Chapter 3
Chapter Three
HARPER
FAKE DATING IS A CRIME
I wake to sunlight streaming through the balcony door and the distant sound of waves slapping against the hull. For one blissful moment, I forget where I am.
Then reality crashes back: I’m on a floating romance factory, I threw champagne at a billionaire, and I have approximately seven research papers to draft on The Rendezvous’ “eco-initiatives” (or lack thereof).
All in a day’s work.
I roll out of bed, shuffling to the bathroom. The suite they moved me to last night is admittedly gorgeous—spacious, elegantly appointed, with panoramic ocean views. Why they suddenly needed to “upgrade” me remains suspicious, but I wasn’t about to argue with the apologetic staff member who claimed my original cabin had “maintenance issues.”
My phone buzzes as I’m brushing my teeth. Three missed calls from my boss, five texts, and—I nearly choke on toothpaste—thirteen media requests.
“What the...”
I open Twitter and almost drop my phone. There I am, arm extended, mid-champagne throw, with Ethan Cole’s surprised face immortalized in high definition. The photo’s been shared over 40,000 times.
“Oh no.”
But it gets worse. The Rendezvous’ official account has posted a different photo—Ethan, champagne-soaked but smiling charmingly, with a caption about “heated sustainability discussions” and “finding common ground with @DrHarperBennett.”
My finger hovers over the screen. I should be outraged. I am outraged. But there’s something annoyingly impressive about his damage control spin.
A knock at the door interrupts my social media spiral. I throw on a robe and peek through the peephole. A uniformed crew member stands holding a garment bag and an envelope.
“Dr. Bennett? I have your itinerary and attire for today’s activities.”
“I didn’t sign up for any activities,” I call through the door.
“It’s part of your environmental assessment package,” he replies, sounding rehearsed. “The cruise director added a note explaining everything.”
Reluctantly, I open the door and accept the items. “What activities?”
“The Lover’s Obstacle Course starts at ten, ma’am. Breakfast is being served on the Sunrise Deck.”
“Lover’s what now?” But he’s already walking away.
I tear open the envelope and scan the letter inside, my horror growing with each line:
Dr. Bennett,
To complete a thorough assessment of The Rendezvous’ sustainability practices, we require your participation in our full range of activities. This includes our signature couples’ experiences, which consume significant resources we’re working to optimize.
Your partner for these evaluations will be Mr. Ethan Cole, who has graciously volunteered to assist with your research.
Today’s schedule is enclosed. Appropriate attire provided.
Warmly, The Rendezvous Management Team
I read it three times, convinced it’s a joke. Couple’s experiences? With Ethan Cole? After I doused him in Dom Perignon?
This has to be his doing.
I unzip the garment bag to find matching athletic wear—eco-friendly, according to the attached tags, made from recycled ocean plastic. In my size. Which means someone looked up my measurements.
I’m going to kill him.
I grab my phone and search for the cruise director’s contact information. While it rings, I open the full itinerary and nearly have an aneurysm:
10:00 AM - Lover’s Obstacle Course (Main Deck) 2:00 PM - Tantric Yoga for Two (Wellness Center) 8:00 PM - Midnight Love Confessions (Live Broadcast, Starlight Deck)
“This is a joke, right?” I demand when the cruise director answers.
“Good morning, Dr. Bennett. I assume you’ve received your schedule?”
“I’m not taking part in couples’ activities with Ethan Cole. That’s absurd.”
“I understand your hesitation,” he says smoothly, “but Mr. Cole insisted this would be the best way to mend fences after yesterday’s... incident. The footage of your disagreement has gone quite viral.”
“Of course it has,” I mutter.
“He suggested this would be a more positive narrative. And frankly, the alternative was to ask you to disembark at our next port.”
“He can’t kick me off!”
“The Coles own the ship, Dr. Bennett.”
I pace the room, fuming. “This is coercion.”
“We prefer to call it ‘collaborative reputation management.’ Mr. Cole has assured us you’ll have full access to all environmental data after participating.”
I bite back several unprofessional responses. I need that data for my report. Without it, this entire trip is wasted.
“Fine,” I finally say. “But this is extortion.”
“The Lover’s Obstacle Course begins in ninety minutes. Breakfast is served until?—”
I hang up and throw my phone onto the bed. Then I notice something through the balcony door—Ethan Cole, lounging on the adjacent balcony in a bathrobe, coffee in hand, watching me with undisguised amusement.
We’re neighbors. Of course we are.
I storm onto my balcony. “You did this.”
“Good morning to you too, sunshine.” He sips his coffee, maddeningly calm. “Sleep well?”
“Explain this.” I wave the itinerary at him. “Lover’s Obstacle Course? Tantric Yoga? Are you serious?”
“Deadly.” His gaze sparkles with mischief. “I thought it would be more productive than having you thrown overboard for assault.”
“It was champagne, not acid.”
“My Brioni shirt begs to differ.” He gestures to the chair opposite him. “Join me for coffee? We should discuss our strategy.”
“Our what?”
“Strategy. For convincing people we don’t hate each other.”
I cross my arms. “But I do despise you.”
“That’s the spirit.” He grins. “Very convincing.”
“I won’t do this.”
“You will if you want access to our emission reports, waste management data, and the engineering specs for our new desalination system.” He takes another sip of coffee. “Which I’m guessing you do, given your publisher’s deadline.”
My jaw drops. “How do you know about my deadline?”
“I make it my business to know about people who throw drinks at me.” He stands and moves closer to the dividing wall between our balconies. “Look, we can help each other. You need data for your report. I need to avoid looking like a villain in the environmental press. One week of playing nice, and we both get what we want.”
“Playing nice doesn’t include Tantric Yoga.”
“The yoga is negotiable. The obstacle course isn’t.” His expression turns serious. “The cameras will be there, Harper. This is our chance to reframe yesterday’s disaster.”
I hate that he’s right. I also hate that he uses my first name like we’re friends. But mostly, I hate that I’m actually considering his proposal.
“No funny business,” I finally say. “We pretend to get along, I get my data, then we never speak again.”
“Deal. Though you might change your mind about the ‘never speaking again’ part. I grow on people.”
“Like a persistent rash, I’m sure.”
His laugh is genuine. “Breakfast? The pastry chef here is incredible.”
“I’d rather eat on my own, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He turns to go back inside, then pauses. “Wear the gear they sent. It’s actually made from recycled fishing nets. Part of a new sustainable clothing line we’re launching.”
I narrow my eyes. “Was throwing that plastic back into the ocean really your goal?”
“Reducing waste was. But keep making assumptions about me.” He winks. “It’s cute when you’re wrong.”
Before I can respond, he disappears into his suite, leaving me seething on the balcony.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m dressed in the irritatingly comfortable recycled-plastic athletic wear, making my way to the main deck. The Lover’s Obstacle Course is already drawing a crowd. Heart-shaped flags mark the course, and staff members bustle around making last-minute adjustments to what appears to be a series of physical challenges.
“Dr. Bennett!” A perky event coordinator spots me. “You’re just in time. Your partner is already warming up.”
Sure enough, Ethan stands near the starting line, stretching in matching athletic gear that hugs his unfairly well-defined muscles. He waves when he sees me, the picture of enthusiasm.
I paste on the fakest smile in human history and approach.
“Don’t you look sporty,” he says, eyes traveling from my ponytail to my sneakers. “The eco-warrior goes athletic.”
“Let’s get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit.” He lowers his voice. “The cameras are by the pool deck. Try to look like you don’t want to murder me.”
“I make no promises.”
A whistle blows, and the event coordinator calls all couples to the starting line. I count twelve pairs, all gazing adoringly at each other. Then there’s us.
“Welcome to the Lover’s Obstacle Course!” the coordinator announces into a microphone. “You and your partner will tackle eight challenges designed to test your communication, trust, and physical connection.”
Physical connection?
“First up, the Tunnel of Love—you’ll be tied together as you crawl through. Then the Trust Fall, followed by the Heart-to-Heart Balance Beam...”
I stop listening, calculating how many environmental sins I can document to make this humiliation worthwhile.
“Remember,” the coordinator continues, “the winning couple gets a romantic sunset dinner on our private island tomorrow!”
“We’re going to win that,” Ethan whispers.
“Why would I want a romantic dinner with you?”
“Because the private island has the only nesting ground for endangered sea turtles in this part of the Caribbean.” He smiles at my surprised expression. “Did your research miss that?”
Before I can answer, staff members approach with silk scarves, tying us together at the wrist.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask as a twenty-something crew member secures my left wrist to Ethan’s right.
“Absolutely!” he chirps. “It symbolizes the bonds of love!”
“More like the bonds of a hostage situation,” I mutter.
Ethan chuckles. “Think of it as research. Extensive, humiliating research.”
The whistle blows again, and we’re off. The Tunnel of Love turns out to be a long, fabric-covered crawl space. Being tied to Ethan means our coordination is nonexistent—every time I move forward, he yanks me in a different direction.
“Could you—ow!—stop pulling?”
“I’m not pulling, you’re pushing.”
“We need to move together,” I hiss, acutely aware of how that sounds.
“That’s what I’ve been saying.” His grin is insufferable. “On three. One, two...”
We synchronize our movements and make it through the tunnel, stumbling into daylight to applause from the audience. Cameras flash. Ethan waves to the crowd with our bound hands, forcing me to wave too. I contemplate breaking his fingers.
The Trust Fall is next. I’m supposed to close my eyes and fall backward, trusting Ethan to catch me. Not happening.
“I’ll fall first,” he offers, sensing my hesitation.
“Fine.”
He turns his back to me and falls without warning. I catch him—barely—staggering under his weight.
“A little warning next time!”
“I trusted you,” he says innocently. “Your turn.”
I turn around, my back to his chest, and stand rigid.
“Relax,” he murmurs close to my ear. “I won’t drop you.”
“You’d better not.”
I close my eyes and let myself fall backward. His arms catch me securely, strong and steady. The contact is brief but unsettling—I haven’t been this close to anyone in months, and it has to be him?
The Heart-to-Heart Balance Beam is even worse. We have to face each other on a narrow beam, holding hands, and sidestep from one end to the other. Our bound wrists make it extra challenging.
“Eyes on me,” Ethan instructs as we step onto the beam. “Don’t look down.”
I meet his gaze reluctantly. His eyes are an impossible shade that makes the Caribbean Sea look dull by comparison.
“Small steps,” he continues. “I’ve got you.”
We inch along the beam, his grip firm on my free hand. I’m intensely aware of every point of contact between us—our clasped hands, our bound wrists, the occasional brush of knees. I focus on keeping my balance, not on how solid he feels or how his attention never wavers from my face.
We’re midway across when someone in the crowd shouts Ethan’s name. Startled, I wobble, losing my footing. Ethan reacts instantly, pulling me toward him. I crash against his chest as we both lose balance, tumbling off the beam.
We land with a thud on the safety mat below, me sprawled on top of him, our faces inches apart. His arm instinctively wraps around my waist.
“Are you okay?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
I’m pinned against him, acutely aware of his body beneath mine, his heartbeat against my palm where it’s splayed across his chest.
“I’m fine,” I manage. “Just my dignity that’s bruised.”
The crowd whoops and cheers. Someone wolf-whistles. I scramble to get up, but our bound wrists make it awkward.
“Hold still,” Ethan murmurs, shifting to help me untangle. His proximity is dizzying. “Let’s try this again.”
He gets to his feet first, then pulls me up with surprising gentleness. The cameras are going crazy, and I realize what this must look like—me falling into the arms of the man I supposedly hate, our bodies pressed together.
“You did that on purpose,” I accuse under my breath.
“Believe me, if I’d planned it, our landing would have been more graceful.” He brushes imaginary dust from my shoulder. “Ready to continue kicking everyone else’s ass?”
Despite everything, I almost smile at his competitive tone.
We tackle the remaining obstacles with increasing coordination—the Three-Legged Race (we come in second), the Love Lift (where Ethan had to hold me overhead, which he did with exasperating ease), the Whisper Challenge (we fail spectacularly), and finally, the Heart Puzzle (which we complete first, thanks to my pattern recognition skills).
By the last challenge, I’m sweating, laughing despite myself, and forgetting to look like I can’t stand him. The crowd loves it, shouting encouragement as we sprint toward the finish line, still awkwardly bound together.
We cross in first place. The crowd erupts in cheers. Ethan throws our bound hands up in victory, pulling me into a half-hug that catches me off guard. Cameras flash from every angle.
“Congratulations to our winners!” the coordinator announces. “Mr. Cole and Dr. Bennett have earned themselves a romantic sunset dinner!”
Ethan beams at the crowd, then at me, his arm still around my shoulders.
“Get your arm off me,” I mutter through a fixed smile.
“The cameras, sweetheart,” he whispers back. “We’re giving them a show, remember?”
“You’re impossible.”
“The passengers are loving our enemies-to-lovers energy. Look.” He nods toward the crowd, where people are recording us on their phones, whispering excitedly.
“This is insane,” I hiss as we pose for official photos, still bound at the wrist. “I’m a scientist, not a reality TV contestant.”
Ethan leans close, his lips near my ear. “Admit it, that was fun.”
I shove him with my free hand, but there’s less venom in it than there should be. “The only thing I’ll admit is that you’re the most aggravating human I’ve ever met.”
He grins, completely unmoved by my hostility. “Just wait until Tantric Yoga this afternoon.”
“I am not doing yoga with you.”
“We’ll see.” His smile is pure confidence. “You want that turtle data, don’t you?”
As we’re finally untied, I flex my wrist and study him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“This is pure manipulation.”
“I prefer to call it ‘creative problem-solving.’” He accepts two bottles of water from a crew member, handing one to me. “You threw champagne in my face, Harper. Consider us even.”
“We’re not even close to even.” I unscrew the water bottle. “And don’t call me Harper.”
“What should I call you, then? Sweetheart? Darling? Love muffin?”
I choke on my water. “Do that and I’ll throw something much worse than champagne at you.”
He laughs, the sound genuine and warm. “There she is. I was worried you were starting to like me after our victorious performance.”
“In your dreams, Cole.”
His eyes meet mine, teasing and altogether too knowing. “We’ll talk after yoga, Dr. Bennett.”
As he walks away, nodding to admirers and posing for selfies, I stand frozen, water bottle half-raised to my lips.
What have I gotten myself into?
More importantly, how am I going to survive two hours of Tantric Yoga with a man I want to throttle but just spent an hour pressed against in various compromising positions?
I need a battle plan. And a very cold shower.
Because one thing is becoming dangerously clear. Ethan Cole might be obnoxious, arrogant, and manipulative, but he’s also charming, quick-witted, and disturbingly attractive when he laughs.
And that makes him far more dangerous than I anticipated.