Chapter 11
Sorry, Not Sorry
Jane
The water felt like liquid silk against my skin, warm and forgiving in the early Anguilla morning.
The early morning swim was West's idea—something about "clearing our heads" and "resetting before the chaos."
I watched West do laps like a man trying to outpace his own thoughts. Relentless and sexy.
I gave him fifteen minutes before I joined him. What followed was a lot of underwater groping, me shrieking when he dunked me, and West’s smug grin when I retaliated by stealing his swim trunks and flinging them onto the deck.
Now we float on our backs, fingers loosely linked beneath the surface. The world is quiet—just the gentle lap of water and the distant cry of a gull.
West floats beside me, a study in relaxed power.
The faint purple bruise blooms across the bridge of his nose.
On him, it looks… rakish. Like a Viking who’s just won a particularly satisfying brawl.
Which, I suppose, isn’t entirely inaccurate.
My stomach does a complicated little flip-flop that has nothing to do with treading water.
Crisis Level: 1/10. Current Threat: Excessive Hotness. Recommended Action: Stop Staring
"Stop staring at my nose, Cooper." He murmurs, eyes still closed, a faint smile playing on his lips. The man has sonar, I swear.
"I'm not staring. I'm… assessing structural damage." I give his hand a gentle underwater squeeze. "How's the nose? Seriously."
He cracks one eye open, gray-blue and amused. "Still attached. Breathing's optional anyway." He shifts, rolling onto his side to face me, sending ripples across the water. Droplets cling to his eyelashes, catching the sunlight. "You?"
He means the faint, fading red marks on my wrist where Blake grabbed me. The ones West kissed last night with a tenderness that still makes my breath catch.
"Fine," I say, pulling my wrist up to inspect it. The marks are barely visible now. "See? Cooper resilience. Built for endurance."
Unlike my emotional state, which currently feels like a Jenga tower one block away from collapse.
He reaches out, his thumb brushing lightly over the spot anyway. The touch sends a warm shiver through me, chased by a familiar, terrifying pang. Love.
T-minus 48 hours and counting.
West's gaze lingers on my face, thoughtful. "You're thinking too loud over there, Cooper."
Before I can formulate a lie—or, worse, the truth—my phone, perched precariously on the edge of a nearby lounger alongside our towels, erupts. Not a ring. Not a text chime. This is a full-blown, multi-alarm notification symphony.
"Grace," we say in unison.
My stomach plummets from its pleasant floaty state straight down to the pool tiles.
Oh, crap.
Grace only deploys the multi-alarm barrage for true emergencies: apartment fires, surprise exams she's forgotten about, or the tragic discontinuation of her favorite brand of instant ramen.
I kick frantically towards the edge, hauling myself out of the water in a graceless, dripping scramble. West follows, moving with that unsettlingly efficient grace of his, grabbing towels as he comes.
He tosses one to me as I snatch up my phone, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The screen is a warzone of notifications. Missed calls. Voicemails. And texts. So many texts. The most recent batch screams at me in all-caps fury:
GRACE: JANE ELIZABETH COOPER.
GRACE: EXPLAIN. NOW.
GRACE: YOU JUST SENT ME A PICTURE OF YOU LOOKING LIKE A WET DREAM SNOG-FESTING A HALF-NAKED MAN!
GRACE: HE LOOKS FAMILIAR! WHO IS HE? WHY ARE HIS HANDS ON YOU?
GRACE: YOU WERE A VIRGIN LAST WEEK. A VIRGIN!
I make a strangled sound.
West's shoulders shake with silent laughter.
"This isn't funny—"
GRACE: I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.
GRACE: STARTING WITH WHO IS HE AND WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE HE COULD BENCH-PRESS A VOLKSWAGEN
"She's not wrong," West murmurs.
"Not helping!"
GRACE: ANSWER YOUR PHONE OR I SWEAR TO CALL THE RESORT AND ASK FOR “THE GUY WHO JUST DEFLOWERED MY SIS.”
My face burns hotter than the Anguilla’s rising sun. I fumble with the phone, water dripping from my hair onto the screen.
“I think I accidentally included a picture of us when I sent her a bunch of scenic shots I took of the resort.” I jab a finger at the screen, displaying the incriminating evidence.
"No, no, no…"
West leans over my shoulder, dripping onto me. His warm, chlorine-scented proximity is not helping my ability to form coherent thoughts. He rescans the texts, his expression unreadable for a terrifying second. Then, a slow, devastating grin spreads across his face.
It starts at the corners of his mouth and reaches all the way to his eyes, crinkling at the corners. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest.
"Snog-festing?" he reads aloud, his voice rich with amusement. "Deflowered? Your sister has a way with words."
"This isn't funny!" I wail, mortification warring with panic.
"She knows, West! She knows I was… you know…
inexperienced! And now she thinks I'm…" I gesture wildly at the phone, at him, at the general aura of post-coital bliss radiating off us both, "…
doing advanced-level snorkeling with a professional athlete! "
West's chuckle deepens into a full laugh. It's a warm, resonant sound that does things to my insides that are entirely inappropriate given the level of sibling-induced crisis unfolding. He plucks the phone gently from my shaking hand.
"Relax, Jane," he says, still grinning. "She's your sister. She's worried. Or jealous. Or both." He scrolls through the texts again, his thumb pausing. "She wants proof of life. Or proof of… non-deflowering-related distress." He holds up the phone. "Video call her."
My eyes widen. "What? No! Absolutely not! I am not subjecting you to Grace in full interrogation mode while I look like a drowned cat who just participated in a water-based orgy!"
"First," West says calmly, tapping the screen, "you look amazing. Drowned cat is not the vibe. More like… water nymph who just bested Poseidon."
He ignores my sputter. "Second, she's clearly freaking out. Ignoring her will only make it worse. Third…"
He hits the video call button before I can stop him. "…I want to meet her."
Grace answers on the first ring.
She's in our apartment, textbooks scattered around her, dark hair piled on top of her head, wearing an oversized sweatshirt.
"JANE! Where the hell have you—Holy—”
Grace's voice, tinny through the speaker, cuts off abruptly as her eyes bug out, taking in the scene: me, dripping wet, wrapped in a beach towel, my hair plastered to my head, standing next to a very tall, very shirtless, very amused-looking Weston Prescott, who's holding the phone.
Her eyes go comically wide before she blinks. "You're real."
"West Prescott," he says smoothly, like he takes video calls with his fake girlfriend's younger sister every day. "Nice to meet you, Grace."
Grace's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound comes out. Her face cycles through expressions: shock, disbelief, dawning horror, and then, finally, a kind of awestruck paralysis. She looks like a goldfish that's just been told it won the lottery.
"You know my name."
"Jane talks about you constantly."
Grace's eyes cut to me, delighted. "Does she?"
"Bug," I warn.
"Oh, I want to hear this," Grace says, leaning forward. "What does Jane say about me?"
West smoothly takes charge. "Jane mentioned you're in nursing school? Tough program. Respect."
His tone is easy, genuine. "She also mentioned you're the brains of the operation. Clearly true, based on the texting speed alone. Impressive."
Grace's expression softens. "She said that?"
"Direct quote: 'Grace is going to save lives someday, and I'm going to be the annoying sister in the waiting room telling everyone I raised her.'"
My throat tightens.
Grace's eyes are suddenly shiny. "Jane..."
"Anyway," I say loudly, unsuccessfully grabbing the phone from West. "West was just leaving—"
"I wasn't."
"—because we have wedding-work things—"
"We have time."
Grace laughs as she pulls her camera closer, her Cheshire grin filling the screen. “Sorry for ambushing you with my texts, Jane. I panicked.”
Then—like the adorable little punk she always is—she tilts her head and gloats, “But I’m not sorry for checking in. You look happy.”
Grace is smiling directly at me now. "I like him, Jane."
“You’ve known him for thirty seconds—” I say, ignoring the lump in my throat.
"He made you smile in a photo," Grace says simply. "Like, actually smile. Not your 'I'm-fine-everything's-fine' smile. Your real one."
Well, shit.
West glances at me, something warm and dangerous in his eyes.
"Okay," I say, trying to snatch my phone back. "Goodbye, Grace—"
"Wait!" Grace yelps. "I need to know—are you being safe? Do you need me to send—"
"We have an entire Costco box," West calls out helpfully.
I am going to die. Actual death. Right here by the pool.
Grace dissolves into laughter. "Oh my gosh, I love him. Keep him."
“Wait! Weston Prescott—be good to my sister or I'll find you and test your reflexes with a bedpan!"
"Bye, Grace!" I hit the end call button.
Silence.
West is still grinning at me.
"That was—" I start.
Silence descends, broken only by the gentle lapping of the pool water and the frantic pounding of my heart. I slowly lower my hands from my face. West is grinning down at me, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.
"See?" he says. "Told you she'd like me."
"She threatened you with a bedpan!"
"A sign of deep affection in the Cooper family, I assume." He hands me back my phone. "Crisis averted. Mostly."
"Mostly," I echo, my voice a little hoarse. "Remind me never to let you near my phone again."
He chuckles, dropping a kiss on my wet hair. "Deal. Now, let's get dry before we turn into prunes.
We walk back to our casita in comfortable, damp silence, the morning sun warming our skin. It feels… normal. Domestic. Like we're just a couple returning from a swim, not co-conspirators hurtling towards an emotional cliff.