I returned with plenty of lemon cake smothered in decadent frosting with a mini yellow orchid. By then, plates full of food had appeared in my absence. But dessert first.

We ate and I listened to others chat, easing out of the conversation to avoid being overwhelmed with the crowds and noise and attention. I could focus on food.

One by one, the wedding party returned to the dance floor, leaving our table empty. They urged us to join them. Sam was even tugging on Sunny’s sleeve, and I could tell it was getting harder for him to decline.

“You should go,” I insisted. “My feet are starting to hurt. Don’t worry about me.”

Sunny raised a brow. “Who said I was even thinking about you?”

I knew he was obviously joking, but why did the idea of him not thinking about me hurt? This was desperate, dark water I was wading into, and that was dangerous for a fake relationship. Sure, we were living a trope that played out well in books and movies. But we lived in the real world. This was real life. And as soon as these people were off the island, Sunny and I would go back to being bickering coworkers who lived an hour apart and one of us, perhaps, would resent the other for getting the PM position.

“You should enjoy your friends’ wedding. Go. Dance. We’re almost over, but that doesn’t mean you can’t cut out a little early to enjoy what you came here for.”

We’re almost over. More words shooting pangs through my chest.

Sunny watched me, back to being impassive and thoughtful, quiet. I couldn’t gauge a reaction, a sentiment, anything from him. Ah, yes, we were effortlessly creeping back to reality, to what we were before this vacation and what we would return to afterward.

He pressed his lips into a line and looked at my hand before taking it into his own. “Come dance with me.”

I squawked out a laugh, quickly covering my mouth as the song changed tempo to something more energetic. “I’m not a good dancer.”

“I’m sure you’re great.”

I tilted toward him. “I’m saving you from being embarrassed.”

He tilted toward me. “Embarrassing me is your favorite pastime.”

I leaned in even more. “It would be too easy to annihilate your entire reputation with one move. I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

He leaned in even more. “I would love for you to annihilate me with one move.”

Why was he so close? So close that his breath smelled of champagne and cake. So close that my lips could almost feel his. So close that he could probably hear my pulse raging behind my ears, my heart beating through my chest.

I sat back, forcing myself to unravel from this fantasy before it entangled me.

I shrugged, teasing at maybe a yes. The truth was, while these events almost always proved to be too much for my anxiety, my body wanted nothing more than to be in his arms.

Thirty-two Sunny

Bane’s shoulders rose in an innocent shrug, and she batted her lashes. I managed to train my eyes on hers, not let them fall to the curve of her neck, where the skin was soft and fragrant, or her collarbone, where the ridge was ripe for a touch, or the swollen mounds of her breasts in this sexy-as-fuck little dress. She knew what shrugging did. She knew that I wanted to look, that I wanted to touch her, to kiss her. And just maybe, she liked knowing that I wanted all those things. Just maybe, she wanted me to.

“Your feet are bothering you?”

She nodded.

“Let me remedy that.”

I tapped on her foot, the one swaying from her crossed leg, before taking it and placing it on the edge of the seat between my thighs. She stilled the instant my fingers touched her ankle. I peered up at her, all frozen, watching me, her lips parted, her chest heaving, her hands clutching the sides of her chair.

“Is this okay?” I asked slowly, suggestively. I never wanted to take my eyes off her, not when she looked at me like that.

She nodded, relaxing her shoulders.

I removed her shoe and massaged her ankle, watching her melt into her chair. When I pressed a thumb into her arch, she jerked forward.

“Tickles?”

She shook her head. I pressed harder, and that made it better for her. Her eyelids fluttered when I stroked along the arch to the underside. She gasped, and my attention fell to her mouth. Bane drew her lower lip in between her teeth. My pulse hammered inside my head as I took the other shoe off and repeated.

Mental note: Massage Bane’s feet more often. She obviously loved this. Her expression veered closer to last night’s territory the way she looked at me, like heated desire itself. Like she wanted me to move up her legs and in between them and didn’t care if we were in public.

But we were in public.

I settled her feet onto the floor, tucking her shoes underneath the table between us, hidden beneath the shadow of billowing white cloth. “Better?”

She nodded. I was beginning to love the way she looked at me, mesmerized. Hell, I even loved when she looked at me with annoyance. I liked making her react, making her feel something, anything. Best of all, making her look like she wanted me, because I was definitely—despite reason and against logic—wanting something with her. Even if it was just for this ridiculous fantasy vacation. It would end tomorrow, but for now, we still had tonight.

Dancing was good. An excuse to touch her, remembering how she felt, my forehead tipped against hers. Our breaths deepening. The way she gripped the back of my neck, her fingers in my hair. The urge to nudge her head back and kiss her.

But there was weariness in her features. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You can tell me if this is getting to be too much. The crowds and music.”

“I want you to enjoy your friends’ wedding.”

“At the cost of your comfort? Nah.”

Her mouth tipped up into a smile as the music segued into an upbeat song. A very familiar one. Cake was playing.

We burst into laughter.

“This is a sign for more cake!” she said, pointing to the desserts table.

I knew what to do. I took her hand and led her to the cake.

“What are you doing?” she asked when I requested two disposable drinking cups and two disposable forks from the staff member managing the table.

The perplexed server gave them to me.

Without waiting to be served, I handed Bane the forks wrapped in napkins, held one cup in each hand, and wagged my brows to her questioning face. Then slammed the cups over the partially cut cake—the bottom, largest tier—and scooped up a big serving in each cup.

Both Bane’s and the server’s jaws dropped. He probably didn’t know what to do.

“Thanks!” I told him.

I turned toward a surprised Bane and urged her back to our table. I handed her the cups, grabbed my jacket, her purse, and her shoes. Facing her, I asked, “Want to get out of here?”