Chapter 11 #2
The illusion doesn’t last long.
"What the…" I stop dead.
West's expression hardens, all traces of the easy warmth from moments ago vanishing.
Sitting squarely in the center of the teak outdoor table, dwarfing the fruit bowl, is an enormous basket.
It isn't tasteful. It's a grotesque explosion of exotic orchids, lurid birds-of-paradise, and violently pink anthuriums, all wrapped in ostentatious gold cellophane and tied with a ribbon thick enough to moor a yacht.
West breathes out. "Stay here."
"It's flowers, not a bomb—"
But he's already moving—pure athletic instinct—putting his body between me and the basket like it might actually explode. All 230 pounds of muscle and protective male.
It's absurd.
It's also doing things to my nervous system that are deeply unhelpful.
He plucks the card from its little holder, reads it, and his expression does something complicated.
"It's from Blake."
He hands me the card. The handwriting is an aggressive, slanting scrawl:
West ) Enjoy the flowers. Try not to drown in the pollen.
Blake
P.S. Jane —still think you're aiming too low. The offer stands. Upgrade anytime.
Nausea rolls through me, hot and sour. The casual dismissal. The threat veiled as a joke. The sheer, unadulterated sliminess of it. My fingers tighten on the thick cardstock, crumpling the edge.
"Water under the bridge?" I whisper, the words tasting like ash. "He accosted me. He grabbed me. He insulted you. And he thinks… flowers?"
West plucks the crumpled card from my hand, his touch gentle despite the fury simmering in his eyes. Then he crushes it into a tight ball and tosses it with lethal accuracy into a nearby ceramic planter.
"He thinks he's untouchable.” His voice drops to something cold and lethal.
“Thinks money and Daddy's name erase everything." He stares at the gaudy basket like it's a physical manifestation of Blake's ego.
"Narcissist's apology. Classic. I'm sorry you made me behave badly, but here's a shiny thing to distract you."
He picks up the entire basket, walks to the edge of the patio overlooking a dense patch of tropical foliage, and unceremoniously dumps the whole thing—flowers, cellophane, ribbon and all—over the railing. It lands with a soft thump and a rustle of leaves.
“There,” he says. “Apology accepted. By the jungle.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me, cutting through the disgust. “Direct. Effective. Environmentally questionable.”
He turns back to me, all traces of amusement gone.
“If he comes near you again,” he says quietly, “I’m not stopping at his solar plexus.”
The intensity in his voice does something deeply inconvenient to my knees. “West—”
“I mean it, Jane.” He steps closer, tipping my chin up so I have no choice but to meet his eyes. “Fake relationship or not, you’re under my protection. Got it?”
I should argue. Point out I don’t need protecting.
Instead, I nod.
Because some primal, deeply inconvenient part of me wants to be his to protect.
His gaze sweeps over my face, lingering on my eyes. “You okay?”
I take a steadying breath. Whatever Blake left behind—disgust, anger, that sick churn in my stomach—it finally settles.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m just reminded of how little time we have left.”
I meet his gaze and continue, "It's Thursday, West. T-minus two days.
We need proof. Ironclad, Barbie-approved, Natalie-will-actually-believe-it proof.
Because as we speak, two hundred guests are flying in onto the island, sealing this place into a gilded pressure cooker. We're almost out of runway."
He nods, his expression shifting into that focused, strategic mode I recognize. The hockey captain assessing the ice. "Agreed. We need a play. Fast."
He runs a hand through his hair. "Bachelor and bachelorette parties are tonight. Same venue, apparently. Some 'exclusive' club downtown. Separate rooms, King’s and Queen’s, but shared space for mingling beforehand. Chaos potential: high."
“I heard it’s really just a fancy name for a strip club, is that true?” " I ask, raising an eyebrow.
West shrugs. “Blake’s idea of sophistication. Lots of neon and questionable decisions.”
“I’ve never been to a strip club.”
His eyebrows lift. “Never?”
“Shockingly, ‘Chippendales tickets’ weren’t in the Cooper sisters’ budget.” I keep my tone light.
He studies me for a beat. “Jane—”
“It’s fine. I’m just saying this is new territory for me.” I gesture at the resort, the two-hundred-guest reception, the world where bachelor parties cost more than my rent.
“You planning on enjoying the… entertainment?”
The question is casual. His look isn’t.
Maybe a test.
I cross my arms, leaning against the patio railing. “Might catch a show. Research purposes. Gotta see what the competition offers.”
The words come out teasing. Deflecting even, because suddenly, there’s an unwelcome pang in my chest.
So why does the thought of him with another woman make me want to set something on fire?
"So, an educational experience for you." He says, that dangerous warmth back in his eyes. "I should warn you—Chippendales uses a lot of body oil."
"I've seen your abs," I counter. "I'm prepared."
"Mine don't come with a choreographed routine."
"Pity… and how about you? Planning on getting a lap dance? Maybe some… private attention?"
The words taste sour.
West's gaze sharpens. He takes a step closer, invading my personal space. The scent of chlorine and warm male skin is suddenly overwhelming.
"Jealous, Cooper?"
"Please," I scoff, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere near defensive shrew.
"We’ve a fake relationship, Prescott. Get as many lap dances as your heart desires. I'll be busy taking notes on gyrating techniques as well. For the case."
Crisis Level: 6/10. Threat: Own Stupid Mouth. Recommended Action: Shut. Up. Now.
He watches me, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, a slow, dangerous smile curves his lips.
"Good to know the boundaries are clear," he says, his voice low. "Fake hearts have needs too."
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "But just so we're crystal clear… the only person whose lap dance I'm interested in is yours."
Heat floods my face, warring with the stupid, treacherous thrill his words send through me.
Before I can formulate a coherent response—or, more likely, do something embarrassing like kiss him senseless right here, right now—he straightens.
"Come on. Let's get you to the bridesmaids' brunch. Barbie's probably drafting your eviction notice for lack of progress."
The reminder of Barbie, the job, the fifty thousand dollars, is a bucket of ice water. Grace's shiny silver stethoscope shimmers in my mind's eye.
Right. Focus.