Chapter 6 Pressure Points
Pressure Points
West
Jane has turned herself into a burrito.
Sometime during the night, she claimed every available blanket—the duvet, the throw from the foot of the bed, what looks like a decorative pillow she's folded into the mix—and cocooned herself into a fabric fortress on the far edge of the king-sized bed.
All that's visible is a tuft of brunette hair and one bare foot sticking out the bottom.
My first thought: That's adorable.
My second thought: She's fleeing. From me. The distance between us isn't measured in feet anymore—it's measured in layers of Egyptian cotton and self-preservation.
Smart woman.
I lie there studying her blanket fortress, trying to decide if this is her subconscious protecting her from reaching for me... or protecting herself from me reaching for her.
Whatever happened last night stays last night.
Which is exactly what I should want.
Except I don't want it at all.
My body responds predictably. Enthusiastically.
Three years of discipline, gone. By a woman who has literally wrapped herself in armor to avoid morning-after contact.
I should be relieved. Should respect the boundary she's literally constructed.
Instead, I'm irrationally angry at blankets.
Get a grip, Prescott.
I slide out of bed carefully—she doesn't even stir—grab my workout gear, and escape before I do something stupid like dismantle her defenses.
And bury my face into the burrito.
The resort gym is empty at 5:30 AM—nothing but the hum of air conditioning and my own ragged breathing as I attack the treadmill like it personally wronged me.
Mile one: You came in your pants like a teenager.
I crank the speed higher, feet pounding the belt in steady rhythm.
Mile two: With a woman you met three days ago who's lying to nearly everyone here.
My breathing evens out. Muscle memory takes over. This I can control.
Mile three: Including, potentially, you.
The doubt spirals. I push through it, legs burning.
The thing is, I know she's lying. That's the whole point. She's here under false pretenses, hired to honeypot Blake, playing a role for money. Those are facts. Neat, manageable, easy to file away.
But her reactions last night?
Mile four: Or she's exactly what she seems—chaotic, genuine, impossible to fake.
The rhythm breaks. I have to consciously steady my pace.
Watching her stumble through this job—tripping over tiles, inventing fictional children, going nuclear on Scarlett—doesn't feel like deception. It feels like chaos. Genuine, unfiltered, impossible-to-fake chaos.
She's a terrible liar.
That's what keeps circling back.
Caroline was a good liar. Smooth. Practiced. She knew exactly what to say, how to look at me, which version of herself to present in any given room. I never saw the seams. Not once. Not until the mandatory pre-nup paternity test. I have Aunt Milly to thank for that.
Jane? Jane telegraphs everything. Every emotion plays across her face like she's never heard of a poker face.
When she's nervous, she rambles. When she's flustered, she makes terrible jokes.
When she came last night, she said my name like a prayer and looked at me like I'd just handed her something she didn't know she needed.
You can't fake that.
Can you?
Mile five: You don't trust your own judgment anymore.
There it is. The truth I've been running from.
The treadmill beeps—five miles done in thirty-two minutes. Faster than my usual pace but I'm barely winded. My head though, is still a mess.
I move to the weight bench and load up more than I should. The physical strain helps. Gives my brain something concrete to focus on.
Bench press: She wrapped herself in blankets to avoid you.
Push.
Because you lost control. Came like you'd never been touched before.
Lower.
She probably thinks you're pathetic.
Push.
Or dangerous.
Lower.
You told her not to do that with Blake. That was possessive.
Push.
You have no claim on her.
Lower.
You WANT a claim on her.
Stop.
That's the problem.
I finish the set, arms shaking. Sit up and scrub my hands over my face.
Here's what I know for certain:
One: Jane got under my skin faster than anyone since Caroline.
Two: That either means she's exactly what I need, or I'm repeating the same mistake with a different face.
Three: I won't survive being wrong again.
Four: But I'm not sure I'll survive walking away either.
I hit the shower—cold water, because apparently I'm a glutton for punishment—and try to formulate a plan.
Option A: Double down on professional boundaries. No more lessons. No more touching.
My chest tightens at the thought.
Option B: Admit this is already way past professional and figure out if it's real.
My chest tightens worse.
Option C: Run. Fake a family emergency. Leave the island.
I actually consider it for thirty seconds before my protective instincts kick in and reject the entire concept. Loudly.
Because whatever else is happening—whatever confusion or complication or impending disaster I'm walking into—one thing is absolutely clear:
I can't leave her alone with Blake.
Not after the way he looked at her at the pool. Not after the "private beach" invitation. Not after years of watching him treat women like acquisitions he forgot to close.
So that's decided.
I'm staying. I'm protecting her.
Even if it destroys me.
Even if she's playing me.
Even if I'm too broken to tell the difference anymore.
I finish the shower, get dressed, and check my phone. 7:23 AM.
Two hours since I fled the casita like it was on fire.
Time to face the music.
When I let myself back in, the bedroom door is open and Jane's gone.
The bed looks like a crime scene—every blanket in the casita piled in the middle where the burrito used to be.
A coffee mug in the sink. Still warm. I'm going to need to leave housekeeping a bigger tip.
Relief and disappointment hit simultaneously.
No text. No note.
Is she avoiding me? Did she bolt?
The possibility makes me want to break things.
I force myself to breathe. She's probably at breakfast.
I need coffee.
The main breakfast pavilion is already busy—resort guests claiming prime tables, wedding party members scattered throughout, staff gliding between tables with silver coffee pots and fresh pastries.
I scan the space automatically, the way I read the ice—tracking position, finding the play.
And there she is.
Jane's at a table with Natalie and the bridesmaids—Barbie, Sloane, Merritt, Katelyn. She's wearing a sundress I haven't seen before, yellow with tiny white flowers, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. She's laughing at something Natalie just said, her whole face lighting up.
She looks fine. Happy, even. Like last night didn't rattle her at all. It shouldn't bother me this much, but it grates.
I grab a plate and head for the buffet, trying to look casual. Trying not to watch her. Failing spectacularly.
She glances up as I pass, and our eyes meet.
For a second, everything else disappears.
I see it—the flush creeping up her neck, the slight tightening of her grip on her coffee mug, the widening of her eyes.
She's not unaffected. She's just better at hiding it in public than I gave her credit for.
The relief that floods through me is disproportionate and dangerous.
I nod once. Professional. Distant.
She nods back, then immediately drops her gaze to her plate.
Right. So we're doing the "pretend nothing happened" routine.
I can work with that.
I load my plate with food I don't want and claim a table with clear sightlines to hers. Not close enough to join. Close enough to watch.
The bridesmaids are talking wedding logistics—something about a sunset photo shoot and whether the lighting will work. Natalie's making notes on her phone. Jane's nodding along, contributing the occasional comment, but her attention keeps drifting.
To me.
Every time I move—reaching for coffee, cutting into an omelet I'm not tasting—her gaze flicks over. Brief. Furtive. Like she's checking to make sure I'm still there.
It's the least subtle surveillance I've ever witnessed.
I time my next trip to the buffet for exactly when she stands to refill her coffee.
We arrive at the station simultaneously.
"Morning," I say, voice carefully neutral.
"Morning." She doesn't look at me. Just focuses very intently on the coffee urn like it's a complex piece of machinery.
A tell. Yes! First one confirmed.
But she's still not looking at me.
I reach for the cream—closer than necessary, my arm brushing hers. Her hand tightens on the mug. The slightest tremor in her fingers.
Second one confirmed.
"How's the coffee?" I ask.
"Fine." Too quick.
And there it is. Up close, she's not just readable. She's devastating. The flush at the base of her throat. The way she's gripping that mug like it's the only thing keeping her anchored. The slight tension in her jaw when my arm brushed hers.
I came here to confirm a hypothesis. Instead, I just proved she’s in just as much trouble as I am.
"You came early for breakfast," I say quietly.
"Actually, I half-thought you'd already left. Because of what happened…" She trails off.
The honesty punches through my defenses.
"I went for a run," I say. "Needed to clear my head."
"Did it work?"
“I ran five miles in thirty-two minutes and spent the entire time thinking about your hips. So no. Spectacularly unsuccessful."
She bites her lip, fighting a smile. "My hips?"
"Your hips. Your mouth. The sound you made when you—" I stop myself. "I'm making it worse."
"Yeah. You really are."
Around us, the breakfast crowd continues obliviously. Someone laughs. Silverware clinks. The coffee maker hisses.
When she finally looks up, the expression on her face is pure defiance mixed with uncertainty.
"Jane—"
"We should probably talk," she says at the same time.
"Yeah. We should."
"But not here."
"Definitely not here."
Neither of us moves.