Chapter 4 The Deal
The Deal
West
Iam NOT a voyeur—which sounds like a lie, considering this is the second time in twenty-four hours I've accidentally seen a half-naked woman who had no idea I was there.
I’m also not a stalker.
I was conducting reconnaissance. There’s a difference.
Jane Cooper—Barbie’s mysterious plus-one—has been circling Blake like a shark scenting blood for the past four hours, and every instinct I’ve honed over sixteen years of professional hockey says something is off.
The problem is, I can’t figure out what.
She’s not like the usual women who orbit Blake. Not polished enough, for one thing. Despite the designer dress and obvious attempts at sophistication, she moves wrong for this place—like she’s wearing borrowed shoes. Too careful. Too aware of every step.
And she looks at Blake like he’s a problem to solve, not a man to seduce.
I should let it go. Blake’s choices are Blake’s business. I already made the decision to keep my mouth shut about Scarlett—stand beside him as his groomsman, play the loyal friend, pretend everything’s fine.
So why am I standing here, watching Jane disappear down the path toward the guest casitas instead of joining Blake at the bar?
Because you’re an idiot with a protection complex, the honest part of my brain supplies.
Even if it’s Blake Hartwell.
Fair enough.
Jane disappears inside her casita. My feet don’t move.
Seconds pass.
Then movement catches my eye through her sheer curtains.
Which brings me to this moment—
Jane Cooper is struggling with her zipper.
She contorts her arms behind her back, twisting like she's trying to scratch an unreachable itch, and the movement makes the dress pull tight across her chest. Even from here, I can see the strain of fabric over curves that have been testing my focus all damn day.
When the zipper finally gives, she lets out what looks like a relieved exhale and shimmies the dress down.
Hot damn!
The bra underneath is white sheer lace—the kind designed to create cleavage that could stop traffic. It's working. Her breasts are pushed up and together, full and round, spilling slightly over the cups like the contraption can barely contain them.
My cock goes from interested to fully hard in the span of a heartbeat.
She reaches behind her back, and I know what's coming.
I should look away now. Right now. This second.
The bra releases.
Her breasts fall free—heavy, natural, the kind that would overflow my hands—and she tosses the bra across the room with a flick of her wrist, watching it land on the back of a arm chair before turning towards the mirror again.
The relief on her face is immediate, her hands coming up to rub at the red marks where the underwire dug into her ribs.
I grip the trunk of the palm tree like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
She starts massaging herself. Thumbs pressing into the grooves left by the bra, palms cupping the underside of her breasts as she works out the ache, and my brain shorts out completely.
Those aren't the carefully sculpted, surgically enhanced breasts I've become numb to in locker room conversations. These are real. Soft. The kind that would overflow my hands, heavy and warm and—
My hand drops to my zipper on instinct.
I press my palm against the painful ridge of my erection, trying to ease the pressure, and nearly groan out loud.
I'm hard as a rock in my pants like a teenager because a woman I barely know is standing topless in a window.
She pulls on a white t-shirt from her luggage—thin, worn, the kind that's been washed a hundred times—and it clings to every curve. No bra. I can see the outline of her nipples through the fabric, and the casual domesticity of it is somehow more erotic than the push-up bra.
Then she does something that destroys me.
She rolls her hips. A slow, exaggerated circle like she's working out the stiffness from wearing heels all day, hands on her lower back, head tipped back. The movement is fluid, unselfconscious, and when she catches sight of herself in the mirror, she laughs.
Actually laughs at herself.
It's not a performance. There's no audience she's aware of, no attempt at seduction. She's just... herself. Comfortable in her skin. The hip roll transitions into what looks like a terrible attempt at a dance move, and she's grinning at her own ridiculousness when she turns away from the mirror.
That's what breaks me.
Not the body—though sweet heavens, that body. Not the accidental striptease or the braless t-shirt or even the white lace panties that are somehow more devastating than the engineered lingerie.
It's the fact that she's completely, utterly real.
I'm still gripping myself through my pants, trying to breathe through the need pounding in my veins, when she disappears from view.
I should move. Should get back to my villa before someone sees me lurking in the landscaping like a creep. Should take a cold shower and forget this ever happened.
Instead, I stand here, hard as granite, burning the image into my memory.
This is a problem.
She is a problem.
And I have no idea what the hell I'm going to do about it.
My phone buzzes violently in my pocket. I jerk back. The spell breaks.
I yank my gaze away, heat crawling up the back of my neck like I'm seventeen instead of thirty-four.
When I risk another glance, the curtains are drawn.
Thank hell.
I stumble back toward my own casita, adjusting myself through my pants. Pathetic.
My phone buzzes again. Family group chat, because the universe hates me.
Mom: Veronica's mother confirmed pool party on Tuesday. Wear the navy blazer. No excuses.
Aunt Milly: Penelope will be at the Thursday cocktail. I told her mother you're looking to settle down. Don't embarrass me.
Mom: We should sync our schedules. You can’t possibly evaluate all the candidates if you don’t optimize your time with the wedding plans, groomsmen activities and everything else.
I stare at the screen.
If they move from matchmaking to stud farming, I’m walking into the ocean and letting nature decide.
Ilet myself into my casita—white marble, vaulted ceilings, a private infinity pool that costs more per night than most people on the island make in a month.
Everything pristine. Everything perfect.
Everything a reminder that my family's money can buy anything except the ability to see me as something other than a legacy management problem.
I drop my key on the counter and head straight for the outdoor shower.
Cold water. That's what I need. Cold water and a reset of whatever the hell just happened to my nervous system.
But when I close my eyes under the spray, all I see is Jane Cooper.
The way she moved in that dress. The way her mouth parted when I pulled her against me behind that decorative screen. The way her pulse jumped in her throat when I wrapped my hand around her waist.
The way she looked half-naked in that window.
Damn it.
I turn the water colder.
Cold water sluices over me, but it does nothing to erase the image burned behind my eyelids. Full breasts. Curving hips.
She's a problem. Not because she's doing anything wrong—technically stalking the groom at his own wedding isn't illegal, just pathologically stupid—but because she's making me want things I have no business wanting.
My hand wraps around my aching length before I consciously decide to. A groan escapes as I stroke myself to the memory of her body—the dip of her waist, the sway of her hips, the heavy weight of her breasts.
Letting her crash through my defensive zone like she has no idea what the rules are.
Probably because she doesn't.
I come hard, her name a groan I barely swallow, and brace myself against the tile as release shudders through me.
I remain under the shower head for a few more moments to let the tension leave my body. My mind is still on Jane.
I had watched her all afternoon. Watched her try six different approaches to get close to Blake. Watched her fail every single time because she reveals her intentions like a rookie who's never heard of deception.
She's not subtle. She's not polished. She's not even particularly good at this.
But she's persistent.
And that persistence is going to get her hurt.
I turn off the water and grab a towel, already planning my next move. Because if she tries one more time to corner Blake alone, I'm going to have to intervene. Not for Blake's sake—he can handle himself, or at least he deserves whatever consequences come from his choices—but for hers.
Blake doesn't play fair with women who interest him. And Jane, for all her amateur-hour stalking skills, definitely interests him.
I saw the way he looked at her at the pool. The way his hand landed on her knee. The way he leaned in like a shark scenting blood.
My jaw clenches.
No. Not my problem. Not my business.
Jane Cooper is a grown woman who can make her own terrible decisions.
I pull on clean clothes—linen shirt, khakis, the uniform of wealthy men pretending to be casual—and check my phone.
Blake's texted the groomsmen about drinks by the main pool at seven. Optional attendance, which means it's mandatory if you don't want to field questions later about why you weren't there.
Skip it. Should stay here, away from temptation and terrible ideas.
But I won't.
Because I'm going to be there when Jane makes her next move.
And this time, I'm going to stop her.
The pool area is pure golden hour pornography—sunset painting everything amber and rose, palm trees swaying like they're auditioning for a Corona commercial, beautiful people scattered around in expensive swimwear pretending they're not performing for each other.
I spot Blake immediately near the infinity edge, surrounded by groomsmen and bridesmaids who laugh at his jokes like he's actually funny instead of just rich. Natalie sits some distance away with her mom and sister.
And there, half-hidden behind a potted palm like a spy in a bad movie, is Jane.
She's changed into a sundress that bares her shoulders, hair loose around her face.