Chapter 2
AVAH
A moment (or maybe longer) later, I wake to motion and the feel of arms around me. I try to open my eyes, but my head feels like someone’s driven a railroad spike through it.
“Jesus Christ.” The male voice is deep, irritated, and familiar in a way that makes my stomach drop.
“Nope,” I croak. “Just me.”
“What the hell happened to you?”
I open my eyes enough to see a face above me with thick dark hair that curls slightly at his temples, and a strong jaw set in an immutable line.
High cheekbones cast faint shadows across the planes of his face.
My vision is fuzzy around the edges, but I can still make out the deep brown of his eyes beneath straight brows and the strong line of his jaw set in an unyielding line.
His features would be handsome if they weren’t arranged into an expression of epically profound annoyance, like I’m a piece of luggage someone left in his path.
Oh no.
No no no.
Of all the people at this resort.
Of all the people in the world.
Jeremy Winslow—my friend Sloane’s billionaire brother—is staring at me like I’m a puzzle he’s been asked to solve. I’m guessing he hates puzzles.
But I can’t say I’m completely surprised. I did see him earlier, actually, when Jon and I were checking in.
Jeremy had crossed the lobby with the same purposeful stride I’ve watched him use walking next to Sloane in Skylark.
It clearly communicates that his time is worth more than other people’s.
It’s an annoying vibe in our small mountain town, and even more so here in paradise.
Not so much for Jon, who’d practically vibrated with excitement.
“That’s Jeremy Winslow,” he’d hissed, gripping my arm. “Introduce us.”
I flat-out refused. Again. From the moment I joined his sister’s book club and we became friends, Jon had been pressuring me to arrange an introduction. I wouldn’t even look in Jeremy’s direction.
He visited Skylark regularly over the past year to see Sloane.
She told us he bought a house in the foothills outside of town because he wanted to be close if she needed him after being diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.
But even if I liked Jeremy—which I don’t, because despite being a supportive brother, he’s also an overbearing asshat—I wouldn’t use my friendship with Sloane that way.
And maybe some part of me has always known that if I acknowledged Jeremy Winslow away from the protective armor of my friend group, he’d look at me with those assessing eyes and understand the truth I wasn’t ready to show anyone.
Joke’s on me. Because now he’s bearing witness to exactly what I wanted to hide.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“I hadn’t noticed.” My voice comes out scratchy. “Put me down, Jeremy.”
“You were unconscious on a beach chair with a head wound. I’m not putting you down.”
“It’s a scrape, Mr. McMoney Pants. I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not fine.” He carries me across the sand like I weigh nothing. At six-one, he’s got the height for it, and the lean muscle I can feel shifting beneath his shirt suggests the strength isn’t just for show. That’s annoying AF. “Did you fall and hit something?”
Something hit me, I think, but don’t say it out loud. I’m certainly not divulging my humiliation to Sloane’s insufferable brother. He’s never been anything but dismissive to her friends, and he treats our book club like a skin rash he has to tolerate for his sister’s sake.
“It’s nothing.” I set my tone to casual, but with my head hammering, it sounds pathetic. “Just clumsy. You know me.”
He stops walking.
In the moonlight, his expression shifts. Irritation gives way to a sharp, assessing glare. His dark brown eyes are nearly black in this light, intense in a way that makes me want to squirm.
“No,” he says slowly. “I don’t think I do.”
He’s right about that. We’ve never had a real conversation. Every interaction has been me making snide comments about his control issues while he looked through me like I was background noise.
We study each other for a long moment. His silk shirt is rumpled, his jaw tight in a way that might be concern, but could possibly be anger at having his evening interrupted by a woman he finds intolerable.
I’ve got a bleeding, pounding head and a ruined designer dress, and I’m cradled against the chest of a man I prefer to antagonize from a safe distance.
“Where’s your new husband?” he asks.
“Turns out I’m single, just not ready to mingle.”
Jeremy Winslow, for all his faults—and I’ve catalogued them extensively while watching him micromanage his sister’s cancer treatment—is not stupid. His hold on me tightens as I watch the realization move across his chiseled features like clouds crossing the moon.
“That son of a bitch,” he mutters.
“He isn’t—” I start, but my voice breaks. Actually breaks, like I’m some stupid heroine in a Victorian novel instead of a woman who prides herself on never letting anyone see her crack. “It’s complicated.”
“There’s nothing complicated about it.” He’s holding me with a certainty that feels just shy of protective. I don’t want to admit how good it feels.
I should make a joke and deflect. Deploy the sharp tongue that’s kept people at arm’s length my whole life. But I’m tired and my head hurts. And I also don’t want to pretend anymore.
“I know,” I whisper. “I walked out. Jon and I are done.”
“Good.”
A simple word for such a tangled situation. “My phone is back there with him. My money. Passport. Everything.”
“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.