Chapter 3
The Human Shield
Jane
The asshole is blocking me again.
I’m standing behind a marble column roughly the size of a Boston apartment, watching my personal human shield intercept my fourth attempt to get within conversational distance of Blake Hartwell.
West Prescott.
The one the bridesmaids warned me about.
I spent my flight panic-researching every groomsman like my life depended on it—which is how I learned he’s a famous hockey player, a billionaire heir, and somehow deeply committed to making my job harder.
This time he's using the "accidental phone call" maneuver—materializing beside Blake with his phone pressed to his ear, speaking just loud enough to draw Blake into his conversation and away from the pool bar where I'd been approaching.
My target vanishes toward the beach volleyball setup, and I'm left clutching a mojito that costs more than my daily meal, wondering if hockey players have some kind of defensive radar that alerts them to incoming threats.
Frankly, I like to think I’m the hero in incognito mode here, which is awkward, because at the moment I have accomplished absolutely nothing.
I take a deep breath and attempt to appreciate the view instead of my rapidly deteriorating confidence.
Cap Juluca sprawls across Maundays Bay like someone took the Parthenon, dipped it in white paint, and asked, How expensive is too expensive?
Greco-Moorish domes gleam against water so blue it looks fake.
Palm trees pose like they’re auditioning for a travel magazine.
Everything is pristine. Untouched. Judging me.
I smooth down my two-hundred-dollar linen sundress that I'm terrified of spilling anything on and check my phone.
Barbie: Status report?
ME: Your hockey player has appointed himself head of Blake security. Zero progress.
Barbie: Try harder. You're not there to sightsee.
Right. Try harder. With what, exactly? My extensive experience flirting with billionaires? My natural ability to blend in with people who vacation in places I can't pronounce?
Blake and West have moved to the volleyball courts now, completely out of range.
I abandon the pool area and head toward the main pavilion, hoping to regroup.
Maybe get a map of this resort at the concierge, figure out shortcuts, where Blake will be for dinner—form an actual plan instead of lurking behind columns like a discount spy.
I straighten my spine the way I practiced in my hotel mirror this morning, remind myself to drop my voice half an octave to sound more sophisticated, and start walking.
I'm almost to the concierge when I spot her—a small, elderly woman struggling near the desk. Her enormous sun hat has slid sideways, and she's juggling a designer handbag roughly the size of carry-on luggage while reaching for something on the counter she can't quite manage.
The bag slips. Not dramatically—just enough to make her wobble.
I move without thinking.
"Here—let me," I say, stepping in to steady her and lift the bag back onto her shoulder.
"Thank you, dear," she mutters, clearly annoyed at the situation more than the help.
“I’m afraid this area is reserved for platinum-level guests only,” the staff member walks by and addresses the elderly lady, polite but dismissive. “The general guest services desk is—”
“I know where I am, young man,” the woman snaps, her accent pure New England aristocracy. “I’ve been coming to this resort since before you were born.”
He’s already turning away, scanning the area for more important people to assist. Two other staff members pass without slowing, neatly categorizing her as someone else’s problem.
Heat flares. I know that feeling—being invisible, being dismissed, being treated like you don’t belong.
“Actually,” I say then, lifting my voice to full project-confidence volume, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
The staff member turns back, eyeing my dress and designer accessories—thanks to Barbie's styling budget—with newfound attention.
I slide my arm through the elderly woman's, steadying her bag. "My friend here was just telling me about the platinum concierge service. Perhaps you could direct us to someone who can actually help?"
The magic word—friend—combined with my borrowed outfit does the trick. The staff member's entire demeanor shifts to apologetic efficiency.
"Of course, madam. Right this way."
As he bustles ahead, the woman looks up at me with sharp dark eyes that miss nothing.
"That was smoothly done," she says. "Though I suspect you're not actually platinum level any more than I look like someone who needs rescuing."
I grin despite myself. "You looked like you could handle him just fine. I just hate watching people get dismissed."
"Mm. Are you with the wedding party?"
"Sort of. I'm Barbie Wintz's plus-one."
Something flickers across her face—amusement, maybe. "Ah. The bridesmaids. Well. Good luck with that, dear."
She pats my hand—a brief gesture that feels oddly significant—and disappears into the concierge office, leaving me with the unsettling sense that this interaction mattered more than it should have.
No time to analyze. Blake has reappeared near the infinity pool, and this time he's alone. Finally.
I take a breath, roll my shoulders back, and channel every rom-com heroine who's ever transformed herself for a man. Chin up. Confident smile. Eyes that say "mysterious and intriguing," not "help, I'm drowning."
Time for Operation Honeypot: Phase One.
Blake is exactly as advertised—tall, classically handsome, expensive everything. He's leaning against the poolside bar, drink in hand, looking like a recruitment poster for "Generic Rich Guy #3."
I approach from his left, timing my steps to arrive just as he takes a sip of his whiskey. Casual. Accidental. Definitely not choreographed in my hotel bathroom this morning.
"Blake?" I let a note of pleased recognition creep into my voice. "I'm Jane Cooper. Barbie's friend? She said you were the one to ask about the best spots on the island."
It's a terrible line. But Blake's face lights up with the kind of practiced charm that probably works on ninety percent of women.
"Jane! Right, Barbie mentioned you might be coming." He gestures to the empty lounge chair beside him. "Welcome to paradise."
Score one for Team Fake It Till You Make It.
I perch on the edge of the chair, crossing my legs at the ankle the way I saw the other women doing. Elegant. Refined. Definitely not like someone whose idea of luxury is name-brand cereal.
"This place is incredible," I say, letting my voice carry just the right amount of breathless appreciation. "I can see why Natalie chose it."
Blake's smile tightens almost imperceptibly at his fiancée's name. "She has excellent taste. Though I think I had some influence on the final decision."
The way he says it—like he's taking credit for her choices—makes my skin crawl. But I keep my expression bright and interested.
"I bet you know all the insider spots," I continue, leaning forward slightly. "The places they don't put in the tourist guides."
This is it. This is where my extensive research into "How to Flirt with Rich Men"—thank you, WikiHow—is supposed to kick in. Light touch on the arm. Laugh at his jokes. Make eye contact. Project confident sexuality.
Blake's eyes definitely drop to my cleavage.
Okay. That part's working.
So I push my boobies out some more. Desperation is apparently very effective.
"Well, well…" he says, his voice dropping into what I assume is his seductive register, "there are a few places that require... special access."
He leans closer, and I catch a whiff of expensive cologne mixed with whiskey. His hand lands on my knee—casual, but definitely possessive.
My brain starts screaming Abort-Abort-Abort, but I force myself to stay in character. This is what I came here to do. This is why Barbie is paying me fifty thousand dollars.
"Special access sounds intriguing," The words come out breathier than intended.
Holy cow! Did I just successfully deliver a flirty line? Without tripping over my own tongue?
Blake's smile widens. His thumb traces a small circle on my knee, and I fight the urge to knee him in the groin.
"There's a private beach on the north side of the resort," he says. "Very secluded. Very... intimate. The kind of place where a man can show a woman exactly how beautiful she is without any interruptions."
His fingers catch a section of my glossy new brunette hair, giving it a light, proprietary tug—like he's testing for compliance.
“I could show you tomorrow afternoon, if you're interested.”
So this is why the bridesmaids insisted on the hair-color overhaul. Five hours with their Glam Squad—extensions, spray tan, lash scaffolding—transforming my polite little blonde into a glossy brunette alter ego. And suddenly I’m catnip for men who can’t keep vows or zippers closed.
Here it is. The opening I need. The chance to get him alone, away from witnesses, where I can—
Wait.
This is working.
This is actually working.
Blake Hartwell—billionaire, serial cheater, generic rich guy—is hitting on me. Me. Jane Cooper from Boston. Jane Cooper who owns three nice dresses and considers Olive Garden a splurge.
My internal rom-com manual is working. He's leaning in. His eyes have that predatory gleam that means he's interested. He's suggesting private locations.
Sweet mercy, I'm accidentally good at this.
Oh
Oh no.
Now I have to level up.
Improvise. Improvise!
My throat goes dry. My hands start to sweat. Every instinct I have is screaming that I'm in way over my head, that I don't know how to play this game, that any second now he's going to realize I'm a fraud and—
"Actually," a familiar deep voice cuts through my spiral, "I think the north beach is off-limits to guests this week. Construction."