Page 73 of Hate To Be Mine

“That’s not what I heard.”

I’m not even offended. She’s teasing. My Little Bee does not joke around very often. My reputation is well-deserved. I have slept around a lot. I’m a notorious playboy.

But that was the old me. That was before Bernadette. That was how my life would be divided now. Before her and after her.

And that was something we would talk about later. For now, I was happy to live in the moment.

26

BERNADETTE

The afternoon had been perfect. Too perfect. It felt like we were a thing. I knew we weren’t, but he was being so attentive. So boyfriend-like.

It was hard not to get caught up in the moment. But I had to remind myself my time in paradise was halfway over. When we went home, the pseudo-romance would be over. And I would be left with amazing memories and a slightly cracked heart. I wasn’t sure it would be broken, but it would definitely have a couple of fractures.

“Want a coconut water?” Sebastian asked. “I’m guessing it’s the real deal and nothing like what we’d get back home.”

“I’d love one.”

As expected, it was amazing. The whole afternoon had been lovely and I didn’t want it to end. Neither of us spoke much on the way back to the resort, but the silence felt full rather than empty. It was like we had some mutual understanding of the situation.

We didn’t have to define it. We could just allow it to be what it was. That was far easier than trying to put a label on anything. It saved a lot of questions and the hurt feelings that would come if and when things ended.

When we reached the path that would split—one direction toward my bungalow, another toward his—we both stopped.

“Thanks for hanging out with me today,” I said.

“Thanks for letting me tag along.”

Neither of us moved.

“Little Bee.” His voice was husky with just enough gravel to make my stomach flip over.

I felt so ridiculous because every time he called me that I practically climaxed. I looked into his eyes. I saw what I hoped was desire. Want. Or maybe that was just me projecting. “Yes?”

Oh God. I sounded like a frog. Maybe a toad. There was a giant lump in my throat that made speech very difficult.

“Come back to my place.” It wasn’t really a question. More like a request. An admission that whatever we’d been pretending about this being professional or temporary or just physical was falling apart.

I should have said no. Should have gone back to my bungalow, called my father with an update, reviewed tomorrow’s safety protocols and be the good girl I always was.

Instead, I said, “Okay.”

His face lit up. He grabbed my hand and we walked to his bungalow.

Not going to lie, I wanted to run. I craved the man like a person on a no-sugar diet wanted chocolate cake. I wanted his lips on mine. His body against mine.

Inside, he closed the door and we stood there for a moment, looking at each other. The sexual tension from the pool, from sleeping in his bed, from every stolen glance and hidden touch over the past few days, hung thick in the air between us.

My heart kicked against my ribs so hard I was certain he could see it through my shirt. My breath came in short gasps. He wasn’t faring much better. I could see his chest moving up and down.

I didn’t know if I should move first or wait to see if he wanted to talk. And then I didn’t have to wonder much longer.

He moved first, closing the distance between us in two strides. His hands cupped my face and then his mouth was on mine. It was hungry and demanding, like he’d been starving for me.

I kissed him back with everything I had. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more contact, more heat, more everything.

“Bernadette,” he breathed against my lips. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”