Jules wished her sister weren’t sick. How was Abigail so cognizant of what had just happened with Rhys? Jules desperately wanted to have a conversation about him but not when he was nearby, and Abigail was launching throw pillows at them again to shoo them out the door.
When Abigail was better, they’d dish about Rhys over mai tais on the beach. Jules would make sure he didn’t sit close enough to hear his name.
“She’s doing much better.” Rhys dragged Jules from the bungalow. “Her aim has improved. That says a lot.”
His fingers locked with hers as if they’d walked hand in hand for as long as they’d known each other.
Nothing bothered him. Nothing fazed him. She couldn’t imagine just grabbing his hand, yet he kept doing it. She wondered if any paparazzi were watching them at that moment. Was that why he kept holding her hand? Ignore Sloane’s itinerary, but give her what she needed.
Rhys punched in the code to his bungalow then yanked her inside. The corners of her lips pulled up as he hauled her against the wall.
The phone rang, and he scowled. “What’s up with the interruptions?”
He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, which made her heart flutter, and answered the phone. After back-and-forth about not releasing her new bungalow location to anyone, he hung up. “A butler’s headed to Abigail’s to grab your bags.”
“That’s good. She won’t have had time to fall asleep.” Her gaze ran across his small space. “Should you pack?”
He glanced at the bed as though there were other things he wanted to do but nodded. Maybe deciding to move in together had more potential. Panic and excitement flared in her. This was really happening.
Fifteen minutes later, hand in hand, they walked into their bungalow. Theirhoneymoonbungalow.
Abigail must have had the resort remove all the themed accoutrements from their original bungalow before their arrival, because none of the honeymoon decorations had been there.
“Um…” White rose petals blanketed a path from the front door toward the bedroom. Sexy, sultry jazz played, saxophones crooning, from hidden speakers.
Rhys picked up a bottle of chilled champagne, studied it, and plunged it back into the ice. “They’re not messing around.”
“I didn’t arrange for this,” she said, mortified that he might think she was trying to seduce him. She didn’t know when she could have made a request like this, but if he thought she had anything to do with this, she’d die on the beautiful white-tiled floor. “Abs and I didn’t have anything like it in ours.”
“It’s probably the standard honeymoon package,” he said as if they hadn’t walked into a flowery explosion of over-the-top decorations.
“Nothing about this is standard.”
He followed the flower path into the bedroom and cackled. “If you’re having a hard time with flowers and champagne, don’t come in here.”
Well, now she had to.
Jules squeezed past him. A mountain of bright-purple flower petals carpeted the canopied bed and spelled l-o-v-e in the center. Bottles of what she could only guess were massage oils and lube covered a nightstand. The opposite nightstand displayed fuzzy purple handcuffs and matching silk eye masks, purple rope and feathers, and a jar of purple condoms.
Rhys picked up a bottle. “Massage oil.” He read the back, gave it a flip in the air, then offered it to her. “Eating too much of this could cause gastrointestinal distress.”
Her cheeks flamed. He was too casual, and she was apparently turning into a nun. “There has been too much talk of stomach issues on this trip.”
He put the bottle down and chose another. “This one doesn’t have any warnings.”
She wished she had it in her to make a joke about choosing that bottle, but a lightning flash of what-if-we-did froze the words in her throat. They’d walked into a sex den, and she was pining after her thirst trap of a bodyguard. What if he covered her, played with her, and made her moan and cry his name during their vacation? Then they went back to real life?
Impossible.
Yet she couldn’t shake away the deep want clenching the muscles far below her stomach. The memories of his mouth on her made her shiver. God, they were good together.
He flicked the jar of condoms. “That’s a gallon of rubbers.”
They might be good together, but this was too much. She couldn’t breathe, much less form a coherent thought. “I can’t sleep in here,” she whispered. “I can’t even look at this room.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to sleep or—” He lifted an eye mask “See.”
“Rhys. Put it down.”
