Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Milo
Hours after dinner, I sit at the far end of the table with a glass of scotch Gregory offered me in hand. The amber liquid catches the firelight every time I tilt it, but I barely taste it anymore.
Every scrap of my attention is fixed on her.
Sienna moves through the crowd in that yellow sundress, the fabric catching the firelight. The straps have slipped off her shoulders, and they ride lower with every animated gesture, every burst of laughter, and every time she tosses her head back.
The dress molds to the swell of her breasts and the curve of her waist, then flares over her hips as she sways. Her dark curls are loose and wild in the humidity, clinging to the damp skin on her neck and in the hollow of her throat.
She’s talking with Aria, hands flying in that expressive way of hers, head thrown back in a laugh that cuts straight through the music and lands low in my gut.
Taking another slow sip of scotch, I feel the burn slide down my throat and pool in my chest, right beside the place where her laughter keeps echoing.
Look away, Milo. Look at the fire. Look at the ocean. Look at anything except the way that dress clings to her perfectly as she moves.
I don’t look away, and she catches me.
Her eyes flick across the sand, and the corner of her mouth curves into that wicked smile she’s wielded like a weapon since the plane. She lifts her Mojito in a tiny, mocking toast, then turns back to Aria as if nothing happened.
As though she hadn’t just reached across thirty feet of sand and tugged on every frayed thread of my restraint.
My grip tightens on the glass, the ice clicking too loudly in my ears. Her dad leans back in the chair beside me and follows my line of sight with the easy awareness of a man who raised a hurricane and survived to talk about it.
“She’s always been like this,” he says quietly, not looking at me. “Lights up a room, then sets it on fire just to see what burns.”
I exhale through my nose, the sound an almost-laugh. “I’ve noticed.”
He takes a sip of his scotch, his eyes still on his daughter. “She’s already decided you’re interesting…”
“Should I be scared?”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest as he stands and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, you should be petrified.”
He’s walking away before I can respond, and my eyes divert back to Sienna again. Like she knows exactly when I’m looking, she glances over—longer this time. No smile. Just that direct, unblinking stare that feels like fingertips trailing slowly down my sternum.
My hand tightens around the glass before I lift it and drain the rest in a single swallow. The burn is welcome this time, but it does nothing to quiet the low throb in my veins.
Ethan drops into the chair Gregory just left and slides a fresh scotch across the table. “You look like you need this more than I do.”
I take it without looking. “Thanks.”
He follows my gaze. “She’s something, huh?”
“Something is one word for it.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest. “She’s like a human firework—bright, loud, and impossible to ignore. And apparently impossible to look away from.”
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… really ecstatic,” 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.”
“Everyone dances.” 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.”
A smile spreads across her face. “Good. You should be.”
She reaches out and grabs my hand, tugging me forward. My pulse goes into overdrive when she laces her fingers through mine. She spins under my arm, laughing as I instinctively raise it so she can pass beneath.
Then she’s back in front of me, hips swaying, eyes locked on mine. “Come on, Mr. Wet-Pants-Wonder. Move.”
“I’m moving.”
“You’re standing.”
“I’m… rhythmically existing.”
She laughs and rests her right hand over my chest, right over my heart. It kicks hard against her palm. “Feel that?” she murmurs. “That’s panic. You’re panicking.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You definitely are,” she rises on her toes, her lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Relax. I don’t bite… unless you ask me to.”
Heat floods my veins like a dam breaking. I tighten my grip on her hand and start to move—slow at first, matching her rhythm, and let the music guide my hips.
“There he is,” she whispers, approval warm in her voice. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She doesn’t respond but instead spins again and presses her back to my chest. Her shoulders nestle against me, head tipping back onto my collarbone. I can feel every point of contact.
My arm slides around her waist before I can stop myself. She covers my hand with hers, pressing it flat against her stomach. The dress is thin, and I can feel the heat of her skin beneath it. I feel her fast, shallow breaths matching mine.
This was a terrible idea.
The worst… maybe best idea I’ve ever had.
We stay like that until the song ends. Then she turns in my arms, her hands sliding up my chest until her fingers curl into the open collar of my shirt. For one suspended second, I think she’s going to kiss me.
But she doesn’t.
She rises on her toes, brushes her lips against my jaw, then pulls back and mutters a weak, “Night, Milo.”
Before I can process what’s just happened, she’s walking away, leaving me standing here, my heart hammering against my ribs.
It’s the first time she’s used my name.
Not Mr. Wet-Pants-Wonder.
But Milo.
It lands like a spark on dry kindling.
As I watch her disappear from sight, her sundress fluttering in the night breeze and her curls bouncing with each step, I realize that when it comes to Sienna Harlow, I’m fucked.
I just can’t decide whether it’s the good kind of fucked or the catastrophic kind.