Like the ceremony, everything was perfect. Not that I could enjoy it. It was especially hard because I had to pretend two different things—to Ford, that I only had friendly feelings for him; to everyone else, that I was a blissful bride. It didn’t matter how many dances I danced, how many bites of lobster dipped in melted butter that I let Ford feed me, how beautiful our exotic orchid-covered Belgian chocolate cake was. I was purely going through the motions. The joy of the day couldn’t touch me.
All I wanted was for the day to be over, and I felt unbearably guilty about it. Tori and Brooklyn had put so much love into planning every little thing down to the last detail, and not only could I not enjoy it, I was actively wishing for it to end.
Finally, after what felt like ages, the reception started winding down. I was utterly exhausted from pretending. My face hurt from all the forced smiling. I just wanted to escape.
Unfortunately we were leaving for St. Barts in a couple of hours. Off on a honeymoon that I’d legitimately been looking forward to a couple of days ago. Before Ford’s parents had sprung their deal on me, I’d been hoping the time away from our real lives—away from the stresses of Danica Rose’s debt to the Bratva and Ford’s family obligations—might give my new faux husband a chance to realize that our fake marriage could potentially be something more.
Now, it just seemed like another fresh form of torture. The two of us, alone on a tropical island, sharing a luxurious suite at a romantic resort? How would I be able to survive it?
Hand in hand, Ford and I went up to our room to finish getting ready for the trip. His family’s private jet had been chartered to fly us from the Vineyard to the more accessible airport on the island of St. Martin, and from there we’d take a forty-minute ferry ride over to St. Barts. I’d read that the water could be choppy, so I was praying for smooth sailing.
As I packed up my suitcase, I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was interested in finishing what he started on the dais, in front of our guests. But I couldn’t allow that to happen. There could be no sex tonight. I had to be strong.
Luggage zipped and ready to go, I stretched and yawned as dramatically as possible.
“I’m beat,” I told Ford drowsily. “I need to take a nap before we leave. The car’s picking us up in what, five hours?”
Then, before he could respond, I went into the bathroom to take a quick shower, locking the door behind me. It was cowardly, I knew that…but I also knew that if Ford kissed me like he had earlier, I wouldn’t be able to say no. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t want him. It was that I wanted himtoomuch.
And after an entire day of pretending, I knew that if he took me in his arms, I wouldn’t be able to keep it up.
Emzee
Chapter 2
At just over nine and a half square miles, St. Barts was definitely the tiniest tropical island I’d ever visited. I also suspected it might turn out to be the ritziest, considering that the French West Indies territory was referred to as the Hamptons of the Caribbean. But the minute I laid eyes on the picturesque, red-roofed capital city of Gustavia from the ferry, I was enchanted.
“Wow,” I murmured, not realizing I’d spoken out loud until Ford looked over.
It was the first time he’d torn his gaze from his phone since we’d gotten on the boat almost an hour ago. “You like?” he asked, gesturing at the curved expanse of beach.
“Ilove,” I answered.
Falling for St. Barts was easy. The teal blue water, the quaint buildings huddled along the palm tree dotted shore, the lush hills, dense with greenery, the white sand—the whole place looked like paradise.
Sure, my family had gone to a fancy resort in the Bahamas for Luka’s birthday last year, and of course I’d been to the beaches of Florida and to Cancun for Spring Break…but this was something else. It wasn’t overrun with tourists or neon signs or souvenir shops, and seemed like more of a low-key hideaway than a party town. I felt like I had truly left the stress of my life behind and arrived someplace utterly charming and magical. Even Ford seemed to be affected by the magic; when I squeezed his hand, he squeezed right back.
When we stepped off the ferry, a uniformed man from our hotel was waiting for us with a wheeled luggage trolley and a grin.
“Mr. and Mrs. Malone?” he asked, holding up a sign with our names on it. “Welcome to St. Barts. I’m Phillipe, your dedicated concierge, courtesy of Eden Rock. I’ll be taking care of all your needs during your stay—twenty-four/seven. Please allow me to chauffeur you to your accommodations.”
We were staying in a private villa at a luxurious boutique resort, and Eden Rock more than lived up to its name. The hotel was practically on its own island, most of it jutting out over the crystal clear water, with a mossy-looking garden of coral just below the cliffs.
The modern-style villa Phillipe brought us to was stunning. High ceilings, light-filled rooms, teak wood and crisp white fabric everywhere, and panoramic windows providing an unobstructed view of St. Jean beach and its azure waters. The windows gave the impression that our villa was floating over the ocean, and someone had thoughtfully placed fresh flowers throughout the house. Outside, the property had a deck with an infinity pool, a fire pit, a bar, woven hammocks and umbrella-shaded loungers, and our own personal palm trees. My God.
It was gorgeous, and so chic that I immediately felt self-conscious about my worn black leggings and rumpled appearance after the four-hour flight and slightly nauseating ferry ride.
“I set up your private cabana on the beach this morning,” Phillipe informed us, “so please let me know if you’d like an escort there or anywhere else. You also have a dedicated chef on call, your own butler, and, of course, the entire Eden Rock Guestcare team at your service.”
“This is incredible,” I breathed. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome, Mrs. Malone. And congratulations to both of you on your recent nuptials. We’re happy to do everything possible to ensure your honeymoon with us exceeds your expectations in every regard.”
Ford thanked him again, discreetly pressing a folded bill into the man’s palm before sending him away. Then he turned to me.
“How are you feeling? Up for an adventure?”
Even though I was dog tired after what had seemed like an endless day of pretend-wedding followed by hours of travel, I wanted to explore. It was still daytime, and I didn’t want to waste a single moment of our time on the island.
