Chapter 5 Tit for Tat
Tit for Tat
Jane
West Prescott sleeps like the dead. And like a starfish.
A very large, very warm starfish whose arm has somehow migrated across the invisible DMZ between our sides of the king-sized bed and landed heavily across my waist.
His hand rests just below my ribs, fingers splayed, palm hot even through my thin sleep tank. His breathing is deep and even, ruffling the hair at my temple. Every exhale sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air-conditioned chill.
Apparently, I’m not much better.
My leg is thrown over his hip, my arm is draped across his ridiculously defined torso, and my hand is… oh my, my hand is resting perilously close to the waistband of his boxer briefs, my fingers splayed like I’m trying to measure his abs for science.
The last thing I remember is lying rigidly on my designated right side of the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling, chanting don’t touch him, don’t touch him, don’t touch him like a deranged monk.
Somewhere between midnight and dawn, my body apparently decided the monk life wasn’t for it and went full barnacle on the nearest heat source.
West’s breathing is deep and even. He’s still asleep.
Carefully, millimeter by agonizing millimeter, I start to peel myself away. My leg slides off his. My hand lifts from his abs—which are, annoyingly, exactly as firm as they look. I raise my head gingerly so I can assess how and how far I need to go to reclaim my pillow.
This is not part of the deal. This is not professional. I can get arrested for the kind of indecent thoughts I’m having about this…
A low, sleep-rough rumble vibrates against my cheek. “Morning, hurricane.”
I flinch so hard I nearly elbow him in the ribs. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to…”
“Invade my personal space like a conquering army?” He cracks one eye open, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Relax. It’s a big bed. Territorial drift happens.”
“I do not drift,” I whisper-hiss, finally managing to put a solid two inches of expensive Egyptian cotton between us. "I have excellent spatial awareness."
"You had your knee in my spleen."
I groan, and my cheeks are on fire.
“Sleep okay?”
“Great.” Liar.
“Very… restful. You?”
“Like a rock.” His arm lifts slowly, deliberately, away from my waist.
The cool air rushes in to replace the heat of his body, and I have to resist the ridiculous urge to chase it. To roll over and press myself against his side.
Get a grip, Cooper.
“You don’t snore.” His gaze flicks over my face.
“Gee, thanks. High praise.”
“It is, actually. My last roommate sounded like a chainsaw fighting a bear. In a gravel pit.”
He sits up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.
The movement makes the hem of his shirt ride up, revealing a sliver of tanned skin and the defined V leading south.
I immediately regret having eyeballs.
Because while I'm busy doing a rapid internal audit of possible morning-face crimes—eye gunk, drool residue, and perhaps a rogue booger staging a hostile takeover of my left nostril—West Prescott looks like he woke up in an aftershave commercial.
Not styled. Not posed.
Just ready.
Hair perfectly tousled in that way that takes normal people forty-five minutes and three products. Jawline still sharp enough to cut glass. Not a single pillow crease on his stupid perfect face.
Meanwhile, I definitely have sheet marks on my cheek that spell out something in Egyptian cotton hieroglyphics. Probably "HELP ME."
Morning light is cruel. It's not flattering light. It's accountability light. The kind that exposes pores, fine lines, and the fact that you definitely shouldn't have had that third martini.
I grab the thin blanket and tug it up, inch by mortifying inch, until it's hovering somewhere between my forehead and my dignity.
Just checking. Just making sure nothing escaped overnight.
I risk a peek over the edge.
He's watching me.
One eyebrow lifts, amused. "You hiding from me, or from the day?"
"From myself," I mutter into the blanket. "There are… risks."
"Risks," he repeats, clearly enjoying this far too much.
"Yes. Morning risks. Facial risks. Respiratory risks. Potentially international incidents."
"International incidents?"
"I don't know what I look like right now. Could be a diplomatic crisis."
“Only if I’m not also an American. You look—" He clears his throat. "Warm. Soft. Like I should've taken the couch.”
"So… no boogers?" I whisper, deadly serious.
A quiet laugh slips out of him, low and unfairly attractive.
"Negative on boogers," he says, fighting a grin. "I would've evacuated. Called in a hazmat team. Possibly the National Guard."
"Good." I exhale, letting the blanket drop an inch. "Because that would've ended the arrangement."
He laughs again and stretches his neck and shoulders—just enough to remind me how big he is, how warm, how very much there—and my brain promptly forgets how to operate.
This day hasn't even started yet, and already I'm losing ground.
He swings his legs out of bed. “Coffee?”
I’m staring at the way his T-shirt pulls across his shoulders as he stands.
“Yes. Please. Absolutely.”
I redirect my gaze to the extremely fascinating blank wall behind him.
By the time I’m back from the bathroom—hair smoothed, T-shirt rearranged into something resembling dignity—West returns with two mugs.
He hands me a mug, and his thumb brushes mine during the transfer. The contact lasts half a second. I feel it everywhere.
"We should probably talk," he says, leaning against the dresser like he needs the distance.
My stomach does a weird flip. Not nerves. Anticipation. "About?"
His gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up. "Details. Making sure we're on the same page before we see people today."
Right. People. The fake relationship. Not the fact that I woke up using his abs as a hand warmer.
"Yeah. Good idea." I wrap both hands around the mug. "So... your family. They're the only ones who need to think we're together, right?"
"Right. My parents, my great-aunt Milly—though everyone just calls her Aunt Milly." He runs a hand through his hair. "I'll introduce you properly."
"Any siblings I should know about?"
"No. Only child." He pauses. "No cousins either. No aunts, no uncles. It's literally just my parents and Aunt Milly. That's the whole family."
"Oh." The weight of that settles over me. "So you're..."
"The only one." Something bitter flickers across his face. "The last hope for carrying on the family line, as Aunt Milly likes to remind me. Frequently."
"Ah." Understanding dawns. "So the pressure is..."
"Intense. Yeah." A humorless smile.
"Aunt Milly and my mom have been very clear about their expectations. Babies. Marriage. Preferably in that order.”
"And you're not ready for that?"
His jaw tightens. For a second, I think he won't answer.
“It’s not about being ready,” he says quietly. “There was someone.”
“We were engaged and she’s pregnant.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t trust my face to behave.
“But it turns out the baby wasn’t mine.”
The room goes very still.
I set my mug down carefully, afraid if I move too fast I'll spook him.
"West." His name comes out softer than I mean it to.
He looks up from his mug, and for a split second I see it—the wound underneath all that control. Then it's gone behind those unreadable eyes.
I watch the way his fingers tighten around the mug though, knuckles whitening just slightly, like he’s holding himself in place.
I swallow. I’m starting to understand why West is willing to help Natalie.
It’s about being lied to. About having your life hijacked by someone else’s deception.
And maybe—just maybe—it explains why he watched me so closely from the start. Why he assumed the worst—I was just another woman circling Blake for the wrong reasons. And why he didn’t hesitate to step in to help once he realized what I was actually trying to do.
My heart breaks a little for him. And for the first time since I met West Prescott, I don’t see a man blocking my path.
I see someone who knows exactly what it feels like to be fooled—and refuses to let it happen again.
“That’s… a lot,” I say finally. "West, I'm—"
"I'm over it," he cuts in. "But my family? They were devastated. They'd already bought baby furniture, picked out names..."
He exhales slowly. "So now, with the Ashford-Hartwell wedding coming up, my mom and Aunt Milly have caught a serious case of wedding fever. And since I'm their only shot at grandkids? They've gone into matchmaking overdrive."
"So I'm the reset button," I say quietly.
He crosses the space between us in two strides. I tilt my head back to hold his gaze, and the shift in proximity makes my pulse kick up.
"You're the proof I'm moving on," he says, voice low. "And maybe the only person here who doesn't want something from me."
His eyes search mine. I forget to breathe.
Then I exhale. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” I straighten a little. “I can do that. Not fake-fake. Not misleading anyone into thinking you’re sprinting toward marriage. Just… letting your family see that you’re okay. That you’re capable of trusting again.”
His gaze sharpens. Softer. “You’d do that?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “I don’t want to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. I just want to buy you some island time while we’re in Aguilla by pretending we’re dating.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
I blink.
Then I snort.
“Okay, let’s not get carried away. I’m no saint. No pedestal for me.” I make a vague circling motion in the air, like I’m physically removing myself from it.
His brow creases. “What?”
“I definitely want something from you.” I lift my mug and take a loud, unapologetic sip of caffeine.
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” I nod seriously. “I need insider information. Schedules. Habits. Tells.” I wave a hand. “Anything you can give me about Blake that doesn’t involve espionage or federal crimes. My fifty-thousand-dollar payout depends on it.”
“Right,” he says, amused. “The fee. You need my intel to do your job.”