For a while, I found myself watching Bane. In all her irritating beauty.

“It’s late. I have to work in the morning, oh my god. I don’t want to deal with these bitches,” Diya crowed.

Bane squawked, “Language!”

Diya pointed at me and clucked her tongue like she was giving me a thumbs-up.

“Okay, you’ve had enough,” Kimo said, swooping her up and throwing her over his shoulder. “Gotta put you to bed.”

“Byeeee!” she called back to us.

Bane shook her head. “Please forgive my sister. But yeah, she made some strong drinks. That’s why I only had one.” Bane held up an almost empty glass before slurping the rest.

“Should probably get some sleep, too,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“On the couch, I guess.”

Bane rolled her eyes, her shoulders slumping. “Diya will be all in my business wondering why I kicked you out.”

“You want me to sleep in your bed again?”

“Rules of the pillow fortress apply.”

“It’s more like a pillow barrier, but okay.”

“Can you manage not to get snarky with me? Or is that an impossibility for you?”

I rose to my feet and offered a hand. “Should I throw you over my shoulder, too?”

“You mean carry me like a princess, so I don’t have to walk after nearly dying out in the scorching wild today?” She stood. “It’s the least you could do.”

Bane pointedly glanced at her feet as if I should actually swoop her into my arms again.

I shrugged. “Okay.” I took a step toward her, and she backed away.

“No. Like earlier,” she commanded.

I smirked. “Sure.”

“Sunny. No,” she spat, as if she were telling me to sit, promptly followed by a squeal when I ducked down and nearly tackled her.

Okay, so this wasn’t going as smoothly as when Kimo had done it, but Bane was over my shoulder, clutching the back of my shirt so that night air whooshed up my back.

“Calm down! I almost dropped you!”

“Don’t blame me if you can’t even carry me,” she bit out, kicking the air. “Don’t smack my head against anything, Sunny!”

“I’d never hurt you, Bane.”

I carried her, wobbly because of course I’d had a few of Diya’s strong-ass smoothies, and somehow made it to the bedroom without smacking any part of Bane’s body against the doors and without dropping her.

She must’ve pushed the door closed when we walked in, because it slammed shut behind us. “Okay! Let me down!”

“Shh. Your sister needs her sleep for work,” I chided.

I meant to gently lower her to the bed but the amount of alcohol in me had me losing an iota of balance. Bane went toppling into bed, her hair everywhere, her tank top halfway up her stomach as she heaved through an onslaught of laughter.

I dropped down beside her, out of breath. “Damn, you’re heavy.”

“You’re tipsy, jackass.”

Pushing myself onto my elbow, I realized how closely I’d fallen next to Bane. She shoved hair out of her face above me while I looked eye-level at her stomach. Shit. How was she so perfect beneath all her frumpy clothes?

What did her skin taste like? Was it as smooth as it looked? What would she do if I kissed her stomach? If I licked her navel? Bit her hip? Slid lower? Licking and kissing. Would she clutch my hair? Push me down? Arch into me? Moan my name?

Fuck.

I rolled onto my side of the bed, crossing the barrier separating us, and smashed my face into my pillow. And not into Bane.

The next day, Bane and I walked the back route to the usual meeting point on a warm Friday morning. This was a longer way, but scenic and serene between sprawling golf courses and the ocean, dotted with small, rocky beaches. The morning hours were pleasant and cool, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t constantly checking on Bane to make sure she wasn’t suffering from another episode of heat exhaustion.

“I’m fine,” she promised.

“Got plenty of water this time.” She had her bottle and I carried three more in my backpack. Plus sugary snacks because she’d mentioned sugar helping.

“You sound like my mother.”

“Water, snacks, SPF, shades, floppy-ass hat. Good.”

She ignored my quip. Bane hadn’t mentioned last night. Either she hadn’t noticed that I was about to lick her as if she were the last scoop of ube ice cream in the world or she didn’t remember. Either way, good. Excellent. We didn’t need a lapse in judgment affecting the rest of our working relationship.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked if I’m wearing a swimsuit,” she said. “You’d seemed so concerned with me looking nice for your friends.”

“Please don’t wear sweats to the wedding is all I really asked for.”

She shimmied in her short shorts and long…I dunno…was that a silk cardigan? Was she wearing a swimsuit underneath or a tank top, or was this thing a top?

“It’s called a cover-up,” she explained, as if reading my perplexed expression. “I’m wearing a swimsuit beneath this just in case, but there is a less than one percent chance of any of it showing.”

“Are you wearing a bikini?” I mused aloud.

A sly smile curved her lips and I wanted to kiss it off. Damnit. Not even one hour around her and my brain cells were frying themselves. Must’ve been too much sun. “Why are you asking?”

“To be prepared.”