I trace a scar along his ribs—some old hockey injury—and a laugh slips out of me, unguarded.
“What’s so funny?”
“We just engaged in some… extremely vigorousZamboni parking.”
His mouth quirks. “Vigorous. I’m flattered.”
“Very vigorous.” I prop myself up. “Multiple times. Multiple locations.”
His hand slides up my spine. “I’m not complaining.”
"Neither am I." I rest my chin on his chest. "But we should probably get dressed. Don't you have that groomsmen thing soon?"
"Golf with Blake." He grimaces. " Pre-bachelor-party bonding.”
"Perfect opportunity to observe him."
“Or a perfect opportunity for him to behave, knowing I’m watching.” West sits up, taking me with him, settling me in his lap. “Which is why I think we execute phase one of the Scarlett plan.”
"Provoke jealousy? She’s golfing too?"
"Yes. She’ll be there. Playing devoted wedding planner while actually being his mistress.”
West’s hands are doing distracting things to my hips. "I’ll call Natalie and make sure she shows up as well."
I focus through the pleasant haze of his touch. "How?"
“The bride needs to approve rehearsal dinner seating this afternoon. I’ll suggest the clubhouse—neutral ground, air-conditioned, impossible to escape.” His smile sharpens. "Blake will have to choose between paying attention to his mistress or his fiancée."
“And he’ll choose Natalie.”
“Because the wedding’s in four days and he can’t risk suspicion.” West nods. “Scarlett will notice. And hurt people make mistakes.”
“That’s… actually brilliant.”
“I’ve been thinking about it all morning.” He kisses my shoulder. “Between rounds of vigorousactivities.”
"Multitasking. Impressive."
"I'm motivated." His expression shifts, serious now. "I want Blake caught, Jane. Not just for your job. For Natalie. She deserves better than this."
"She does." I touch his face, feeling the scratch of stubble under my palm. "Thank you for helping."
"Thank you for making Vivienne run screaming." He grins, boyish and bright, and my heart does something dangerous in my chest. "The puck bunny routine was inspired."
"Sorry about mixing up the sports metaphors and terminologies. I genuinely don't know the difference between hockey and baseball, other than the obvious."
"I know. That's what made it perfect."
He stands, lifting me with him effortlessly, I wrap my legs around his waist without thinking.
“For the record,” he says, carrying me toward the bedroom, “we don’t hit home runs.”
"What do you hit?"
"The back of the net." His mouth curves. "Want me to show you?"
I laugh. “Why does that make me picture being tied up?”
