“Okay, fake fiancé,” I say as I kick off my sandals and open my suitcase. “This place is a ten out of ten.”
Esteban chuckles from the other side of the room. “Right? I feel like I need a linen shirt and one of those cocktails with an umbrella. Let me change first, that way you can take your time.” He grabs clothes from his suitcase and walks to the bathroom.
While he is gone, I grab my swimsuits and lay them inbed. I stare down at them still undecided. The black one-piece with gold details feels like the safe choice—classic, understated, hard to misread. But the deep green two-piece is bold, flirty, and definitely not what you wear when you’re tryingnotto catch someone’s attention. Do I want his attention on me? Yes, I do. But I don’t want to be too obvious about it. I stare at both swimsuits, thinking which one to choose.
The bathroom door is closed, but I can hear him in there. The toilet flushes. Water runs. I hold my breath without even realizing it.
Then the door opens and I almost drop dead right there.
Esteban steps out wearing nothing but a pair of light pink swim trunks that hang criminally low on his hips, and my mouth goes dry.
His chest is a damn masterpiece—broad, firm, and cut like he’s been sculpted out of marble. There’s a light dusting of chest hair, trimmed and neat, and that V-line leading straight down to where his trunks sit makes my brain forget how to function.
And then I see them.
The tattoos.
A compass inked on the left side of his chest, detailed and bold, like it’s pointing toward something—or someone—he’s meant to find. And running down his right side, a line of symbols I can’t quite decipher, ending in a single purple rose near his waist. The contrast of the deep ink against his sun-kissed skin is unfair. Completely,unfair.
I’m left speechless.
I never thought tattoos could look this good on a man, let alone make me feel like I’m about to forget my own name.
He looks… dangerous. Beautiful. Like trouble wrapped in confidence, dipped in sunlight.
Is this man even real?
Catching me staring, he smirks. “You like what you see?” His eyebrows do this cocky little wiggle that snaps me out of my not-so-subtle gawking.
“Are you wearing a shirt to the pool?”
“Why?” He grins. “You don’t want anyone seeing how hot your fiancé is?”
I snort. “Nope. I just don’t want Mrs. McNeal to have a heart attack.”
He throws his head back and laughs, loud and full and gorgeous. Then he walks over to his suitcase and grabs a white beach shirt, slipping it on without much urgency.
Unfortunately, the shirt doesn’t help. It clings to every muscle like it’s in love with him too. I force myself to look away, suddenly too hot and bothered by the sight of his naked chest.
Isthiswhat a lady boner feels like?
Because damn.
Grabbing the swimsuits from the bed, I make a beeline for the bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. I lean back against it and take a few steadying breaths.
Get. It. Together.
I grab my phone and open my group chat with Ashton and Payton.
Me: 911
A second later:
Ashton: Please tell me you fucked the man already?
Payton: You know she wouldn’t be texting for that.
Me: No, I would not. Get your head out of the gutter.
