Finally, she nods. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. We have a deal."
Relief floods me—then terror. I just invited a woman who dismantles my control with one look to share my bed for a week.
I'm screwed.
"Get your stuff. You're moving in tonight."
Her eyes widen. "Tonight?"
"If we're selling this, we sell it properly. My family doesn't do halfway." I pull out my phone. "Text Barbie. Tell her you're staying with me. Then pack your things and get back here within the hour."
"You're very bossy."
"I'm very motivated." I meet her eyes. "And Jane? This is going to work. But only if you trust me."
She laughs—short and sharp. "I just met you."
"I know. But I'm the best shot you've got."
She considers that. Then nods once, decisive.
"One hour," she agrees and grabs my mobile to call her phone.
Then she's gone, leaving me alone with the scent of her sunscreen and the terrifying knowledge that I just invited chaos into my carefully controlled life.
My phone buzzes with her text: One condition—I get the right side of the bed.
I type back: Wars have been fought over less. Prepare for battle.
I hit send, already imagining her laugh. Already dreading the feel of her body next to mine in the dark. Already hard again at the thought.
Three years of discipline. Gone in one sunset.
I pour scotch I don't want and wait for the hurricane to return.
Chapter 5
Tit for Tat
January 25 | Day 2 Anguilla | T–6
Jane
West Prescott sleeps like the dead. And like a starfish.
A very large, very warm starfish whose arm has somehow migrated across the invisible DMZ between our sides of the king-sized bed and landed heavily across my waist.
His hand rests just below my ribs, fingers splayed, palm hot even through my thin sleep tank. His breathing is deep and even, ruffling the hair at my temple. Every exhale sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air-conditioned chill.
Apparently, I’m not much better.
My leg is thrown over his hip, my arm is draped across his ridiculously defined torso, and my hand is… oh my, my hand is resting perilously close to the waistband of his boxer briefs, my fingers splayed like I’m trying to measure his abs for science.
The last thing I remember is lying rigidly on my designated right side of the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling, chantingdon’t touch him, don’t touch him, don’t touch himlike a deranged monk. Somewhere between midnight and dawn, my body apparently decided the monk life wasn’t for it and went full barnacle on the nearest heat source.
