeming rude. And before the song is even halfway done, he excuses himself and leaves. And Blake has disappeared.
At the photo station: West volunteers us for a group shot, pulling me against his side for the picture. His arm settles around my waist like it belongs there. His thumb traces small circles against my hip through my dress. I'm so flustered by the contact that I miss Blake's entire conversation about the upcoming island cruise.
Each intervention is different. Each one is more personalthan the last. And each one leaves me more confused about what game we're playing.
Because this doesn't feel like simple blocking anymore. This feels like something else entirely.
The final straw comes at five.
