“I think she wants to know what it feels like to breathe around someone who doesn’t make her feel like she’s one wrong move from destruction.” He shrugs. “Someone who doesn’t crowd her the way you do.”
I take a single furious step forward, closing the gap until I can smell his cologne—clean, expensive, nothing like the sweat and heat I want to bury myself in with her.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tense. Just holds my stare.
“You’ve had one staged kiss and not even five minutes of conversation,” I growl, voice scraping gravel. “You don’t know her.”
Not the way her pulse jumps under my thumb. Not the sounds she makes in her sleep.
“No,” he agrees, infuriatingly even. “But I will. And I’m looking forward to every second of learning her.”
I curl my hands into fists at my sides. The urge to slam him into the wall—to wipe that smug, calm certainty off his face has— me on edge.
He turns toward the door. “She deserves someone who doesn’t make her wait for the other shoe to drop.”
I’m about ready to snap this fucker like a twig.
He glances back, eyes sharp as a blade. Then he’s gone.
I stand there, tape creaking, pulse a slow, dangerous drum.
Every instinct screams to find her, pin her to the nearest wall, and remind her exactly how right we are. How she fits so perfectly in my life. How no one else will ever touch that place inside my heart that only she can open.
But I don’t move. Because the bastard’s right about one thing. She said yes.
I hate it, but she only said yes to dinner. Not forever.
So when she walks back from her date with him—flushed, conflicted, maybe even a little guilty from whatever polite spark he tried to ignite—I’ll be waiting. And this time, I won’t let logic stop me from showing her every filthy, tender reason she should be mine.
Chapter Seven
Lyla
* * *
The private cabana table is set for romance.
White linen, low candles, the ocean glittering like shattered glass under the moon. The chef’s tasting menu arrives in perfect waves. From citrus-seared scallops, to chilled lobster tail dripping beurre blanc, to mango sorbet that melts too fast on my tongue. Damon is attentive without being smothering. He asks real questions—about the wedding I just pulled off with the ripped bustle, about how I built Clark Events with a laptop and determination. He listens. Actually listens.
He’s safe. Steady. Logical.
And I hate that every polite smile I give him feels like a performance.
Not just because that hollowness I feel in my chest won’t go away. But also because Scott is watching.
I can feel him from fifty yards away, up on the main villa deck where the rest of the contestants are pretending to drink cocktails and not stare. His gaze is a physical thing—hot, unblinking, sliding over my bare shoulders, down the silk of my dress where it clings to my waist, lingering on the curve of my thigh crossed over the other. My nipples pebble against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in my belly, insistent and humiliating. My thighs press together under the table.
Focus on Damon. Get it together, girl.
Damon leans forward, refilling my wine. His fingers brush mine. Warm. Careful. Nothing like the rough, claiming way Scott used to slide his palm up my thigh.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he says. His voice is gentle but direct.
I force a smile. “Just taking it all in. It’s beautiful here.”
He tilts his head, studying me, as though he’s collecting data.
“It is. But beauty’s cheap. Compatibility is what’s most important.” He sets the bottle down. “Okay, now I have to know. You must have other stories about being a wedding planner.”
