Chapter 9
nine
. . .
The quarter-mile trek was murder on his already aching body, but was admittedly a just punishment for running his mouth. It also gave him extra time to think and stew into an even thicker broth.
Christian had canceled their reservation.
Yesterday. Was he truly surprised? Of course not.
The inconsiderate ass hadn’t mentioned he’d run off with someone he’d only just met, either.
Why would he bother checking with his old friend to let him know he’d be up shit creek upon arrival for the vacation they’d had planned for months?
No, the painful truth was Christian doubtlessly expected the news would send his foolish little friend slinking home to mope among his books and tubs of takeout.
The idea of Heath going on the trip alone would be laughable.
Even more painfully, Christian would have been entirely justified in his assumption.
If it weren’t for Andres and Manuel, that’s exactly what he would have done.
Did that mean he was obligated to thank them and admit they’d been right? Oh, God. The humanity.
Another question chewing at him was why he hadn’t also canceled the flights. Too busy eloping to finish the job? Why pull out the entire rug from beneath his feet when he could leave it a bunched-up tripping hazard instead?
Heath kicked at a patch of loose gravel with a grunt. The resulting sting in his toes was a sure sign of impending blisters. And wouldn’t the old ball and chain be just delighted by that news?
Another kick sent a mid-sized rock rolling to the edge of the path. Another grunt followed as his toes protested louder. Stupid Westin, Evan, whatever. Oh, how it pained him to consider he’d been wrong there too. That there might be a person underneath the prettiness and privilege.
He’d been left at the altar, for heaven’s sake. If Heath understood any sort of pain, it was being treated like yesterday’s fish. Assuming that was really the story. He wasn’t about to ask Westin for indisputable proof anytime soon.
What if it was his own bias? It wasn’t like he’d grown up wanting for much. His family had been solidly middle class, but his wants had also been simple. Books, primarily. Occasionally a sweater, provided his aunt hadn’t picked it out. The woman’s taste was appalling.
What had Westin gotten for Christmas? Bars of gold? A Ferrari? A small estate in Dover?
“It’s Patek Philippe,” he mocked, coming to his senses. No. The way he’d treated Hannah was a clear measure of the man. He’d cast her aside without an ounce of remorse, and it was despicable. How long would she wait for a call that wasn’t coming?
His renewed outrage served as motivation to move forward, and after he’d trudged an interminable distance, he spotted a structure set back amid a flush of flowering shrubs.
Elevated on thick pillars and wrapped in porches and patios, it nestled cozily into the cliff’s side.
A quaint whitewashed sign marked it as Starlight Villa.
Heath could hear crashing waves and seabird calls echoing across the patio stones as he approached with caution.
Did he wish to be perceived? Westin might have cooled off, but he also might have hidden in the shadows, waiting to pelt him with rotten fruit.
Given the events of the day, neither scenario struck him as particularly outlandish.
A wood and stone staircase led up from the short drive to a patio that extended from the house out to a stone seawall and rectangular plunge pool. Next to it, partially hidden by a partition of white lattice, Heath spotted the cart.
Evan hadn’t left the keys in it, because of course he hadn’t, but he also hadn’t left Heath high and dry, which was a potential positive.
Another short staircase rose to the villa’s wraparound porch. He crept up to the first of several louvered doors and cursed when he discovered it locked. Door number two was locked as well. Three, however, was slightly ajar, and it opened with a quiet creak when Heath nudged it aside.
The main room was stunning enough to take his breath away.
Crisp white walls and linens, warmed by the dark cane furniture and other rich wood accents.
Heath paused at the island counter of the sleek, minimalist kitchen and gaped at an endless stretch of ocean.
Perhaps being here with Westin was less of a burden than he’d first thought.
The man in question was showering. Heath could hear water running from somewhere at the back of the house. The cart’s keys lay carelessly on the counter, which presented him with a prime opportunity to exact some revenge. Perhaps hubby would enjoy a taste of his own medicine.
A devious thrill shot through him. He suppressed a maniacal cackle and grabbed the keys, only to pause at the realization he would need to skip a shower of his own in order to abscond with the cart.
Travel did horrible enough things to a person’s state of cleanliness, but the added insult of being pelted with rocks and dust, then forced on a long, humid walk certainly hadn’t helped matters. Was he willing to offend the island’s owners in the name of vengeance?
Yes. Absolutely.
As silently as possible, he shuffled out of the house and back to the cart. There was a moment of concern that he’d never driven one of the things before, but the usual controls were all present—brake, gas, wheel. How hard could it be?
He plopped behind the wheel with a giddy titter and turned the key.
He’d expected the grunt and chug he’d heard from it before, but got only dead silence.
In the dim light, it was hard to make out the details on the dash, so he illuminated his phone’s flashlight and tried the toggle for the lights. Nothing happened.
“What the hell?”
A shrill whistle made him jump, and the creak of movement pulled his eyes upward to the shadow just visible through the porch above.
“Going somewhere?”
With a huff of frustration, Heath exited the cart and marched out from under the overhang to give his bastard fake husband a piece of his mind.
“What did you do?”
Water droplets pinged his face and forehead as Westin leaned over the porch railing with an expression of palpable smugness.
“Didn’t learn your lesson from the first time you asked me that?”
Sweet merciful Michaelangelo.
Westin and the towel about his waist were a study in artistry. Taut, contoured, and masterfully defined, muscles Heath had only ever heard rumor of stretched and flexed with the smallest motion. Legs that would be the envy of Atlas widened as Westin shifted, and the towel gaped the slightest bit.
Heath’s fingers went slack. His phone, the traitorous device, landed at his feet, casting a searing path of light to the edge of that tempting darkness. That demon snare masquerading as terrycloth. Captivating and extinguishing all traces of thought and breath.
He averted his eyes and scrambled to douse the flashlight. He refused to be waylaid, dammit.
“What’s that in your hand?”
“An insurance policy.”
Dangling between his thumb and forefinger was something that looked suspiciously like a wire, and further investigation revealed that the panel on the cart’s steering column was askew.
“This is resort property.”
“Yep, and I guess I made the right call not to trust you with access to it.”
“You broke our only means of transportation?”
“No, I took it out of service. Temporarily.”
“I should—”
“You should come in and shower,” Westin cut him off. “I can smell the sweaty outrage on you from here. That really the first impression you want to make at dinner?”
“I don’t know why I have to go at all.”
Westin pushed away from the railing and stretched his arms above his head. It threw back his shoulders and sent more muscles dancing beneath that breadth of skin and sinew. It also made the towel slip a fraction of an inch lower.
Curse him.
“Because we need to at least make a show of being together for introductions. After tonight, I don’t care what you do.”
“Just tell them I have a headache.”
“We’ve been married less than an hour and you’re already using that excuse?”
“Hear it a lot, do you?” Evan frowned, and Heath added a check mark next to his own name on the scorecard in his mind. “I won’t smell much better if I have to walk back.”
Westin spun the wire like a propeller while putting on an exaggerated thinking face. “I could be coerced into giving you a ride.”
“Coerced?” Heath shoved an extra measure of his sweaty outrage into the word while a colorful selection of methods flooded his mind. A ride indeed…
Stop that!
Westin crossed his arms, looking even more smug. “I’d like you to apologize for doubting me.”
“You want an apology?” Heath echoed with a scoff. “Then what? I’m supposed to just trust you won’t ditch me the second I get into the shower?”
Westin smiled, and Heath cursed inwardly. The arrogant bastard was eating this with a spoon.
“I’ll give you the wire,” he promised, holding up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“You expect me to believe you were a Boy Scout?”
“You trying to make it two apologies?”
“Oh, come on! If that’s true, I’m the queen of Denmark.”
“Laenge leve dronningen, pookie.”
The man spoke Dutch? Of course he did.
Heath stomped up the stairs with exaggerated ire, relieved Westin had at least put on pants before he joined him in the living room. Though only pants.
The light linen trousers, with the way they hung from his hips, were even more disruptive. All those dips and ripples, and the ginger-brown trail leading to things Heath was absolutely not going to think about or stare at.
He’d promised himself, dammit. The last time he’d trusted a playboy with a pretty face and thick… wallet, he’d gotten his heart shattered into infinite tiny shards. Fleeting moments of pleasure weren’t worth it in the long run.
“Well?”
Heath frowned in the face of Westin’s incredibly arrogant smirk. “Well, what?”
“C’mon, Lennox. Surely a little ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t too much for a perfectly rational adult like yourself.”
Heaving a sigh, Heath rolled his eyes skyward. This both conveyed his annoyance and blurred his forward vision, taking Westin’s distractingly perfect body out of focus. Win/win.
“Fine. It was wrong of me to assume you were at fault. I’m sorry.”
“I question your sincerity,” Westin held out his hand, the wire dangling from his fingers, “but here’s your insurance policy.”
“What’s stopping me from using it and leaving you here?”
“You have any idea where it goes?”
“I can Goo—” No, he couldn’t. There was no Wi-Fi.
Heath muttered, “Shit,” and ignored the flutter in his stomach when Westin chuckled. Ignored the blaze of sensation up his arm when Westin grasped his wrist and turned his hand upward, placing the wire into his palm. Ignored the bone-deep desire to bury his hands into that glorious chest hair and…
There are newborns less weak than you, you… weakling.
“Go shower. I’ll wait.”