Chapter Two
DEAN
The only way tosurvive a destination wedding is with a clear exit strategy. My job was to protect multi-million-dollar portfolios from emotional, irrational impulses. Yet here I was, staring at the sun-bleached ceiling of a hotel room, my strategy in tatters after one night. Beyond the curtains, the ocean cast rippling patterns across the wall, filling the room with the kind of light that made hungover people reconsider their life decisions. I wasn’t hungover, but I was in the early throes of regret.
Last night, fake dating Brynn Vance had seemed like a logical, heaven-sent play. But it was already becoming a problem. I’d spent the last ten minutes replaying the look on her face last night—that shaky moment when I’d pulled her close. The flush on her cheeks, and the quick dart of her hazel eyes to mine. I’d casually known her for years, so why hadn’t I ever noticed the extraordinary gold and green flecks in her irises? This was supposed to be an act, butsomewhere between the staged possessiveness and her body pressed against mine, it had started to feel damn good.
That was the problem with Brynn. On paper, she was everything I avoided—soft edges, big heart, the kind of person who probably owned a crockpot. In reality, she had a sharp, unfiltered sincerity I didn’t know how to handle. She was so transparently good it bordered on reckless. Most people like her annoyed the hell out of me. But the Brynn of last night had been the opposite of irritating.
I dragged myself out of bed. The room was straight out of a 1980s travel brochure—shell-shaped pillows, prints of beachscapes. From the balcony, Dove Key was a parade of pastel buildings and palm trees. Sunset Siesta Resort was working the Old Florida charm so hard it felt like it might collapse under its own marketing. But I had to admit it all worked for them. I made my way to the in-room coffee station. The coffee was terrible. Wincing, I added extra cream.
My wish for the day was to avoid anything resembling a wedding event. But that was a futile wish. I was here for Josh Bennett. We’d been best friends since college, and if he wanted to end his life as a free-thinking, single man, I’d do my best to support that decision. Even if I couldn’t disagree more.
A brisk knock came at the door—the authoritative thud of someone who had no qualms about waking the dead. I sighed and crossed the room before opening the door to a woman around my age with brown hair trying to escape its ponytail. A clipboard was tucked under one arm like an extension of her spine. She offered a bright, efficient smile.
“Mr. Mercer? Dean Mercer?”
“That’s me.”
She extended her hand, and we exchanged afirm shake. “Harper Coleridge, general manager. Sorry to drop in, but we like to ensure our VIP guests have everything they need.” I ushered her into the room, where she did a quick visual sweep and handed me a heavy white envelope. “You somehow didn’t get a welcome packet yesterday.”
Stifling another sigh, I accepted the folder. “Thanks. I’m all set on activities.”
She arched a brow, and the smile returned. “I noticed you and Ms. Vance at the welcome mixer. Best man and maid of honor are a couple too. I love it!”
I smirked. “Wasn’t aware we made that much of an impression.”
“Well, it’s my job to notice things like that. I wanted to make sure you knew about the couple’s retreat package. You’ll find the details in the envelope.”
I opened it. Glossy brochures, coupons, and a detailed itinerary. “Couple’s paddleboard yoga?” I read aloud. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. We’re proud of our holistic programming. We also include a sunset sail, a tandem kayak excursion, and a cooking class. Of course, none of it is mandatory, but folks really enjoy the variety.” Harper’s tone was professional, but a glint of mischief lit her eyes, as if she could read my mind.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Sounds like emotional blackmail.”
She laughed, the managerial mask slipping. “Different strokes for different folks, then.” She paused at the threshold. “Oh. My brother Eli runs the dive shop. Just want to remind you about your dive trip at nine. Ms. Vance will be there too, of course.”
I nodded. “I’ll be there. Too bad Josh and Holly bailed on the underwater adventure.”
Harper tucked the clipboard under her arm. “They were disappointed too. Last-minute wedding attire fitting. This was the only time the seamstress and tailor had free.” With that, she was gone, leaving the faint scent of coconut sunscreen and absolute authority.
I stared at the itinerary. No way was I attempting paddleboard yoga or a damn cooking class. But my eye snagged on the wedding party dive. The dive that was now just Brynn and me. The fake dating scheme had gone from a clever ruse to a full-blown performance, with props and an audience ready to pounce. I drained my coffee with a grimace and braced myself for the show.
The air on the resort pier was thick with salt and the whine of a fishing charter. Brynn perched on a bench at the end of the dock, her hair in a neat ponytail. She wore a fitted rash guard over athletic swim shorts, an outfit both modest and sexy. She scanned the beach, her face open and unguarded, as if she were genuinely happy to be here. I didn’t trust it.
“Nice of you to make it,” she called as I approached. “I was starting to think you bailed too.”
I held up the activity vouchers. “Turns out skipping town isn’t on the itinerary. Only the bride and groom had permission slips. Ready?”
She shot me a smile. “Only if you promise not to drown. I’ll never live it down.”
I liked her wry wit. “I was hoping to fake an injury and spend the weekend at the poolside bar. Do they serve real drinks here, or just weird blue things with umbrellas?”
She squinted, amusement in her gold-brown eyes. “Are you really this allergic to fun, or is it an elaborate hoax?”
“Fun is fine in moderation. I just don’t like it forced down my throat.”
A shadow loomed behind her. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the only adventure in town worth missing brunch for.”
