Blake is finally, miraculously alone near the beach pavilion. Just him, a drink in his hand. No crowds. No distractions. No obvious escape routes.
I approach from the side, using a decorative screen as cover. My heart is hammering, but I've got my story ready. Lost tourist looking for directions. Damsel in distress who needs a strong, knowledgeable man to help her navigate the resort.
I'm seven feet away when strong hands close around my waist from behind.
Not grabbing. Not aggressive. But unmistakably possessive.
I'm pulled backward against a wall of solid muscle, West's chest pressed against my back, his breath warm against my ear.
"We need to talk." His voice is rough against my ear, and I feel the words as much as hear them.
My breath stutters in response—annoying, traitorous. Every nerve ending lights up like he's touched a live wire to my spine.
His hands span my waist—firm, controlled—thumbs pressing just enough to remind me I’m boxed in. I can feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blades—the way his chest lifts, the brief pause like he’s bracing himself. He smells like expensive soap and something uniquely him, something that makes me want to turn around and—
Focus, Jane Cooper. Mission first. Hormones later.
"I'm kind of in the middle of something," I whisper back.
"I know exactly what you're in the middle of." His voice is so low I feel it more than hear it. "That's the problem."
He turns me around, his hands never leaving my body. We're partially hidden by the decorative screen, close enough that anyone watching would think we're having an intimate conversation.
Which, technically, we are.
"You want to tell me why you're stalking the groom?" he asks. His eyes searching.
My mouth goes dry. "I'm not stalking anyone."
"You're about as subtle as a body check,sweetheart.”
His eyes search my face. "Friend of Barbie's, right? Except Barbie's friends don't usually spend the entire reception trying to corner married men."
"He's not married yet."
The words escape before I can stop them.
West stills. Not freezes—stills. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking once near his cheek.
"Interesting distinction."
“Listen, if I can read you, Blake can too. And he doesn't play nice with amateurs."
My lips part on reflex. I catch it. So does he. His gaze dips—brief, unmistakable—before snapping back to my eyes like he regrets the slip.
He shifts his weight, boxing me in. One hand settles at my hip, warm and steady, like he’s anchoring himself. The other curls slowly, like he’s deciding what not to do.
The air between us tightens. Alert. Loaded.
If I leaned forward six inches, this would turn into something else entirely.
The realization hits hard and sudden, like missing a step.
What the hell is wrong with me?
"Look," I say, trying to salvage the situation. "I just wanted to congratulate him. Wedding etiquette, you know?"
"Wedding etiquette doesn't usually require multiple attempts."
