Chapter 5
Hunter
How I got zip-tied to the woman I’m lusting after is something I’ll have to thank—or curse—Esme for later.
Franklin’s fiancée has a matchmaking streak a mile wide, and apparently my best friend’s wedding is her latest battleground. I’m here because Franklin called in fifteen years of friendship, and that means showing up even when the maid of honor wants nothing to do with you.
The resort stretches out around us on St. Sebastian, all light stone and bright pink bougainvillea.
The patio fans whirl slow and lazy, a few sailboats moving slowly across the water in the distance.
Claire’s on the opposite side of the beach games setup, talking to one of the other bridesmaids.
She’s in a sundress the color of sea glass, the kind that ties at the neck and leaves her back bare.
She’s looked at me no less than eight times since I stepped out here twenty minutes ago. Five glances, two smiles, and a flirty smirk.
I have a feeling you’re worth the wait too, she’d said at the boutique.
I kept texting. Kept sending flowers. Kpet doing all of it, because I’m not the kind of man who gives up.
Then a week ago, she left a get well basket on my porch, one that she put together with chocolate, jerkey, an assortment of coffees, and a tumbler along with a card.
Hell to hell yes.
“Alright, everyone!” Esme claps her hands, gathering the wedding party. “Time for our team-building games! I’ve already assigned pairs, so no trading.”
Claire’s head snaps up. Her eyes find mine across the sand, and for half a second, something unreadable crosses her face.
“Hunter and Claire, you’re up first.”
There it is.
Claire’s eyes pop wide. “Esme—”
But Esme’s already moving toward us with a hot pink zip tie and that smile that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Wrists out, you two.”
“This isn’t necessary,” Claire says.
“Trust me,” Esme says, looping the plastic around Claire’s wrist, then mine. “You two need this.”
“We really don’t,” Claire mutters.
“You really do.” Esme pulls the zip tie snug— not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough that neither of us is going anywhere—then walks away before either of us can argue.
Claire finally looks directly at me. Her wavy auburn hair is pulled back with pieces falling loose around her face, her green eyes picking up the color of her dress.
“This is humiliating,” she says, her lips full and shiny.
“For you or for me?”
“Both.”
“I think it’s sexy.”
Her wrist is warm against mine where the plastic binds us together. She smells like coconut sunscreen and citrus, and when she shifts her weight, her shoulder brushes my arm. I keep my eyes on the water and try not to think about how two weeks ago I would’ve taken this as permission to lean closer.
The sun is bright over the Caribbean, the sky cloudless and blue. A handful of tourists are scattered down the beach, but mostly it’s just us—the wedding party, the games, and whatever Esme thinks she’s accomplishing here.
“You look good,” I hear myself say anyway.
Her eyes flash with heat. “Hunter...”
“We’re zip-tied. Where else am I supposed to look?”
She turns then, just slightly, and I get the full effect of her for the first time up close. Wavy hair pulled up with pieces falling loose around her face. Eyes the color of her dress, and a full mouth that is currently doing its level best not to smile.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
Her words hit in places that have no business weighing in right now, and all I want to do is back her into the nearest shaded wall and find out exactly what else she doesn’t mind.
“Is that a dare?”
“Maybe.” Her eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second before darting away.
What follows is thirty minutes of “fun” that Franklin and Esme designed specifically to humiliate their wedding party.
The coconut relay involves running while balancing a coconut between our heads, which means Claire’s temple is pressed against mine for three solid minutes while we navigate an obstacle course.
“Left,” she hisses.
“I’m going left.”
“You’re going right.”
“Because you’re pulling left, which means I have to compensate—”
The coconut drops. We both stop, still zip-tied, staring down at it.
“That was your fault,” she says.
“That was absolutely your fault.” The woman is competitive as hell, and it’s fun to push her buttons.
She opens her mouth to argue, but one of the other pairs—Franklin’s cousin and a bridesmaid whose name I’ve already forgotten—crosses the finish line, and Claire’s competitive streak flares so visibly I almost laugh.
“Again,” she says. “We’re going again.”
“There is no again. They won.”
“Then we’ll win the next one.”
She’s not wrong. The trivia round is a massacre. Claire answers every question before I’ve finished reading it, and after the third one I just stop trying and hand her the card.
“You’re enjoying this,” I say.
“I’m enjoying winning.” But there’s something lighter in her voice now, some of the tension from earlier bleeding away. “You’re a terrible dancer, by the way.”
We’re on to the final event—some kind of coordinated dance routine that Esme apparently learned from TikTok. Claire’s pressed against me from chest to hip, one hand on my shoulder, the other still zip-tied to mine.
“I’m an excellent dancer.” It’s a lie. I am absolutely a terrible dancer. And it’s not helped by the fact that her body is warm and soft against mine and I can feel every breath she takes. “I was compensating for your lead.”
She huffs and cuts me a look that could strip bark. “I wasn’t leading.”
“Someone was, and it wasn’t me.”
She opens her mouth, closes it, and points at me with her free hand like she’s filing that away for later. I blow her a kiss.
When the music ends, Esme appears with scissors and finally cuts all zip-tied wedding attendants loose. Claire steps back immediately, rubbing her wrist where the zip tie was.
“You alright?” I ask.
“I’m fine.” She doesn’t look at me. “I need to check on something for Esme.”
Then she heads toward the other bridesmaids, and I watch her go. She’s scared, and I’m not sure why, but I’m going to find out.
Franklin appears at my elbow. “That was priceless.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.” He takes a swig of his beer. “You good?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re full of shit, but I’ll allow it.” He claps me on the shoulder. “For what it’s worth, Esme swears Claire’s into you.”
“Esme’s right. But I’m not an asshole. Gentlemen don’t push.”
“True.” Franklin watches his fiancée across the beach, his expression going soft in that way that used to make me uncomfortable and now just makes me envious. “Give it time, man. The weekend’s just getting started.”
I stopped having a choice about that somewhere around the word ‘maybe.’