I’m halfway up the jetty when I see West. It’s not like he’s hard to miss.
He’s like a water fountain in the middle of the desert.
My stomach does this little flip-floppy thing at the sight of him standing there, leaning up against the hut, just slightly away from the main group of people. His face is turned down, reading something on his phone. His hair is tied back in one of those man buns, and he has a pair of aviator sunglasses covering his eyes. I’ve never dated a guy with long hair before.
And you don’t plan on dating this one either, Dillon.
He’s wearing white flip-flops, red board shorts—the color looks great against his strong, tanned legs—and a white tank with a sports logo over the left pec. Those gloriously muscular pecs and splendiferous arms are on show. Can you tell I went through a phase of reading historical romances? Anyhoo, I can see the flex of muscles in his forearm as he types something on his phone.
And I’m clearly looking at him way too hard if I can see that from here.
I force my eyes away, face forward, and keep walking.
My heart beats faster as I approach everyone. I’m telling myself that it’s the nerves of coming here alone, in front of all of these couples, but it’s not. It’s because West is here.
Should I go up and say hello? Or pretend that I haven’t seen him?
As I’m bouncing back and forth in my head over what to do, my eyes unwittingly go in his direction again, and at that precise moment, he lifts his head and looks right at me. I can’t see his eyes because of those damn sunglasses, but I can feel his eyes on me. Then, his lips lift at one side into a smile. A sexy smile.
And there’s that damn flippy-floppy thing going off in my stomach again.
My feet travel in his direction without guidance. Honestly, I don’t think I could have stopped myself from going over if I tried. He just has this pull to him. Like the display picture that stands outside of the coffee shop I pass every morning on my way to work—of the caramel latte, topped with a caramel crumb, and a double chocolate muffin, topped with salted caramel—purely left there to lure unsuspecting victims inside. And even though I would give myself a big pep talk the whole way there—that my thighs and butt did not need the fresh calories or fat cells to provide me with new additions to my ever-growing canvas of cellulite—I would still stop at the coffee shop, open the door, go inside, and buy them.
I’m a weak-willed woman. What can I say?
And I’m definitely not the only one who feels the magnetic pull of West. I can see the furtive glances in his direction from the coupled-up women here. Honestly, I don’t blame them. If I’d been here with the prick, I’d have been looking at West too. I’m not a cheater—never have been, never will be—even though I have half the DNA of a cheater. But West is a hard man not to look at, and a little window shopping has never harmed anyone. It’s when people start making purchases on their maxed-out credit cards that we have a problem.
But oddly, in this moment, with his eyes on me, none of that actually matters, and for the first time since I arrived on this island, I’m really happy that I am alone.
West pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead, showing me those gorgeous gray eyes of his.
“Hey,” I say. God, I’m so cool and sophisticated.
His lips quirk into a full smile. “Well, hey there, Double D.”
I sigh. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
“Which conversation?”
“The one where I told you not to call me that and you agreed.”
“Did we?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. I must have forgotten that. Speaking of forgetting things … I am surprised to see you here.”
It’s my turn to say, “Huh?”
“Well, I figured you’d be nursing your hangover today after your drinking binge last night. You know, the night you don’t remember.”
“Oh, well, I would have been, but I’d already booked this trip. Although I didn’t remember that until an hour ago, when Najam gave me my itinerary.”
“Were you also drunk when you booked it?”
I give him a humored look, and he chuckles. “Surprisingly, no.”
“You know though … you didn’t actually have to come.”
I give him a confused look. “But it was already paid for.”
“Yeah, but if you hadn’t been given your itinerary in time, you would have missed it anyway.”
“But then I would have been pissed off that I’d paid money for something that I didn’t use and/or experience.”
“And/or?” His lips spread into a grin.
“Oh, I don’t know, dude. I’m hungover, remember?”
Our eyes meet and connect. I feel a quick rising of dancing heat in my belly. Unsolicited thoughts about him and me flash through my mind.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m fresh off heartbreak of the worst kind, and here I am, mooning—okay, perving—over him. It’s just not like me. I’m not like this in normal life.
Sure, I had crushes when I was a teenager. I’ve fawned over gorgeous celebrities. I thought Tim was attractive when I first met him. But I didn’t get an instant hit of lust with Tim like I seem to have with West. With Tim, it was more like … I was taken by how much he seemed taken with me. I got swept up in his feelings. I just didn’t know at the time that Tim was well known for getting swept up by women. The workers at his family company had a nickname for him—Fast Love. He’d been engaged three times before me, and I was number four, which I found out after the affair with my mother came to light. Clearly, Tim’s “fast love” with me had died out the second his interest transferred to my mother.
To be fair, they’re perfect for each other. Both inconsistent, lying, cheating, will shit on anyone—even their own children—scumbags.
But I’m not thinking about either of them today.
I’m thinking about West and these sexual feelings between us… well, they’re all my own. He’s done nothing to ignite them. Except for look so frigging gorgeous, of course. Oh, and the flirt he was giving me this morning … which I’m not actually sure was him flirting with me or just me interpreting it that way. God, I’m so off-balance at the moment; I can’t even tell if a guy is flirting with me or not. I didn’t used to be this bad with men. I’m hoping it’s only a temporary glitch.
And I’m not normally an instant-lust gal.
Maybe it’s because I’m on this island, where every fucker is in love, and it’s addling my brain. Or it could be his American accent that has bedazzled my hormones. And his face. And his super-hard, insanely fit body. And—
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Stop thinking, Dillon. It’s bad for your health, and it’s all inconsequential bullshit.
You fancy the guy. End of story.
Admitting it doesn’t mean I have to do anything about it.
Wow. I feel so much better now.
Okay. Cool.
I have the hots for West, and it’s okay because nothing is going to happen.
And I’m spending way too much time in my head and not in the real world. Meaning talk to the guy and stop staring at him like a numpty.
“So—” I start.