Do not apologize in a way that makes it worse.
Why is he still stupidly attractive when drenched?
NAPKINS! DEPLOY NAPKINS!
I lunge for the stack at the edge of his tray, practically vaulting the armrest. “Oh my God,I just baptized your crotch! I’m so sorry. Here, let me?—”
Our hands collide mid-reach. His fingers close around my wrist for one electric heartbeat, and heat shoots straight down my spine. I pull back as if I’ve touched a live wire, but as I do, our heads collide with a solidthunk.
“Ow—fuck!” I hiss, clutching my forehead.
He recoils just as fast, one massive palm rubbing the reddening spot on his own head. “Personal space,” he growls, low enough that only I can hear. “Which I’m assuming you’ve never heard of?”
“Personal space is a luxury for people who don’t accidentally commit beverage assault,” I fire back, cheeks burning. My forehead throbs in time with my pulse. “Also, in my defense, turbulence is basically the sky flipping us off. Take it up with physics.”
His gaze drops to the dark stain spreading across his lap, then to my hand already blotting at his crotch.
I didn’t even realize I’d started doing that.
A slow breath escapes through his nose, like he’s counting to ten, before he snatches the napkin from my hand and starts blotting himself. “You’re a walking liability.”
“And you’re a very dignified Wet-Pants-Wonder,” I snap, heart hammering. “It’s giving action-hero-after-the-car-chase-through-the-river.”
His eyes close briefly, then lock onto mine. “I genuinely hope this is the firstandlast time our paths cross.”
I flop back into my seat, my pulse still racing from the drop, the touch, and the way those gray eyes are currently trying to laser me into another dimension. “Are you… flirting with me, Mr. Wet-Pants-Wonder?”
The scoff that rips out of him is loud enough to turn heads. “Absolutely fucking not.”
Sweet baby Jesus. He’s grumpy, gorgeous, and infuriatingly composed while sitting in a puddle I caused. I have to tell my brain not to flirt. Because why does every awkward situation in my life trigger an immediate flirt response?
Flipping my hair back with exaggerated nonchalance, I hit him with my sweetest, could-get-away-with-murder smile. “Trust me, the sentiment is mutual. If I see you on that island—which I hope Ineverdo—I’ll pretend you’re a mirage. A very damp, very annoying mirage.”
He leans in just enough for me to catch a whiff of his cedarwood cologne. “And I’ll be staying fifty feet upwind of whatever hurricane you’re about to become.”
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see my own brain, then slam on my headphones and crank the volume until the bass bleeds. For the rest of the flight, I mouth lyrics directly at him every time the plane jostles, just to watch that perfect jaw clench.
Petty?Yes.
Satisfying?Extremely.
Hours later,when we finally touch down, I head straight for baggage claim. My suitcase comes out first—a miracle, since I’m usually the last one standing, huffing in annoyance as it circles toward me at a snail’s pace.
I’m dragging it toward the exit when I spot Milo still waiting at the carousel. I can’t resist tossing him a mocking wave before power walking away, grinning like an idiot.
I’m barely through the doors when my feet come to an abrupt stop.
Before me stands a very cheerful man in a white polo with the resort’s logo stitched on the left side, holding up a sign in big, bold letters:Sienna Harlow & Milo Reyes.
My stomach executes a perfect triple backflip and lands directly in my sandals. Milo appears beside me seconds later. As he reads the sign, he stumbles over his feet, and then those piercing gray eyes are on me.
“You havegotto be kidding me,” we say in perfect, horrified unison.
“Ms. Harlow! Mr. Reyes!” the driver beams. “I’m Terrance. Welcome to paradise! I’m here to take you both to the resort.”
“Both of us?” I repeat weakly, like maybe if I say it out loud, the universe will correct its typo.
“You’re both here for the Cole wedding, correct?” Terrance glances between us.
