Jeremy Winslow—my friend Sloane’s billionaire brother—is staring at me like I’m a puzzle he’s been asked to solve. I’m guessing he hates puzzles.
But I can’t say I’m completely surprised. I did see him earlier, actually, when Jon and I were checking in.
Jeremy had crossed the lobby with the same purposeful stride I’ve watched him use walking next to Sloane in Skylark. It clearly communicates that his time is worth more than other people’s. It’s an annoying vibe in our small mountain town, and even more so here in paradise. Not so much for Jon, who’d practically vibrated with excitement.
“That’s Jeremy Winslow,” he’d hissed, gripping my arm. “Introduce us.”
I flat-out refused. Again. From the moment I joined his sister’s book club and we became friends, Jon had been pressuring me to arrange an introduction. I wouldn’t even look in Jeremy’s direction.
He visited Skylark regularly over the past year to see Sloane. She told us he bought a house in the foothills outside of town because he wanted to be close if she needed him after being diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. But even if I liked Jeremy—which I don’t, because despite being a supportive brother, he’s also an overbearing asshat—I wouldn’t use my friendship with Sloane that way.
And maybe some part of me has always known that if I acknowledged Jeremy Winslow away from the protective armor of my friend group, he’d look at me with those assessing eyes and understand the truth I wasn’t ready to show anyone.
Joke’s on me. Because now he’s bearing witness to exactly what I wanted to hide.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“I hadn’t noticed.” My voice comes out scratchy. “Put me down, Jeremy.”
“You were unconscious on a beach chair with a head wound. I’m not putting you down.”
“It’s a scrape, Mr. McMoney Pants. I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not fine.” He carries me across the sand like I weigh nothing. At six-one, he’s got the height for it, and the lean muscle I can feel shifting beneath his shirt suggests the strength isn’t just for show. That’s annoying AF. “Did you fall and hit something?”
Something hit me, I think, but don’t say it out loud. I’m certainly not divulging my humiliation to Sloane’s insufferable brother. He’s never been anything but dismissive to her friends, and he treats our book club like a skin rash he has to tolerate for his sister’s sake.
“It’s nothing.” I set my tone to casual, but with my head hammering, it sounds pathetic. “Just clumsy. You know me.”
He stops walking.
In the moonlight, his expression shifts. Irritation gives way to a sharp, assessing glare. His dark brown eyes are nearly black in this light, intense in a way that makes me want to squirm.
“No,” he says slowly. “I don’t think I do.”
He’s right about that. We’ve never had a real conversation. Every interaction has been me making snide comments about his control issues while he looked through me like I was background noise.
We study each other for a long moment. His silk shirt is rumpled, his jaw tight in a way that might be concern, but could possibly be anger at having his evening interrupted by a woman he finds intolerable. I’ve got a bleeding, pounding head and a ruined designer dress, and I’m cradled against the chest of a man I prefer to antagonize from a safe distance.
“Where’s your new husband?” he asks.
“Turns out I’m single, just not ready to mingle.”
Jeremy Winslow, for all his faults—and I’ve catalogued them extensively while watching him micromanage his sister’s cancertreatment—is not stupid. His hold on me tightens as I watch the realization move across his chiseled features like clouds crossing the moon.
“That son of a bitch,” he mutters.
“He isn’t—” I start, but my voice breaks. Actually breaks, like I’m some stupid heroine in a Victorian novel instead of a woman who prides herself on never letting anyone see her crack. “It’s complicated.”
“There’s nothing complicated about it.” He’s holding me with a certainty that feels just shy of protective. I don’t want to admit how good it feels.
I should make a joke and deflect. Deploy the sharp tongue that’s kept people at arm’s length my whole life. But I’m tired and my head hurts. And I also don’t want to pretend anymore.
“I know,” I whisper. “I walked out. Jon and I are done.”
“Good.”
A simple word for such a tangled situation. “My phone is back there with him. My money. Passport. Everything.”
