I swallow—then decide I’m done giving that woman real estate in my head.
“You know what?” I exhale. “All this talk about food made me hungry. Let’s find some actual filet mignon. Or at least a shrimp skewer that didn’t come out of a freezer bag.”
“You got it. Oh, there’s one more thing,” he adds as we turn away. “Tonight. Lounge bar at Cap Juluca. Eight o’clock. My mother texted me with a ‘candidate.’”
Right. The deal. The fake relationship. The reason why West's helping me.
“I’ll be there.”
“Jane.” He waits until I meet his eyes. They twinkle.
“Don’t be subtle tonight.”
The woman cornering West at the bar looks like she stepped out of a boardroom catalog—elegant navy dress, posture so perfect it makes my spine hurt just looking at it, jewelry that whispers "old money" in seventeen languages.
She's smiling at West like he's a quarterly earnings report that exceeded expectations.
I'm wearing jean shorts and one of West's T-shirts I liberated from his luggage. I refuse to wear a cocktail dress to commit sabotage.
Time to detonate this interview. SHOWTIME.
I stride across the lounge like a woman on a mission from chaos itself. West spots me coming and his eyes flash with something between alarm and fascination.
Perfect.
"West Prescott!" My voice carries across the entire pavilion. Several cocktails pause mid-sip. "We need to talk. Right now."
Navy Dress blinks, her smile freezing in place. "I'm sorry, we were in the middle of—"
"Oh, I know exactly what you're in the middle of." I fix her with my best wounded-but-dignified expression. "Did he tell you about Mason?"
West's jaw tightens. "Jane—"
"Who's Mason?" the woman asks, her tone cautious.
"Our son." I let my voice waver perfectly—not sobbing, justbravely struggling. Oscar-worthy stuff. "He's four years old. Has his daddy's eyes. Asks about him every single night before bed."
I watch her face cycle through confusion, concern, and the dawning horror of a woman realizing this is NOT the eligible bachelor she was promised.
"I don't have a son," West says, his voice tight with barely controlled alarm.
"That's what you tell everyone!" I'm warming up now, really committing to the bit. "You want to pretend we don't exist? That Mason doesn't exist? He drew you a picture last week, West. A picture of you playing hockey. In crayon. The expensive Crayola kind, not the cheap ones, because only the best for a Prescott."
The woman stands slowly, already reaching for her purse. "I think there's been some...miscommunication."
"Oh, there's been communication." I drop one hand to my stomach, pushing it out slightly.
I shoot West a sly sideways smile—pure theater—before turning back to the woman.
“Plenty of it. You’d think, with his family disapproving of us, he’d show some restraint. But no.”
I tilt my head toward West. “Captain Five-Hole can’t keep his hands to himself, can you, honey?”
I look at West with exaggerated affection and long-suffering patience, sweeping a hand down my body like Vanna White presenting a prize.
West makes a sound like he's choking.
"Another?" Navy Dress is backing away now.
