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I’m peeling the label off another bottle when Briar and Burke return to the table, flushed and smiling, their fingers intertwined, and their hair windswept. The more this night goes on, the more touchy-feely these two get. At first, they would hardly look at each other. If a person didn’t know better, they’d think the two of them were hardly more than strangers at dinner.
Now there’re moonbeams in their eyes.
It’s like I’m watching them fall in love in real time.
“How was the water?” I ask but only to break the dead weight of silence that has settled between the three of us.
“Freezing,” Briar says, turning to Burke. How she can stand here and pretend we’re nothing more than strangers kills me. Kills me. “Thought it’d be warmer.”
Burke takes her hand in his. “Wait until the sun is out tomorrow. Midafternoon, you’ll be in heaven.”
“Beach day tomorrow?” she asks.
I flinch on the inside, remembering how fond she was of beaches last summer, how she said they were her “favorite thing in the whole world.”
He chuckles. “Every day’s a beach day up here.”
I roll my eyes, but neither of them notices.
They’re too busy making googly eyes at each other.
Burke takes her hand, leaning in to whisper something in her ear that makes her blush.
If only she knew the truth: he doesn’t love her.
He’s only after his portion of the Rothwell inheritance—which requires him to be married or engaged to be married. I bet she hasn’t got a clue that she’s nothing more than a pawn in Burke’s game. The second my father dies—which will be sooner rather than later according to his recent diagnosis—Burke will leave Briar high and dry.
But if she was willing to throw her antimarriage convictions—and her promise to me—out the window all because Mr. Tall, Dark, and Wealthy charmed his way into her life, then that’s on her.
I don’t wish heartbreak on anyone, but some people are just asking for it.
I toss back the last of my Stella and head upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER FIVE
BRIAR
One Year Ago
Kicking off my heels, I point behind me. “I think the hotel’s back that way a couple of miles.”
There are worse things in this world than being stranded in a foreign country with a teal-eyed stranger.
“You’re going to walk barefoot?” he asks.
“Unless you want to trade me shoes?”
He doesn’t offer. I don’t push it. Not that I would.
“Give those to me.” He motions to my heels.
“I was kidding . . .”
“I know.” With my heels in his hands, he trots toward a group of women half a block down. I hadn’t noticed them until now. He says something, though I can’t make out the conversation from here.
After a few seconds, he reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. When he returns, my high heels are gone, and he’s carrying a pair of black flip-flops in their place. But not just any kind—the super soft ones with the yoga-mat soles.
“Did you really just trade my stilettos for flip-flops?” I ask.
“Are you mad?” He angles a single brow.
“Not at all. I’m impressed.” I take the rubber sandals and slide my aching, dirty dance floor feet into them. The second we get back to the resort, I’m taking a shower and scrubbing the hell out of them, but for now, I’m beyond grateful for Dorian’s swift thinking. “How much did these bad boys run you?”
“A hundred.”
My jaw falls. “You realize these are thirty bucks back in the States, right?”
“I was paying for her kindness. And for your convenience.” He slides his hands into his pockets and treks in the direction of the resort. I follow, jogging a few steps to catch up.
“Thank you,” I say. I hope I didn’t come off as ungrateful, as I’m quite the opposite. I’m just . . . in awe. Half an hour ago, I never would’ve thought the jerk bitching about being in some tropical paradise would ask me to dance and then shell out a crisp Benjamin so I could walk home in comfort.
“No problem.”
“And thanks for the dance,” I add. “How’s your eye?”
“I can still see out of it, so . . .”
“They probably sell eye drops at the resort gift shop.” They sell everything at those places: Dramamine, Claritin, Tylenol, swimsuits, beach towels, key chains, candy bars, mini bottles of wine . . .
“I’ll be fine.”
We’re stopped at an intersection, waiting to cross, when I steal a glimpse of him in my periphery, only now it feels like I’m seeing him in a completely different light. In silence, I curse my glittery dress for ruining what this night could have been.
Who knows what would’ve happened next? Would we have danced again? Would he have shed another layer of his intricate facade? As we walk home in silence, I conjure up various scenarios—one involving more drinking and making fun of bad music, another involving him pulling out his phone and putting Connor Dowd on to talk to me. There’s even one where his hands are tangled in my hair and his lips are pressed hard against mine.
