Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
By then it was already too late. She’d already won.
Before I can ask him what he’s talking about, Dean’s gone.
Seconds later, my own door is opened and I’m given little choice but to follow after him.
Within minutes, we’re escorted to a luxury golf cart by a tanned, middle-aged man in a floral shirt, named Mateo.
As soon as we’re seated in the back, Mateo takes off, zipping along the narrow, two lane, cobblestone path, turning this way and that, working us deeper and deeper into the lush, green landscape.
Next to me, Dean sits with his arms crossed over his chest, listening while Mateo expertly rattles off his spiel about where we’ll be staying for the next two weeks.
The island is divided in two—the west side offers a more family friendly experience, while the east side of the island is adults only.
Both sides of the island features a main resort that boasts over two hundred rooms, as well as several private, ocean front bungalows throughout the property.
Each bungalow offers its own private, glass-bottomed pool, hot tub, and beach access.
Your bungalow is unique in that it also offers a dedicated chef, aesthetician, and massage therapist, ready to offer round-the-clock services, and me, your personal concierge.
If you need something—anything—I insist that you call me, regardless of the hour.
If at any point you’d like to see what the island has to offer, all you have to do is give me a call, and I’ll be happy to drive you—or if you prefer, there is a golf cart outside your bungalow, waiting for you to explore the island on your own.
“Here we are—bungalow 10,” Mateo says, taking a hard right that puts us directly in front of an adorable, thatched-roofed bungalow with a wrap-around porch and a golf cart of its very own parked next to a cobblestone walkway.
“Your bags have already been delivered and unpacked, and chef has taken the liberty of preparing an assortment of his specialties for you to sample.” Hopping out of the driver’s seat, Mateo offers his hand to help me out of the golf cart while Dean climbs out on his own.
“Thank you, Mateo,” I say, offering him what I hope is a grateful smile.
It’s nearly nine o’clock at night. Allister and I were supposed to spend our wedding night at the Hawthorne in New York before flying to the cay in the morning.
All the preparation for my early arrival was done at the last minute.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done on such short notice. ”
“It’s what I’m here for, Mrs.…” He throws a look over my shoulder at where Dean must be lurking somewhere behind me.
No doubt my guest information mentioned that I’d be here on my honeymoon.
I imagine Dean and I look about as far away from a couple of lovebirds on their honeymoon as we can possibly get.
“Miss,” I correct him gently. “Ms. Blackwell.”
“Of course.” Giving me a quick head bob, he lifts a hand. “If you’ll follow me Ms. Blackwell.”
“No need—we can take it from here,” Dean says, appearing next to me, out of nowhere.
“Thanks for the ride.” Before he has a chance to argue, Dean pulls out his wallet, stuffs a few bills into his hand, leaving a stunned Mateo to stare after us while he practically drags me up the walkway and inside.
“I know you’re upset with me,” I say, turning on him the second he shuts the door, “But that’s no reason to be—”
“Rude?” He lets go of my arm, moving away from me to flip on the lights.
The bungalow—an open, airy space—offers a comfortably appointed sitting area and a fully stocked wet bar, facing a wall of floor-to-ceiling, glass sliders that are open to let in the balmy ocean air.
Aside from a round, teak table and chairs, and a matching sideboard that’s practically groaning under the weight of the buffet the chef prepared for us to sample, the only other furniture is the bed, flanked by a pair of nightstands.
“Yes, rude,” I bark back at him, stacking my hands on my hips. “Mateo was just doing his job.”
“Sorry, Princess—I’m hungry and tired and I’ve been stuck in this goddamned suit for too goddamned long.
” Stopping at the foot of the huge, four-poster bed, Dean starts yanking at his tie like it’s trying to choke him.
“Right now, I’d fucking kill Mateo for a shower, which sucks considering I don’t have so much as a pair of clean underwear to change into.
” Tie pulled loose of its knot, he tosses it on the bed with a relieved sigh.
“So, please forgive me for being rude—not all of us were able to properly plan their escape.” Reaching up, he gives the top button on his collar an impatient jerk like he’s releasing a pressure valve before he starts working on his cuffs.
Glare aimed at his wrists, he pulls a cufflink loose before tossing it on top of his tie.
“And for the record, did you ever stop to consider that being forced to share a bed with you—even one that’s roughly the size of Texas—isn’t exactly a dream come true for me either? ”
What?
Feeling panic tighten its grip around my chest, I look at the couch on the other side of the room. Not ideal, but it looks comfortable enough. Surely—
Like he can read my mind, Dean starts to laugh, the sound of it yanking my gaze back to where he’s standing at the foot of the bed.
Cuffs flapping, he gives me one of those irritating smirks of his while he unbuckles his belt.
“Yeah…” Buckle open, he frees it from its loops with a single hard jerk, the tail of snapping so loud I practically feel the sting of it across my ass. “That’s not happening, Princess.”
Mouth open on an indignant gasp, I shake my head before managing to sputter out, “You can’t be serious.”
Dropping the belt, he starts to pull his travel rumpled shirt from the waistband of his pants.
“Oh, I assure you, Mukluk—I’m dead fucking serious.
” Tail free, Dean starts to work his hands down the row of buttons keeping his shirt closed.
“I’m sleeping in a bed. More specifically, I’m sleeping in this bed.
If you want to sleep on the couch, be my guest.”
Because I’m suddenly and inexplicably having a hard time catching my breath, I shift my gaze to the bed behind him so I don’t have to watch Dean take his shirt off. “A gentleman would—”
“As I’ve been told, loudly and often, by the prissy little princess who kidnapped me—” Shirt unbuttoned, he peels himself out of it to reveal a tattooed chest and torso that is even more ridiculously chiseled than I remember. “I’m no gentleman.”
Prissy?
Did he just call me prissy?
The insult jerks my gaze back to the place where he’s standing.
“I’m not—” I feel my face go up in flames when I watch him reach for the front closure of his suit pants.
Turning away from him on another soft gasp, I shake my head.
“I’m not prissy,” I insist, even though I just proved myself a liar.
“Just because I’m not salivating at the thought of climbing into bed with you. ”
“You sure about that, Princess?” His taunt underscored by the sound of fabric sliding across skin while he takes off his pants. “You look a little flushed?”
It’s almost exactly the same thing he said to me the night we met.
You okay, Princess—you look a little flushed?
Pulling in a sharp breath, I open my mouth to say… something. Something mean. Something that will put him in his place and let him know, under no uncertain terms, exactly what I think of—
“You’re really going to have to stop making those sounds around me, Mills.
” Suddenly close—so close I can feel the heat of his bare chest against my back—Dean lifts a hand to skim his fingers along the side of my neck, brushing the strands of hair that have managed to work themselves loose, away from my ear so he can whisper into it.
“Sleeping next to you is going to be hard enough without having to hear all those little gasps and sighs of yours while wondering if they’re the same kind of sounds you’d make while taking my cock. ”
He’s just baiting you, Millie.
Don’t fall for it.
Not again.
“If you hadn’t chosen Paige, that night in the Hamptons, you wouldn’t have to wonder,” I tell him, turning my head just enough to watch the firm line of his jaw snap tight when what I’m saying sinks in. “You’d already know.”
Did I just say that?
Did I really just say that?
Did I, Millie Blackwell, days after finding out the man she thought she loved enough to marry, is sleeping with her cousin, and hours after leaving him at the altar, just tell Dean Mercer—the walking red flag that’s been relentlessly waving itself in my face for the past two years—that he’s the reason we never had a chance.
That if he’d stayed with me that night, instead of choosing Paige, I would have let him do anything he wanted to me?
So much for putting him in his place.
Breath held in my lungs, I wait for him to say something back. Laugh at me. Make some crack about how prim and proper I am. How he was just messing around. How I’m too easy to get a rise out of. That I need to lighten up and learn how to take a joke.
He doesn’t.
Dean doesn’t say or do any of those things.
Like that night, Dean walks away and leaves me standing here.
Alone.
Again.
“Seriously?” I ask, turning toward him on a shitty laugh of my own, relieved and disappointed in equal measure to find him halfway to the bathroom and still wearing a pair of black boxer briefs. “That’s it? That’s all you got.”
“That’s it.” The bathroom is literally just a glass box that takes up nearly the entire left side of the bungalow. I can clearly see the tiled, walk-in shower and huge, free-standing soaking tub from where I’m standing. “That’s all I got.”
“Who’s the prissy little princess now?”
“Me. I am, I guess…” Giving me a flat smile, he gives me a shrug. “Good one, Mills—you got me.”
“So you can tease me and make fun of me, but I’m not allowed to do it back,” Feeling like I’ve been slapped in the face for some stupid reason, I take an angry step forward. “Is that it?”
“I didn’t choose her,” he tells me quietly, the bright blue of his eyes dark with temper. “I was just stupid enough to believe her—we both were.”
Paige.
He’s talking about Paige.
Before I can ask him what he’s talking about, Dean toggles the switch next to the door, instantly frosting the glass and blocking the bathroom from view before he shuts it in my face.