Chapter 3 #2
West Prescott appears beside our lounge chairs like he materialized out of thin air. He's changed since the pool earlier—now wearing khakis and a white button-down that emphasizes every inch of his ridiculous shoulders.
Blake's hand disappears from my knee so fast I almost wonder if I imagined it.
"West. Come meet Jane Cooper." Blake's smile doesn't waver, but something cold flickers behind his eyes. "I was just telling her about some of the island's hidden gems."
"I'm sure you were." West's tone is perfectly polite and absolutely lethal—like a knife wrapped in silk.
"Jane, wasn't Barbie looking for you? Something about dinner plans."
He extends his hand to help me up, and I take it without thinking.
Big mistake.
His palm is warm, calloused from hockey sticks and weight lifting. His fingers dwarf mine. When he pulls me to my feet, I end up closer to him than I intended—close enough to catch his scent, something clean and woodsy that makes me want to lean in and—
No. Nope. Abort that thought immediately.
"Right," I say, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. "Dinner plans. I should... go find her."
I extract my hand from West's grip, which takes more willpower than I care to admit.
"See you around, Blake. Thanks for the island tips."
I walk away on legs that feel like they're made of overcooked noodles, hyperaware that both men are watching me go.
When I'm safely out of earshot, I duck behind another marble column and pull out my phone.
Me: Phase One complete. He's interested.
Barbie: Details.
Me: Knee touching. Invitation to secluded beach. Definite predator vibes.
Barbie: Perfect. Keep it up.
Keep it up. Right. Because that went so smoothly.
I lean against the marble, trying to process what just happened. The seduction attempt worked. Blake was definitely interested. I successfully projected confidence and sexuality without completely humiliating myself.
So why do I feel like I'm about to throw up?
And why can't I stop thinking about the way West's hand felt when he helped me up?
Twenty minutes later, I'm attempting Honeypot Phase Two.
This time I've repositioned myself near the buffet station, where the wedding party is gathering for passed appetizers that probably cost more per piece than my lunch budget.
I've practiced my posture in the reflection of a serving tray—shoulders back, chin up, mysterious half-smile firmly in place.
Blake is near the raw bar, telling some story that has his audience laughing appreciatively. Perfect. All I have to do is join the group, contribute something witty, and work my way into a private conversation.
I'm three steps away when West appears.
Not in my path this time. He doesn't block me or redirect me or materialize between us like some kind of inconvenient magic trick.
Instead, he bumps into me.
It's so smoothly done I almost don't realize it's intentional.
He's carrying a plate of appetizers, walking with the casual confidence of someone who belongs here, and then somehow we're colliding.
His shoulder catches mine with enough force to send me stumbling.
His free hand shoots out to steady me, fingers spreading across my ribs through the thin linen, and the heat of his palm burns through the fabric like a brand.
The contact lasts maybe two seconds. But I feel it everywhere.
"Sorry," he murmurs, his voice low enough that I have to lean closer to hear him. "Didn't see you there."
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. They're darker than I thought. Not quite blue, not quite gray. The kind of eyes that see everything and give away nothing.
"No problem," I manage.
But he doesn't step away. Neither do I. We're standing too close, his hand still resting on my waist, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how much bigger he is than me. How solid. How warm.
"Try the shrimp," he says, offering me his plate. "Best thing they're serving."
His fingers brush mine as I take a piece, and I swear I feel sparks.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
I'm supposed to be focused on Blake. On the mission. On the fifty thousand dollars that will save my business and Grace's future.
I am not supposed to be getting distracted by the man whose job seems to be keeping me away from my target.
"Thanks," I say, stepping back before I do something stupid. Like lean into his touch. Or ask him why his eyes look sad when he smiles.
When I glance toward the raw bar, Blake is gone.
Again.
"Damn it," I mutter.
At this rate, I'll need a GPS tracker and a hunting license.
"Problem?" West's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile, and I want to wipe that smug expression off his stupidly handsome face.
"Just... having trouble connecting with people. Wedding parties are complicated."
"They can be." He's studying me with that assessing look again, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "Especially when you're not sure where you fit."
The flat note in his voice makes me think he's not just talking about me.
But before I can figure out what to say to that, his phone buzzes. He glances at it, and his expression shifts.
"Enjoy the shrimp," he says, already moving away.
And I'm left standing by the buffet, holding an appetizer I don't want, wondering what the hell just happened.
By the time the welcome reception officially begins, I've attempted to approach Blake six more times.
Six more times, West has intervened.
At the pavilion bar: He strikes up a conversation with the bartender just as I arrive, creating a crowd that forces Blake to move.
On the terrace: He simply appears beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine, and starts pointing out architectural details of the resort.
His voice is low, intimate, like he's sharing secrets.
I find myself listening despite myself, distracted by the way his fingers move when he gestures, until I realize Blake has moved on.
Near the dance floor: He asks me to dance. Politely. Charmingly. With a smile that makes it impossible to refuse without seeming rude. And before the song is even halfway done, he excuses himself and leaves. And Blake has disappeared.
At the photo station: West volunteers us for a group shot, pulling me against his side for the picture.
His arm settles around my waist like it belongs there.
His thumb traces small circles against my hip through my dress.
I'm so flustered by the contact that I miss Blake's entire conversation about the upcoming island cruise.
Each intervention is different. Each one is more personal than the last. And each one leaves me more confused about what game we're playing.
Because this doesn't feel like simple blocking anymore. This feels like something else entirely.
The final straw comes at five.
Blake is finally, miraculously alone near the beach pavilion. Just him, a drink in his hand. No crowds. No distractions. No obvious escape routes.
I approach from the side, using a decorative screen as cover. My heart is hammering, but I've got my story ready. Lost tourist looking for directions. Damsel in distress who needs a strong, knowledgeable man to help her navigate the resort.
I'm seven feet away when strong hands close around my waist from behind.
Not grabbing. Not aggressive. But unmistakably possessive.
I'm pulled backward against a wall of solid muscle, West's chest pressed against my back, his breath warm against my ear.
"We need to talk." His voice is rough against my ear, and I feel the words as much as hear them.
My breath stutters in response—annoying, traitorous. Every nerve ending lights up like he's touched a live wire to my spine.
His hands span my waist—firm, controlled—thumbs pressing just enough to remind me I’m boxed in.
I can feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blades—the way his chest lifts, the brief pause like he’s bracing himself.
He smells like expensive soap and something uniquely him, something that makes me want to turn around and—
Focus, Jane Cooper. Mission first. Hormones later.
"I'm kind of in the middle of something," I whisper back.
"I know exactly what you're in the middle of." His voice is so low I feel it more than hear it. "That's the problem."
He turns me around, his hands never leaving my body. We're partially hidden by the decorative screen, close enough that anyone watching would think we're having an intimate conversation.
Which, technically, we are.
"You want to tell me why you're stalking the groom?" he asks. His eyes searching.
My mouth goes dry. "I'm not stalking anyone."
"You're about as subtle as a body check, sweetheart.”
His eyes search my face. "Friend of Barbie's, right? Except Barbie's friends don't usually spend the entire reception trying to corner married men."
"He's not married yet."
The words escape before I can stop them.
West stills. Not freezes—stills. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking once near his cheek.
"Interesting distinction."
“Listen, if I can read you, Blake can too. And he doesn't play nice with amateurs."
My lips part on reflex. I catch it. So does he. His gaze dips—brief, unmistakable—before snapping back to my eyes like he regrets the slip.
He shifts his weight, boxing me in. One hand settles at my hip, warm and steady, like he’s anchoring himself. The other curls slowly, like he’s deciding what not to do.
The air between us tightens. Alert. Loaded.
If I leaned forward six inches, this would turn into something else entirely.
The realization hits hard and sudden, like missing a step.
What the hell is wrong with me?
"Look," I say, trying to salvage the situation. "I just wanted to congratulate him. Wedding etiquette, you know?"
"Wedding etiquette doesn't usually require multiple attempts."
"Maybe I'm just not very good at this social stuff."
"Or maybe you're very good at something else.”
The words hang between us, loaded with implication. His grip on my waist tightens slightly, and I fight the urge to lean into his touch.
This is insane. I'm supposed to be seducing Blake, not getting distracted by his protective groomsman. And definitely not wondering what West's hands would feel like on bare skin.
Focus on the mission.
"I should go," I say.
"Yeah," he agrees. But he doesn't let go. "You should."
Neither of us moves.
The moment stretches, taut with something I don't want to name. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. My lips part involuntarily.
And then his phone buzzes.
The spell breaks. He steps back, dropping his hands, and pulls out his phone.
"That’s Blake," he says after glancing at the screen. "Something about family photos."
"Right. Family photos." I smooth down my dress, trying to regain my composure. "I should let you—"
"Jane."
I stop. The way he says my name, low and rough, does things to my nervous system that should be illegal.
"Be careful," he says. "Blake's not... he's not what he seems."
There's something in his voice—warning, maybe, or regret. Like he wants to say more but can't.
"Neither am I," The words come out more stubborn than intended, with enough edge that his eyes narrow.
Good. Let him wonder what he's dealing with.
His mouth curves in what might be a smile. "I'm starting to figure that out."
He disappears into the crowd, leaving me standing behind the decorative screen, heart racing and completely off my game.
Step One: Don't get arrested.
Step Two: Don't fall for the target.
Step Two-Point-Five: Don't get cock-blocked by a six-foot-five wall of suspicious muscle every single time I try to do my damn job.
I'm starting to re-think the next step. Step Three: Don’t lean in for the man who smells so good while he’s in your way.
Because that way lies madness.
And fifty thousand dollars in lost income.