The bridesmaids disperse in a flurry of linen and expensive perfume, leaving West and me alone at the table.
He’s still holding my hand.
“That went well,” he says.
“Did it? Because I feel like I just lied to four women who are paying me to uncover the truth.”
“Come on.” His voice is quiet. “We have two hours before Vivienne. Let’s not waste them spiraling.”
“What do you suggest?”
His mouth curves—slow, wicked, devastating. “I can think of a few ways to pass the time.”
Heat floods through me. “West—”
“Relax, Cooper.” His tone is maddeningly innocent. “I meant a strategy meeting about Scarlett on the beach. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“My mind is exactly where you put it.”
He laughs, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Later. I promise. But first—sun, sand, and pretending we’re normal people on vacation.”
“We’re not normal people.”
“I know.” His hand slides down to link with mine. “But we can pretend.”
At 2:06 p.m., I’m lurking behind a decorative palm near the pool bar, watching West make polite conversation with a woman who looks like she stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad.
Vivienne Grant is tall, blonde, effortlessly elegant. Cream linen. Actual pearls. In daylight. By a pool.
She fits here. She fitshim.
There’s something almost unfairly balanced about the way they look together—her polished calm beside his quiet, contained intensity. Beauty and the beast, if the beast wore tailored shorts and looked like he could dismantle a room with one glance. The kind of pairing people point to and say,Of course.
For one uncomfortable second, I wonder if this is what happiness looks like for him. Easy. Appropriate. Approved.
Then she leans in a little too close, laughs a little too brightly, and touches his forearm in that way women do when they’re one hundred percent interested and zero percent subtle about it.
And the moment passes, because West Prescott—credit where it’s due—looks like he’s enduring a root canal.
“—and I just adore hockey,” Vivienne is saying. “The speed, the athleticism, the—” She pauses, her smile turning coy. “—physicality.”
My jaw tightens.
“It’s a demanding sport,” West says neutrally.
“I imagine retirement will be an adjustment. But Eleanor mentioned you’d be joining Prescott Law Group?” Her voice lifts with interest. “That’s so exciting. I’ve always thought athletes make excellent litigators. All that strategic thinking.”
West’s jaw ticks. Just once. Just enough.
“My mother’s optimistic,” he says carefully. “But I haven’t made any decisions.”
“Oh, but you must have thought about it. Family legacy, stability, a chance to build something meaningful beyond the rink…” She shifts closer, lowering her voice. “Eleanor and I were discussing the timeline just last week. She thinks a spring start would be ideal. After the season ends.”
My hands curl into fists.
She’s planning his life. Talking about his future like it’s already decided. Like he’s a chess piece she and Eleanor are moving around the board.
And West—steady, controlled West—looks like he’d rather dive into the pool and somehow swim to another island.
