She flinched—a tiny, almost imperceptible movement that felt like a knife to my chest. She didn't think I was going to hurt her, but she looked like she was bracing for the rejection she was sure was coming.
“No,” she breathed, shaking her head. “You’re on your own side. You always have been.”
She didn't wait for a rebuttal. She ripped the curtain back and limped out into the night, disappearing into the shadows of the resort before I could even get her name out of my throat.
I stood in the empty cabana, the scent of her still clinging to my skin, and kicked the wicker table until it shattered. I’d had her. I’d had her right there, and once again, the ten years of wreckage between us had risen up like a wall I couldn't climb.
I walked back to my room alone, the silence of the hallway feeling like a goddamn sentence.
thirty-three
VANESSA
Clubs had never beenmy scene. Even when I was younger, I hated the way they felt—loud, crowded, and always transactional. The little hideaway cove just off the resort felt more expensive than most, but the vibe was the same. Morgan was immediately swamped with guests, so I drifted to the bar alone.
I ordered a coconut mocktail and sipped it slowly. The meds still made me groggy, and after the emotional wrecking ball ofthe pool cabana last night, I needed to keep my wits about me. I was wearing a black minidress Morgan had picked out; it was shorter than I liked, but at this point, I was just doing what I was told. Thankfully, she’d conceded on one thing and let me keep my footwear of choice: my beat-up Converse.
I was halfway through my drink when I felt a presence at my side. I kept my eyes on my nail beds, following the first rule of clubbing: do not engage. Then I heard him order another mocktail for me.
“Hey,” he said.
I looked up, cursed by my parents' insistence on being polite. He introduced himself as Diesel. Strike one. He told me I had a beautiful name. Barf. Then he asked me to dance to a track designed for nothing but grinding. Strike two.
“I don't dance,” I said, irritation bleeding through.
Before Diesel could argue, I felt a shift in the air—that familiar, electric prickle on the back of my neck. The man who had avoided me since our explosion at the cabana last night, and the one who’d sent a blonde to my door with his discarded jacket the night before that just to twist the knife, was suddenly there. He stepped up directly behind me, his arms wrapping around my neck, his palms hovering dangerously close to the swell of my breasts.
He leaned down, his breath a warm caress against my skin. “If you’re trying to give me a heart attack, Ness, it’s working.”
My blood boiled, but I was too tired to fight the heat. I let him spin me off the stool and lead me to the dance floor as Diesel vanished into the shadows, forgotten. Elliott pulled me flush against him, his hands spreading across the small of my back, hanging low and hovering suggestively over my backside.
“Put your arms around me, Ness.”
“Back to Ness?” I muttered, but my body betrayed me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and rested my face on hisshoulder. My fingers brushed the collar of his shirt, and I felt the slight, raised heat of the skin there. I pulled back just an inch, my eyes landing on the small, dark mark on the side of his neck—the hickey I had left in the cabana before everything went up in flames.
Gently, I grazed it with the tip of my finger. I felt him shudder beneath my touch.
“What? No fighting? No barbed remarks?” he whispered.
I sighed, defeated. “I hate it when we fight,” I whispered into his shoulder.
It was the truth. I had gone from not needing him at all to needing him every single day. Even a day of silence with him was better than a day without him.
He stopped dancing abruptly. His eyes searched mine for a heartbeat before he grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the nearest door—a supply closet.
I leaned against the shelving as Elliott paced the tiny space like a caged predator. “You just can’t say stuff like that, Ness.”
“It’s true. I don’t want to fight anymore. I want us to be friends again.”
He huffed a laugh that sounded more like a growl, rubbing his eyes. Then he was on me. He crowded into my space, his face inches from mine.
“Tell me, Vanessa, when have we ever beenjust friends? I’d really like to fucking know. Was it before the first time I kissed you? Or after?”
My throat went dry as he lifted me, sitting me on a sturdy shelf. His palms landed on my thighs, his fingers bunching the fabric of my dress until it rode dangerously high.
“Friends don’t fight the way we fight,” he rasped. “Friends don’t go to sleep thinking about what they’d like to do to each other. Positions they’d like to fuck them in. How they taste.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. He took my hand and pressed it over his pounding chest. “Friends don’t make each other feel like this. We’ve never beenjustfriends.”
