Chapter 7 Beauty, Beast, and Bunny
Beauty, Beast, and Bunny
Jane
My thighs are staging a formal protest.
Every muscle from the waist down has filed a grievance, and they're all demanding workers' comp. I shift under the sheet and immediately regret having nerve endings.
Worth it, though.
So worth it.
I'm lying on my stomach, face buried in a pillow that smells like West and last night's decisions. The good kind of decisions. The kind that leave you glowing and sore and secretly smiling into expensive Egyptian cotton at seven in the morning.
The bed dips beside me.
"You alive over there?" West's voice is low, amused, morning-rough in a way that does things to my already compromised nervous system.
"Define alive," I mumble into the pillow.
"Vertical. Verbal. Capable of regret."
"Then no. Absolutely not. I'm a puddle with a pulse."
He laughs—quiet, genuine—and the sound settles warm in my chest.
I crack one eye open. He's already showered, dressed in khaki shorts and a white linen shirt that should be illegal on a man with shoulders like that. His hair's still damp, and he's holding a coffee mug in each hand like some kind of caffeine-bearing angel.
"I brought reinforcements." He sets one mug on the nightstand beside me.
I drag myself upright with the dignity of a geriatric sloth. The sheet pools at my waist. I'm still naked. West's gaze flickers down, then snaps back up with the discipline of a man who's clearly already made executive decisions about his self-control this morning.
"Thank you," I say, reaching for the mug.
"You're welcome." He sits on the edge of the bed, watching me with that quiet intensity that used to make me nervous and now just makes me want to climb back into his lap.
I take a sip. Perfect temperature. Perfect amount of cream.
"How are you this functional?" I ask. "We only slept like four hours."
"Practice," he says. Then, softer: "And motivation."
My face heats. Not a blush—a full-system flush that starts at my cheeks and works its way down.
"Motivation," I repeat.
"Yeah." His gaze holds mine. "Wanted to make sure you were okay."
The sincerity in his voice does weird things to my throat.
"I'm okay," I say. Then, because honesty seems to be our thing now: "I'm really okay. Like... surprisingly okay. Better than okay."
His mouth curves. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I take another sip, hiding behind the mug. "I mean, I can't walk without looking like I got into a fight with a mechanical bull, but—"
"Jane."
"—and I'm pretty sure I have a bruise on my hip from the counter—"
He leans in and kisses me.
Soft. Brief. Enough to shut me up and restart my heart simultaneously.
When he pulls back, I've forgotten what I was saying.
"Better than okay," he says, like he's confirming it for both of us.
I nod. Words are hard.
He clears his throat, and something shifts in his expression. More careful. More measured.
"We should probably talk about what this is.”
My stomach drops. Here it comes. The reality check. The boundaries conversation. The reminder that this is temporary, transactional, ending in four days.
"Okay," I manage.
"Last night was—" He pauses, choosing his words. "Last night was incredible. But we still have a job to do. You need proof on Blake. I need to keep my family off my back. And this—" he gestures between us, "—complicates that if we're not clear about what it is."
Right. Of course. Professional boundaries. This is just physical attraction. Temporary arrangement. No feelings allowed.
I paste on a smile. "Totally. I get it. We're both adults. This doesn't have to be weird."
"It's not weird," he says. "But I don't—"
“I don’t,” I cut him off, maybe too quickly. “Think anything of it. I mean, I’m thinking clearly. Very clearly. Crystal clear, actually. We were relaxed, half-naked, everything already wound tight from the massage. Then things got heated. We made a choice. That’s it. No big deal.”
I see the frown on his face as he studies mine for a long moment. "No big deal…"
"Exactly. Why don’t we just focus on our deal. Fake dating for your family. Getting proof on Blake for me. And if we happen to... enjoy each other's company in the meantime..." I shrug, aiming for casual. "That's just a bonus."
"A bonus," he repeats slowly.
"A very nice bonus," I clarify. "But not the main thing. The main thing is the deal. Fifty thousand dollars. Freedom from matchmaking. Mission accomplished, everyone wins, we part ways as friends."
The word "friends" tastes wrong in my mouth, but I force it out anyway.
West nods once. “Friends,” he agrees.
"With benefits," I add, then immediately regret it. "I mean—not that we have to—I'm not assuming—"
"Jane." He catches my hand. "Breathe."
I breathe.
“I like you.” His thumb stills against my hand. "A lot. And last night meant something to me.”
Then his voice drops, eyes flicking to the window, the bright sweep of the ocean beyond it. “But you’re right. We need to stay focused. This ends when the wedding does. You head back to Boston.”
“It’ll be a clean break. No complications.” He exhales. “That’s safer.”
The words land like a door slamming shut.
But he’s right. Four days. That's all we have left.
And then what? He goes back to New York, to his penthouse and whatever he needs to do. I don’t even know what.
I go back to Boston, to my office above a laundromat that smells like dryer sheets.
We'll be strangers again.
Except we won't.
Because strangers don't know what the other sounds like when they come.
"Clean break," I echo, forcing brightness into my voice. "No complications. Safer."
We sit there for a moment, hands linked.
I hold the smile in place, like this is all exactly under control.
His eyes search mine like he's looking for cracks in the armor. I don't let him find any.
"Sounds good," I add, even though nothing about this sounds good at all.
My phone buzzes, shattering the moment—and I’ve never been so relieved for a distraction.
Barbie: Don’t forget brunch in 30. Hearing some rumors… need to catch up.
I show West the screen.
“Speaking of complications,” I mutter.
His phone buzzes next. He glances at it, and his posture goes rigid.
“What?” I ask.
“My mother.” He shows me the screen.
Mom: Darling, I’ve arranged for you to meet Vivienne Grant at 2 p.m. Pool bar. She’s on the board of three museums and absolutely adores hockey. She’s also expressed interest in our firm. This could be perfect. Don’t be late.
Another candidate. Another woman his mother has pre-selected, vetted, and scheduled like a business meeting. And this one seems to come with career expectations.
“Our firm?” I ask carefully.
“My family’s law practice.” His voice is flat. “Prescott Law Group. My mother’s been pushing me to join.”
“And you don’t want to.”
“I haven’t decided anything. But it seems my mother and Vivienne are already aligned.” He sets his phone down with controlled precision.
“Fantastic.” His jaw tightens.
The bitterness in his voice makes my chest ache.
“Want me to handle this one?” I offer.
He looks at me closely like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” I set down my mug. “But I’m your girlfriend buffer. And honestly after last night?” I lean in. “I’m feeling territorial about your emotional bandwidth.”
His eyes darken. Just a shade. Just enough.
"Territorial," he repeats.
“Very.”
“What did you have in mind?”
I grin. “Do you trust me?”
“That’s a terrifying question.”
“Do you?”
He hesitates. Then: “Yes.”
“Good.” I stand, pulling the sheet around me like a toga. “But first—brunch. We need to make an appearance with the bridesmaids. Sell this whole dating thing properly.”
“Sell it how?”
“By telling them the truth.” I pause. “Well. A version of the truth. We’re dating. We’re keeping it low-key because of the wedding drama. But we’re together.”
West raises an eyebrow. “More lies.”
“Strategic truth,” I correct. “We are spending time together. We are… attracted to each other. We’re just… not mentioning the expiration date or the transactional nature of the arrangement.”
“You’re really good at this.”
“At what? Lying?”
“At justifying it,” he says, and there’s no judgment in his voice. Just observation.
The words land heavier than they should.
Because he’s right. I am good at justifying it—good at spinning the narrative so I’m the hero, not the deceiver. Good at telling myself that lies for the right reasons don’t count.
But they do count. To Natalie. To the bridesmaids who hired me. To West, eventually.
I push the thought away. Deal with guilt later. Survive brunch first.
“Come on,” I say, heading for the bathroom. “Help me look like a woman who’s definitely not walking funny.”
His laugh follows me across the room, warm and genuine, and I let it chase away the uncomfortable truth.
For now.
Brunch is on the main terrace—white linens, tropical flowers, and champagne that keeps coming.
I’m wearing a sundress that Barbie deemed acceptable but needs more cleavage tomorrow, and I’m walking like a normal human being.
Mostly.
West keeps sending me these slow, knowing looks every time I adjust in my chair.
“Stop it,” I mutter.
“Stop what?”
“That,” I say. “Looking at me like you’re mentally replaying last night.”
He doesn’t deny it. “I am.”
“West.”
He smirks into his coffee.
Across the table, Sloane is watching us with open interest. Merritt keeps glancing between us like she’s charting data points.
Katelyn just grins. “You two are being obvious.”
“We’re not doing anything,” I say, and before I can argue further, Barbie sets down her mimosa with the decisive clink of someone about to conduct an interrogation.
“So,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Are you two actually dating, or is this some kind of elaborate smoke screen?”
My heart skips. West’s hand finds mine under the table. Steady. Grounding.
Barbie is sharp—and whatever answer we give here is going to travel. Preferably back to West’s family.
“We’re dating,” he says simply.
The table goes silent.