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He stumbles and catches himself. “What?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not sexy. I picture more of a Ken doll, Barbie doll situation, with you two rubbing your smooth parts against each other. Or two robots fucking, in some kind of simulation set up for scientists to observe. I’m not entirely clear on why scientists would need to observe robots fucking…still working that part out.”

“Please stop talking,” he begs, but I see that twitch to his lips.

I can’t imagine why, but that smile he’s repressing is the first thing about this trip that’s really made me happy I came.

* * *

By the time we approach the hotel, daylight is starting to break and I’m utterly destroyed. He thought he was running slow on my behalf and I was too proud to admit we were running at least a minute per mile faster than I have ever run.

We reach the gardens and he turns toward the pool. “I’m heading this way. I like watching the light come up over Diamond Head.”

“Can’t you watch it from your balcony?”

Something passes over his face, a hint of trouble he doesn’t want to share. “Sloane’s a light sleeper.”

He isn’t exactly inviting me along, but I follow him to the lounge chairs facing Diamond Head and the bay anyway. He glances at me, undoubtedly irritated I’m crashing his sunrise party, and that irritation only encourages me.

The light is just creeping out from behind the volcano as we take our seats, but I’m already starting to shiver in the early morning air. My soaking wet sports bra is now pressed to my skin, growing icier by the moment. If there were no witnesses, I’d just remove it. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself. He glances over and frowns.

“Why do you never bring sufficient clothing?” he asks. “You were cold the other night too.”

My eyes roll. I should have known that even the viewing of a sunrise would involve a little criticism. “Was I supposed to run carrying a sweater and change of clothes?”

He unfolds himself from the chair, lean and graceful for his size. I’m not sure how he’s in such good shape, living where he does. I doubt there’s a SoulCycle. “You could have left a sweatshirt at the front desk,” he gripes. “Hang on.”

Once he’s gone, I slide my wet bra off underneath my shirt—a complicated maneuver, and one for which I feel not enough credit is given—but he returns just as I’m pulling it through the top of my tank.

His gaze flickers below my neck before it comes back up.

“I was cold,” I argue.

His gaze drops to my chest and jerks away nearly as fast. “Yes. I noticed.”

“Maybe you should look at my breasts a little less.”

He blows out a breath, staring at Diamond Head. “Asking a man not to look at your breasts is like asking him not to watch volcanoes explode. The human race would die off if we were capable of ignoring that kind of thing.”

The feminist in me wants to tell him how wrong that statement is, but I feel a tiny fist in my core clench with the kind of desire I’d almost forgotten existed. I should be uncomfortable with the idea of Josh looking at my chest, but strangely, it’s the opposite. I could create a lot of fantasies about this weird exchange if I were going to allow myself to do it. Part of it is his size—I picture feeling overwhelmed by him in bed, overcome. And part of it is just him, and that thing boiling inside him, just below the surface. I’d like to see what happens when the lid is removed at last.

A waitress approaches with a tray and a pile of towels. She hands Josh the towels, which he then hands to me. While I cover myself up, head to toe, like a mummy, she sets two cappuccinos on the table between us. I thank her and wrap my hands around one, savoring the warmth while he signs the check.

I’m now perfectly happy and toasty and the sun is finally breaking through the clouds to the east. “This is perfect,” I say with a sigh. “Even the stupid sunrise part.”

“So glad the pop princess is finally impressed. I was scared I’d disappoint you.”

I grin at him. “Are you sure it’s not too much happiness? Too much American excess? Shouldn’t you suffer a little more to better serve all your starving Somalians?”

He sighs wearily. “You really hold a grudge, don’t you?”

I laugh unhappily. He doesn’t know the half of it.

* * *

The Baileys are going golfing today, and then on to Pearl Harbor. The only way they could make this sound less appealing is if they were throwing a trip to church or a seminar on microfinance in the middle, so I politely bow out to get a hot stone massage and lie out by the pool.

I’ve just reclined in a lounge chair when my phone rings and I see Six’s name, calling by video. He must finally be out of jail.