Chapter 5 Tit for Tat #3
“Ruin it?”
West cuts me off. He stares at me for a long moment, then a slow, incredulous grin spreads across his face. It transforms him, lighting up his eyes, carving deep grooves beside his mouth.
“Jane Cooper, you magnificent disaster.” He shakes his head, laughter bubbling in his voice. “That was… spectacular. Scarlett looked like she swallowed a lemon whole.”
He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “And Blake? He couldn’t take his eyes off you. You just became infinitely more interesting.”
Relief washes over me, so intense it makes my knees weak. “So… not ruined?”
“Not even close.” His grin turns wolfish. “But you definitely kicked the hornet’s nest. Scarlett won’t forget that. So, watch your back.”
He glances over my shoulder, his expression hardening just a fraction.
I swallow—then decide I’m done giving that woman real estate in my head.
“You know what?” I exhale. “All this talk about food made me hungry. Let’s find some actual filet mignon. Or at least a shrimp skewer that didn’t come out of a freezer bag.”
“You got it. Oh, there’s one more thing,” he adds as we turn away. “Tonight. Lounge bar at Cap Juluca. Eight o’clock. My mother texted me with a ‘candidate.’”
Right. The deal. The fake relationship. The reason why West's helping me.
“I’ll be there.”
“Jane.” He waits until I meet his eyes. They twinkle.
“Don’t be subtle tonight.”
The woman cornering West at the bar looks like she stepped out of a boardroom catalog—elegant navy dress, posture so perfect it makes my spine hurt just looking at it, jewelry that whispers "old money" in seventeen languages.
She's smiling at West like he's a quarterly earnings report that exceeded expectations.
I'm wearing jean shorts and one of West's T-shirts I liberated from his luggage. I refuse to wear a cocktail dress to commit sabotage.
Time to detonate this interview. SHOWTIME.
I stride across the lounge like a woman on a mission from chaos itself. West spots me coming and his eyes flash with something between alarm and fascination.
Perfect.
"West Prescott!" My voice carries across the entire pavilion. Several cocktails pause mid-sip. "We need to talk. Right now."
Navy Dress blinks, her smile freezing in place. "I'm sorry, we were in the middle of—"
"Oh, I know exactly what you're in the middle of." I fix her with my best wounded-but-dignified expression. "Did he tell you about Mason?"
West's jaw tightens. "Jane—"
"Who's Mason?" the woman asks, her tone cautious.
"Our son." I let my voice waver perfectly—not sobbing, just bravely struggling. Oscar-worthy stuff. "He's four years old. Has his daddy's eyes. Asks about him every single night before bed."
I watch her face cycle through confusion, concern, and the dawning horror of a woman realizing this is NOT the eligible bachelor she was promised.
"I don't have a son," West says, his voice tight with barely controlled alarm.
"That's what you tell everyone!" I'm warming up now, really committing to the bit.
"You want to pretend we don't exist? That Mason doesn't exist?
He drew you a picture last week, West. A picture of you playing hockey.
In crayon. The expensive Crayola kind, not the cheap ones, because only the best for a Prescott. "
The woman stands slowly, already reaching for her purse. "I think there's been some... miscommunication."
"Oh, there's been communication." I drop one hand to my stomach, pushing it out slightly.
I shoot West a sly sideways smile—pure theater—before turning back to the woman.
“Plenty of it. You’d think, with his family disapproving of us, he’d show some restraint. But no.”
I tilt my head toward West. “Captain Five-Hole can’t keep his hands to himself, can you, honey?”
I look at West with exaggerated affection and long-suffering patience, sweeping a hand down my body like Vanna White presenting a prize.
West makes a sound like he's choking.
"Another?" Navy Dress is backing away now.
"Due in August." I pat my non-existent bump lovingly. "Mason's so excited to be a big brother. Though I keep telling West, three bedrooms isn't enough for two kids and his hockey equipment, but does he listen?"
"I sincerely apologize," West cuts in, his voice strained. "This is—there's no child. She's—"
"Financially struggling," I supply helpfully.
"Raising your son alone while you wine and dine strangers.
Which—" I turn back to Navy Dress with sudden, manic hope.
"Are you family approved? Is that what this is?
Because if you're okay with the arrangement, maybe we can work something out.
You know, with the child support, the mortgage, preschool tuition.
.. Maybe you could watch the kids while West and I go on actual dates?
I haven't had an adult conversation in four years that didn't involve Daniel Tiger. "
The woman's face has gone from politely interested to absolutely horrified.
"I have to go," she says faintly. "My mother is... I need to find my mother."
She flees.
Actually flees, her heels clicking double-time across the marble.
I watch her go, barely holding back my laughter.
The second she's out of earshot, West grabs my arm—not rough, just firm—and steers me toward the villa path.
His shoulders are shaking slightly. "Mason?" he says once we're clear of witnesses, his voice caught between disbelief and laughter. "You gave our fictional child a name and a favorite TV show?"
"Mason seemed appropriate. Strong. Classic. Really sells the whole 'deadbeat dad' narrative." I'm fighting laughter now, my stomach hurting from holding it in. "And Daniel Tiger is very educational. You should be proud of our imaginary parenting choices."
"You told a room full of people I have a four-year-old I'm neglecting and got you pregnant again."
"And that we need a bigger house," I add cheerfully. "Can't forget the real estate crisis."
He stares at me. His mouth twitches. "Two kids. August due date. Daniel Tiger."
"Mason wants a little sister. He's very specific about it."
"Does he?"
"Very much. Already picked out names. Aurora if it's a girl, Optimus Prime if it's a boy."
West shakes his head, but he's smiling now—actually smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes. "You're completely unhinged."
"You said not subtle." I grin up at him. "That was extremely not subtle."
"That was thermonuclear." But he's laughing now, proper laughter that makes his shoulders shake. "Premium Crayola’s. Daniel Tiger. A mortgage."
"I got carried away."
"You think?" But he's still chuckling, looking at me like I'm some kind of deranged miracle. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
"Too late. And I already know where you live."
His laugh is warm and genuine. "Come on, baby mama. Let's get a drink. You've earned it."
"Will it stunt the baby's growth?"
"Jane."
"Fine, fine. But Mason's college fund isn't going to pay for itself, you know."
He's still shaking his head, but he's grinning, and I count it as a win.
We don't speak on the walk back to the villa.
The night air is thick and warm, salt-sweet from the ocean. My heart is still racing from the performance—from Navy Dress's horror, from West's laughter, from the ridiculous high of pulling off something that spectacularly unhinged.
Inside our casita, West heads straight for the bar cart and pours two fingers of something amber.
"That was—" He stops. Starts again. "You really committed to the Mason narrative."
"Method acting." I kick off my sandals. "Did it work?"
"Once she gets over her embarrassment, she'll tell everyone I'm a deadbeat dad with a pregnant baby mama by tomorrow’s lunch." He hands me a glass. "So yes. Spectacularly."
We settle onto opposite ends of the couch—careful distance maintained, post-sabotage buzz still humming between us.
I take a sip. The whiskey burns all the way down, grounding me.
"You're good at this," West says, watching me over the rim of his glass.
"At what? Lying? Chaos? Ruining women's evenings?"
"At demolition." His mouth quirks. "You're excellent at blowing things up."
The compliment lands weird. Warm but edged.
"Thanks?" I say slowly.
"I wish you were good at seduction, though. You were bad with Blake."
I set down my glass carefully.
"Excuse me?" I bristle.
"Scarlett. The yacht. The woman you scared off just now. You light up when you’re dismantling and sabotaging. You’re sharp. Fast. Confident.” There’s a spark in West’s eyes.
“But when Blake turned his attention on you? You freeze. Your body checks out before your brain can catch up. And when it does, it becomes painfully obvious what your 10-step tactics are.”
My throat tightens, because—damn it—he’s right. I’m reactive and defensive.
“Blake notices that,” West continues. “Men like him always do. The second your interest doesn’t match your proximity, they pull back. Not offended. Just bored.”
My jaw tightens. "I got his attention, didn't I?"
"You got his curiosity. That's not the same thing." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Blake's intrigued because you're new. But if you want him to actually pursue you—to let his guard down—you need to stop improvising blindly and start playing strategically."
The words sting because they're true.
Day 2 is already over. I've successfully tanked one of West's matchmaking disasters and made an enemy of Scarlett, but I'm no closer to Blake than I was yesterday. Time is ticking. And I'm running on fumes and Google searches.
"Fine," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "Then tell me how."
"How to what?"
"How to seduce Blake." I meet his eyes. "Not the flirting-101 stuff Barbie keeps barking at me. Real intel. Patterns. What actually works on him."
West studies me for a long moment. Then he sits back, considering.
"He likes brunettes,” he says finally. "Always has. Dark hair, curves—your type, actually."