Inside our casita, West heads straight for the bar cart and pours two fingers of something amber.
"That was—" He stops. Starts again. "You really committed to the Mason narrative."
"Method acting." I kick off my sandals. "Did it work?"
"Once she gets over her embarrassment, she'll tell everyone I'm a deadbeat dad with a pregnant baby mama by tomorrow’s lunch." He hands me a glass. "So yes. Spectacularly."
We settle onto opposite ends of the couch—careful distance maintained, post-sabotage buzz still humming between us.
I take a sip. The whiskey burns all the way down, grounding me.
"You're good at this," West says, watching me over the rim of his glass.
"At what? Lying? Chaos? Ruining women's evenings?"
"At demolition." His mouth quirks. "You're excellent at blowing things up."
The compliment lands weird. Warm but edged.
"Thanks?" I say slowly.
"I wish you were good at seduction, though. You were bad with Blake."
I set down my glass carefully.
"Excuse me?" I bristle.
"Scarlett. The yacht. The woman you scared off just now. You light up when you’re dismantling and sabotaging. You’re sharp. Fast. Confident.” There’s a spark in West’s eyes.
“But when Blake turned his attention on you? You freeze. Your body checks out before your brain can catch up. And when it does, it becomes painfully obvious what your 10-step tactics are.”
My throat tightens, because—damn it—he’s right. I’m reactiveanddefensive.
“Blake notices that,” West continues. “Men like him always do. The second your interest doesn’t match your proximity, they pull back. Not offended. Just bored.”
My jaw tightens. "I got his attention, didn't I?"
"You got his curiosity. That's not the same thing." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Blake's intriguedbecause you're new. But if you want him to actually pursue you—to let his guard down—you need to stop improvising blindly and start playing strategically."
The words sting because they're true.
Day 2 is already over. I've successfully tanked one of West's matchmaking disasters and made an enemy of Scarlett, but I'm no closer to Blake than I was yesterday. Time is ticking. And I'm running on fumes and Google searches.
"Fine," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "Then tell me how."
"How to what?"
"How to seduce Blake." I meet his eyes. "Not the flirting-101 stuff Barbie keeps barking at me. Real intel. Patterns. What actually works on him."
West studies me for a long moment. Then he sits back, considering.
"He likes brunettes,” he says finally. "Always has. Dark hair, curves—your type, actually."
My stomach does a weird flip atyour type—hilarious, given I’m a natural blonde currently cosplaying as a brunette because the bridesmaids ran the numbers and upgraded the presentation.
“He responds to confidence,” West says. “Not desperation. Needy, whiny women bore him. What holds his attention is someone desirable who never quite feels attainable.”
"So I'm supposed to be... unavailable?"
