Noah
I watchBea storm off the balcony, her red dress whipping in the stormy wind like a war flag.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word disappearing into the darkness below.
I pull my phone from my pocket—a text from more than twenty-four hours ago still unread. Ezra’s name glows on the screen above the preview:
“I’ll go ahead with this marriage. Can’t wait any longer…”
I slam the phone face-down on the stone ledge, And the screen cracks—another thing I’ve broken. The old scar on my lip throbs, a phantom pain from when I took a punch meant for my brother. He still has the crooked finger from when our father caught him covering for me. Bea was right, we do share trauma.
I don’t know how long I stand there and let the ocean spray and rain hit my face, but I smell her the whole time—coconutsunscreen mixed with something uniquely her. I run my tongue over my bottom lip, imagining her taste.
Three inches. That’s all that separated us. The warmth of her breath still ghosts across my mouth.
I push away from the railing on unsteady legs and head down the stairs, not planning on returning to that torture chamber with the Wrongs. The resort’s hallways are a blur of teak and torchlight. An occasional chicken running across the pathway makes me question the quiet of the place. Those little bastards will probably start yapping with the first rays of sunshine.
My suite is at the end of the “Lovers’Wing.” Ironic considering there will be no love happening inside the walls of my room.
I detour through the lounge, my throat burning for whiskey to wash away the taste of almost having her. The bartender nods at me across the empty space, his rag making lazy circles on the polished wood.
Then I spot her. Bea. Despite her brightness, she’s hard to notice hidden in the shadow nearly behind the corner. The red fabric of her dress has inched up her thigh as she perches on the barstool, one heel hooked on the rung. My fingers twitch, remembering how close they’d been to that exact spot on her body on the balcony.
She doesn’t look up when I enter. Just stares into her glass, twirling what looks like not her first drink judging by the flush creeping up her neck. Her lipstick has worn off in the center, leaving just a crimson outline. A strand of hair falls across her face as she takes another sip, and she tries to fight it by pushing it back, but the lock keeps falling down. Eventually, she gets frustrated and gives up the battle, letting the silky blond lock cover nearly half her face.
The bartender catches my eye, tilts his head toward Bea with raised eyebrows, and smiles. He probably caught me staring at her.
Earlier, the lounge had been packed with resort staff and guests who would have made it possible for me to not fixate on her. But now, it’s just her, alone, in that goddamn red dress that’s been burning in my peripheral vision all night. I didn’t like the color red before today. And now I hate it. It represents something I can’t have.
My jaw clenches as I watch her shoulders slump over her drink. The image of her father’s sneer flashes behind my eyes, the way her mother’s fingers had tightened around her wine glass when Beatrice spoke. The same way my own hands had tightened on the balcony railing minutes ago.
I turn toward the hallway to go to my room, keys already in hand. But my gaze drifts back to her red dress, to the loose strand of hair falling across her face, and to the downward-pointing corners of her lips.
My feet pivot. One step. Two.
The barstool scrapes against the floor as I slide onto it. Amber liquid catches the dim light while she swirls it in the glass.
“What the hell do you want?” Her words slur together. She doesn’t acknowledge me with her eyes as they are fixed on her drink.
I catch the bartender’s attention with a raised finger. “Water,” I mouth, then add aloud, “And nothing else for her.”
Her head whips up, eyes blazing. “Excuse me? You’re not my keeper, caveman.”
I lean in and say in a low voice, “No. But I’m not leaving you here by yourself to be taken advantage of. I need to keep you safe. For Ezra,” I add in an emotionless voice. “You’re not bad looking, and if you’re drunk, someone might notice and pounce.”
She blinks, surprise flickering before the fury returns. “Oh god, ‘not bad looking.’ Save the flattery,” she snorts loudly. “You made it clear what you think.”
The guilt in my gut twists its sharp knife. I pulled back because of Ezra, lashed out to keep distance. But now, seeing her like this, hiding her vulnerability under anger, it’s awkward as hell.
Why care? I shouldn’t. Yet leaving her alone feels wrong.
I drag my eyes away from the loose strand of hair falling across her flushed cheek and grab the water glass, ice cubes clinking against the sides, and slide it across the polished wood. “Drink this.”
“Make me.”
“I’m not playing,” I growl, shoving the water glass across the bar closer to her. “Drink. Or I’ll pour it down your throat myself.”
She snatches the glass, avoiding any contact with my hand.
