I ignore the jab and take a deliberate sip of scotch. “She’s impossible, period.”
Ethan flashes that same golden retriever grin he’s worn since our freshman year of college, when we were randomly assigned as roommates and decided within forty-eight hours that we’d be brothers for life.
He stood by me when I walked away from my soul-crushing corporate job at twenty-six and put every dollar I had into building Reyes Tech. He was there for the first funding round and again when the multi-billion-dollar valuation hit the headlines. And he was right there, too, when I lost my parents in a devastating car accident just before I turned thirty.
For fifteen years, we’ve been through it all together. Our friendship has only deepened with time. He’s the kind of person I’d do anything for, without hesitation or questions.
“You two are already bickering like an old married couple. Aria’s ecstatic about it…reallyecstatic,” he says, his eyes lighting up as he watches Aria laugh at whatever Sienna just whispered in her ear.
For a second, I can’t decide whether I envy their easy bond or resent how effortlessly Sienna draws joy from people.
“We’re not bickering,” I scoff, though the words sound half-hearted even to me. “We’re negotiating survival.”
“There’s no ‘negotiating survival’ with Sienna around, trust me.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Just try to refrain from killing each other before the wedding. I need my best man alive, not buried behind the villa.”
“No promises,” I mutter, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.
A loud crash of shattering glass erupts behind us. We both spin to see Tom frozen on the opposite side of the table, his eyes wide as he stares at the four broken glasses and dark amber rivers spreading across the cream tablecloth.
“How’d that happen?” Tom muses, his voice thick with confusion. “I could’ve sworn there was only one glass on the table… not four.”
Ethan bursts out laughing and has to brace himself against my shoulder to stay upright. “He’s drunk,” he manages between breaths, already pushing himself to his feet. “I’d better get him back to his villa before he causes more damage. And Milo?” He pauses, turning back with a grin that mixes sympathy and glee. “Good luck with Sienna. She’ll keep you on your toes until the day you die… probably longer.”
“Don’t I know it,” I mutter, too quiet for him to hear over the music and waves.
Ethan slings an arm around his dad’s shoulder and steers him toward the path. Tom keeps muttering apologies as they go, adamant that the table moved before their voices fade among the palm fronds.
I stay seated, eyes drifting back to Sienna. She’s dancing now—nothing choreographed, just swaying to the rhythm with a handful of other resort guests.
Her hips roll in slow circles, arms raised, head tipped back, curls bouncing. The yellow sundress swirls around her thighs, the hem riding dangerously high with each movement.
Fourteen days I’ve got to endure this slow torture from the woman who already knows exactly how to get under my skin and seems determined to burrow deeper until no part of me is left untouched.
She’s going to kill me slowly. Not with knives or poison, but with eye contact. With sarcasm. With the way she moves, like gravity is optional, and every laugh is a hook designed to reel me in deeper.
As if sensing my stare, she spins and meets my gaze again. This time, she mouths something I can’t make out. When I frown, she rolls her eyes dramatically, points at me, then at the open space beside her—a universal signal for “get over here now.”
I raise my glass toward her and stay seated.
She pouts, her lower lip pushed out in disappointment, then turns back to the group. But I catch the smile she tries to hide.
She’s baiting me, and for some unknown reason, I’m letting her.
The music shifts to something faster and sultrier. I stand before I talk myself out of it and walk toward her. When she sees me coming, her smile turns triumphant.
I stop just outside the loose circle that’s formed. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” She steps close enough that I catch the faint coconut scent of her shampoo. “Dance.”
A low, barely audible scoff escapes my lips. “I don’t dance.”
“Everyonedances.” She rolls her eyes so hard her lashes nearly brush her eyebrows.
I shift my weight on the sand. “I’m good here.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Scared?”
“Of you?” I let the corner of my mouth lift. “Constantly.”
