“I have a spare room.” He starts walking toward the cluster of private villas on the far end of the resort. Naturally. “We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
“I don’t need your charity,” I protest, but let him continue carrying me.
“Consider it a strategic investment in my sister’s happiness. Sloane would kill me if I left her favorite book club member bleeding on a beach.”
“Sloane’s favorite is definitely Molly.”
“Fine. Second favorite.”
“Probably Sadie.”
One thick brow lifts. “Are you arguing about your ranking while bleeding from the head?”
“It’s called multitasking. You might be more successful if you tried it.”
“Pro-tip, huh?”
“Won’t walking in with me in your arms be weird for whoever else?—”
“There’s no one else.”
I close my mouth and blink a few times. That’s…not what I expected. “You’re alone at a tropical resort?” Why do I find that fact so satisfying? “I’m not sure which of us is more pathetic.”
“It’s you,” he says, but an almost smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m here working on a deal. Having a woman I know wandering around the resort covered in blood is bad optics.”
I don’t know what deal he’s talking about, and right now I don’t care. A surprised—possibly hysterical—laugh escapes me. “There’s the Jeremy Winslow I know and dislike.”
“Maybe stop talking and accept help graciously for once in your life.”
“How can you say that? We’ve literally never had a civil conversation before tonight.”
“Yet I feel like I know exactly how stubborn you are.”
I should have a comeback for that. I always have a comeback. But my head hurts and my face is sticky with blood and the man carrying me toward safety is the last person I ever would have expected to play rescuer.
The stars above us are still impossibly bright. I close my eyes and let Jeremy Winslow carry me away from the worst mistake I’ve ever made, toward something I can’t yet name.
If this is what rock bottom looks like, at least the view is spectacular.
3
AVAH
Jeremy’s villamakes my overwater bungalow look like the clearance rack at an outlet store. We’ve left the main resort behind entirely. No more ambient music or laughter drifting across the water. His place sits at the far edge of the property, tucked behind a wall of dense tropical landscaping with subtle lights glowing from fixtures hidden among the greenery, casting shadows that make the whole approach feel secret and separate.
It’s like he’s carrying me into some Heathcliff-coded hideaway, all broody isolation and Gothic romance. The weirdest part is, I don’t mind. Maybe it’s the head injury talking, but being invisible to the rest of the world for a few hours sounds like exactly what I need.
A man in a crisp white uniform stands at attention outside the door, and I realize with another layer of disbelief that this place comes with a private butler. Of course it does. The dude probably irons Jeremy’s Speedo.
“Damon, get the resort doctor.” Jeremy’s tone is clipped. “Now.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” The words come out garbled becausemy face is pressed against Jeremy’s broad shoulder, but I’m pretty sure I make myself clear. I glance up to make sure.
He ignores me completely.
Damon—a man in his mid-sixties whose unflappable expression suggests he’s seen stranger scenes than this and finds the whole thing rather pedestrian—nods once and disappears around the corner.
“Seriously.” I try to wriggle out of Jeremy’s arms as he carries me through a doorway that opens into a space worthy of the island issue ofArchitectural Digest. “It’s just a cut.”
