Confessions at Costa Cay

Chapter 1

ONE

Meadow

Without laying eyes on him, I know that he’s here. That’s how it always feels when Owen is in the same room as me.

He’s like gravity but stronger. Impossible to fight.

The bar smells of polished wood, smoky liquor, and now that he’s walked in, bad decisions .

Not that I’m making any… yet.

The jukebox plays The Pina Colada Song by Rupert Holmes. Cliche bar song.

And to answer Rupert’s question: Yes, I very much like pina coladas. Especially with my ass parked in the sand while lounging at the beach.

Owen slides onto the barstool next to mine like he owns the place, and if we’re being honest, he probably does. Not literally, but in that effortlessly charismatic, former college football star kind of way. The bartender’s already pouring his drink before he even opens his mouth.

Anyone who says that pretty privilege is not a real thing clearly hasn't laid eyes on Owen Brooks. The man is sickeningly gorgeous.

His honey-brown hair is somewhere between sun-kissed and whiskey-dark, like it can’t decide if it wants to be brunette or blonde. A few strands fall onto his forehead, softening the sharp angles of his jaw, currently framed by the perfect amount of scruff.

Even sitting down, his long legs and lean torso make me feel so small compared to him.

His white button-down shirt is undone at the top, exposing just enough of his tan skin to make my thighs clench.

To make matters worse, the sleeves are rolled up, showcasing his muscular forearms. His green eyes are piercing and bright, catching the industrial lights like rare emeralds.

God, I’m so pathetic, especially when Owen would never think of me in a romantic way.

“Rough day?” he asks, flashing me that devastating grin. The grin. The one that makes women stop in their tracks like they’ve seen Chris Hemsworth in the flesh. The smile I’ve spent years trying to pretend doesn’t make my knees feel like Jell-O.

“Define ‘rough’,” I reply, swirling the ice in my glass.

“You’re glaring at your margarita like it’s been poisoned instead of drinking it.”

“Maybe it has been,” I shoot back. “Maybe I like to make eye contact with my enemies before drinking them down.”

He lets out a low laugh, rich and raspy.

We’ve been coworkers since the summer after we graduated from college. Even though we didn’t go to the same university, it felt like I had known Owen for years once we started working together.

We just clicked. Our friendship came on fast and easy, but it never went past that because guys like Owen don’t look at girls like me that way.

He’s the golden boy everyone wants, and I’m the girl who would never even make the roster.

For example, he just broke up with his model girlfriend of two years because she wanted to get married, and he wasn’t ready. A woman who literally gets paid to be hot for a living can’t even hold him down. So why the hell would he ever go for me?

Owen went to a big football college where he was treated like a king for simply scoring a touchdown, and I went somewhere you actually had to study to pass. We met at new hire orientation on our first day at Cutting Edge Sports Marketing, both fresh out of college and eager to start our careers.

He ended up in sales due to his good looks and effortless communication skills. Meanwhile, I landed in the writing department, working behind the scenes on crafting campaigns and press releases, where no one cares if I ever show my face.

We’re polar opposites, working side by side for four years. And along the way, we’ve become us . Whatever that is.

Now, here we are. Sitting next to each other at a bar on a random Tuesday night, a block away from the office. Me, hopelessly staring at my drink like it might offer some answers, and Owen, utterly unaware that he’s the question.

Owen rests an elbow on the bar, his eyes flicking back and forth across my face as if he’s studying me. His signature scent overwhelms me in the best possible way, smelling of cinnamon and leather.

“No, but seriously,” he pushes, “what’s up with you tonight? You look like a kid who just found out that Santa isn't real.”

I huff out a quiet laugh and roll my eyes. “You’re such an ass,” I quip, fidgeting with my straw. “It’s nothing. Just a long day.”

He arches a skeptical brow, telling me he knows that I’m not being honest. He sees right through me, and we both know it.

I push my fingers through the waves of my bronzed hair and let out a pent-up sigh.

“I had to rewrite the same press release three times today because apparently our marketing director likes to torture me. If I have to hear the words ‘enhance the narrative’ one more time, I might actually start downing tequila straight from the bottle.”

“Yikes,” Owen winces. “See, that’s why I stick to talking and let smart people like you do the writing.”

Owen’s crooked grin makes me chuckle, which pisses me off more than I’d like to admit. Because that’s the thing about Owen Brooks—he’s annoyingly good at making me laugh, even when I don’t want to.

I nudge my glass away with a fingertip, then bump my shoulder lightly against his. Even though it’s barely a touch, I feel it down to my toes.

“What about you?” I swallow thickly. “The golden boy of sales didn’t have anything better to do tonight?”

Instead of coming back with a witty response like he usually would, Owen runs a hand over his stubbled jaw and inhales a deep breath. His shoulders go rigid as if the weight of the world just landed on them. My brows furrow with confusion.

“Fuck…” he trails off before dropping his head in his hands. “I’m in a bit of a dilemma,” he murmurs against his palms.

“A dilemma?” I repeat, narrowing my eyes while turning to face him fully.

He blows out a heavy breath before lifting his head to meet my gaze. Per usual, I try my damndest to act completely unaffected by his searing green eyes.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Tyler, one of my old teammates from college, is getting married in Turks and Caicos next month. Fancy destination wedding at a resort called Costa Cay. I RSVP’d months ago for me and my plus one.

And apparently it’s a small, intimate wedding, so I can’t bail.

He would for sure know if I didn’t show.

Besides, I’ve already booked flights and reserved a room. It’s just a mess.”

My stomach dips before he even says the next part because I know exactly where this is going.

“By the way you’re looking at me, you can probably guess who my plus one was.”

Yup.

“Your ex?”

“Bingo,” he scoffs. “And now I’m the loser who’s planning to show up solo to a destination wedding, surrounded by my college friends who all knew her and are going to ask why we broke up.”

A tiny part of me is thrilled she won’t be sipping fruity cocktails with him in paradise. And honestly, I don’t even feel bad about it. I met her once at a company party, and she spent the entire night glaring at me like I was two seconds away from stripping down and climbing into Owen’s lap.

I’m pretty sure I said maybe two words to him the entire night. If she only knew how much we talk and banter at work… The thought brings me an embarrassing amount of satisfaction.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna lie… that sucks.”

“Tell me about it,” he mutters. He pauses before continuing, almost looking nervous. “I, uh… I was actually hoping I’d find you here tonight.”

That throws me for a loop because why the hell would Owen be looking for me ?

“What?” I arch a brow. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “This is our spot, isn't it?” he asks, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

This is our spot, isn't it? Even though he doesn't mean anything by them, his words make my stomach flip.

Now that I think about it, maybe it is. We end up at this little bar after work more than either of us cares to admit. And maybe, deep down, we both subconsciously hope the other will be here. I know that’s just wishful thinking, though. Owen doesn’t see me like that.

My pulse quickens as I blurt out my next question.

“But why exactly were you hoping to find me here?”

Owen leans back, one hand resting casually on the bar, the other still cradling his whiskey. He clears his throat, like he’s preparing himself for my response to whatever he’s about to say.

What the hell is going on?

And then, my world shifts on its axis.

“I was…” He stammers, his cheeks flushing red. “I was thinking that maybe you’d want to come with me.”

Wait… What?

I blink in shock because this has to be a joke, right?

“Me?” I choke on my own breath. “To the wedding?”

“Damn,” he replies with a boyish grin, “you make it sound like it’s such a terrible idea.”

Because it is. How could he not see it? How does he not know that I’ve spent years obsessing over him like a schoolgirl?

“Are you asking me to come as your fake date or something?” I try my best to sound nonchalant.

He shakes his head, quickly shutting down the thought. I guess I’ve read one too many romance novels with the fake dating trope.

“No,” he responds. “Not a fake date. Just as a friend. If you go with me, people won’t feel as inclined to ask a million questions about why my ex isn’t there.”

Oh.

Great.

So I’m just a seat filler.

The words affect me more than they should. Not only does Owen want me not to come as a date, but not a fake one either. I’d just be there for convenience. An uncomfortable ball forms in my throat.

“Wow,” I croak, forcing a smile. “How could I possibly say no to being your human distraction?”

His expression shifts the second he realizes he’s offended me. His face softens as he leans in, his voice dropping to a gentle tone.

Owen’s palm lands on my forearm, and it’s infuriating how my body still responds to him, like it doesn’t care that I’m hurt.

“Meadow…” he rasps. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You’re one of my closest friends. I just thought it’d be a fun getaway for both of us. Plus,” he adds, “it’d be a free vacation for you. Everything is already paid for. A week in the Caribbean without making a dent in your wallet.”

The logical part of me knows he means well. But the sensitive part—the side of me that’s been quietly pining after him from across the office—can’t help but feel like a wounded puppy.

I stare at the salt rimming my glass for a long beat before turning to meet his searching gaze.

“I’ll think about it,” I finally murmur, my voice low and unsure.

A half-smile curves his lips, easing the worry etched across his face as if he thinks that my hesitation might be a yes.

“That’s all I ask,” he breathes. “And Meadow, I really didn’t mean it like that. I hope you know that.”

“I know,” I lie, my tone unconvincing.

I tear my eyes away from him and take a hefty sip of my margarita, doing my best to ignore the pit in my stomach. He has no idea how much he affects me. How can he make my heart flutter and nose-dive all at once?

The bartender wipes down the counter as the crowd grows thin, the loud chatter fading away. Owen tosses a few bills onto the counter before I have a chance to reach for my wallet.

“I got it,” he says, paying the tab like he’s done so many times before.

I open my mouth to protest, but his stupid grin is already there, basically daring me to try. After the day I’ve had, I don’t have the energy to argue over a margarita, so I say thank you and smile.

Minutes later, we’re stepping out into the frigid February air. Now that I think about it, nothing sounds better than getting out of Chicago during the coldest time of the year.

Snow flurries fall from the night sky like glitter before melting on my cheeks.

Owen shoves his hands into his coat pockets and turns toward me with a serious expression, his breath visible in the icy air.

“Meadow…”

“Yeah?” I all but whisper.

He steps toward me, careful not to get too close. But it’s close enough for his scent and warmth to wrap around me like a weighted blanket.

“You’re not a… human distraction,” he says tenderly. “Or whatever the hell you called yourself. I hate that you even said that. I would never think that about you.”

It’s evident by the look on his face that he’s full of remorse. That he genuinely feels like shit for making me feel that way.

“I know,” I murmur, easing his worry. “I’m just tired. Like I said, it’s been a long day.”

A beat of silence passes, neither of us speaking. My pulse hammers in my ears. A blaring siren wails from down the street, shattering the quiet space between us.

Owen zips up his coat and clears his throat. “Let me know what you decide, yeah? No pressure either way.”

I manage a nod, not trusting my voice to cooperate.

He gives me a casual grin before turning to walk down the street, hands buried deep in his pockets. I watch him go until there’s nothing in my line of sight but flickering street lights.

Once again, I’m the one left standing here, foolishly wanting more.