Having decided upon dinner, I retreat to the couch for some much-needed shut-eye while Macy heads to the bathroom.

I lie down and feel the cool leather of the couch soothe my rising anxiety over the fucking paparazzi. I can’t say it enough—I fucking hate them.

Their presence instantly pisses me off, especially if they’re there for me, and especially if they followed me somewhere far from their usual stomping grounds just to disrupt my fucking life.

So, I’m not exactly in my relaxed going with the fucking flow mode I’ve been trying to stay in all vacation.

They really do have a knack for ruining everything. Even the most idyllic afterglow.

Then they had to say her name. Was that necessary?

I twist my body, trying to find a comfortable position on this damn couch. It seems fucking impossible as I recall our run-in with the paps.

Macy knows her name now—and it’s a famous fucking name at that. She’s curious, even asking questions.

I wonder if she’s jealous. She can’t be. She doesn’t even know her, and doubtfully even cares, though a part of me wants her to.

I shake my head. Now I’m being fucking dramatic.

What the fuck’s happening to me?

No matter what, I need to make sure this honeymoon of ours isn’t ruined by those assholes.

Like before, on the boat, my main concern is showing Macy the time of her life.

Paparazzi or not, I want to make it so she can’t stop smiling. I want her night to be just as enjoyable as her day.

The sound of heels clicking on the floor wakes me from my pitiful sleep.

I look around, finding Macy’s door closed. There’s still light out, though the sun looks like it’s about to set, hovering over the horizon.

I quickly freshen up, hoping to wash away the lingering anger.

Nope, no luck.

Waiting for her, I sit on the back of the couch, scrolling through my phone. I don’t know what kind of rumor are spreading about me back home, or who tipped off Myers, but I just want to keep all this fucking nonsense as far away from this vacation as possible.

And Macy shouldn’t have to be privy to any of this venomous bullshit.

Before I could dive into the depths of the internet, I hear the door creak open behind me.

Turning toward it, I’m greeted with the most spectacular view.

Fuck, she looks fantastic. Miraculously, every ounce of anger I was carrying disappears at the sight of her.

Her presence is apparently my remedy.

Damn, I’m getting cheesy. I need to watch myself.

“You ready?” she asks, smiling and giddy. “I am so ready for dinner. I can’t wait.”

“You look fantastic,” I say, my eyes glued to her body.

I make no effort to hide my wandering gaze, drinking every ounce of her.

Her dress is sexy yet still modest, showing off just enough skin to keep my imagination pumping along. It hugs her curves, almost too well, while the blue design brings out the color of her eyes.

She’s fucking glowing.

Her grin widens, and I see a hint of pink color her cheeks.

“Thank you.” She twirls around, giving me a panoramic view of her body…well, really, her outfit. But that’s only part of the picture.

“So…where are we going?”

Closing the distance between us, I grab her hands and pull her to me, kissing her cheek.

She leans into it, enjoying it as much as I do.

I take her arm and intertwine it with mine, placing her hand on my forearm.

“You’ll see. But I’ll give you a clue—it has something to do with a beach.” I smirk.

“No shit, Sherlock.” She laughs, slapping me on my chest playfully.

I really fucking love that sound.

Leading her out the room, through the lobby, and down the path leading to the beach, I find myself amazed at how at peace I feel when I’m around her. The stress inspired by Tinseltown gossip haunting me on vacation is now fading into nothing.

“Oh, look! How gorgeous!” she says, pointing toward a wedding ceremony on the beach. “How picture-perfect is that? It’s like the peak of golden hour, too. The colors of the sunset make it look so romantic.”

She’s beaming from head to toe, trying to cover it up with some film-student nonsense but radiating happiness as she watches the couple say I do.

“Beautiful beginning for a lifetime of shackles,” I quip back. “I should run over there and give them both a card for my divorce lawyer friend. He always needs more business.”

Macy freezes, and her hand squeezes my arm. She looks at me, tightly smiling.

In a flash, her demeanor changes, and the springtime warmth she once had turns wintry.

I clear my throat, not sure what to do at this point. It was just a joke, after all.

Fortunately, the restaurant isn’t too far away. And upon reaching it, we’re greeted by live entertainment—hula dancers and an emcee on stage. It looks fucking fun.

Thank God. Hopefully, it’ll help ease her mind like she eased mine.

Macy lets go of my arm and judges the space. “This isn’t what I had in mind.”

I laugh, unsurprised. “Well, I did say it had something to do with a beach.”

She rolls her eyes. “I suppose you did. I just didn’t expect all this to be a part of a beach.”

“Never underestimate me.”

A hostess greets and seats us at a table not too far from the stage. It’s a perfect view, allowing us to see everything.

It all starts to feel like a dream again as music fills the air, and I do my best to order a bottle of champagne for the two of us over the loud music, and we try to place our orders from a frix prix menu over the thunderous sound of steel drums.

The atmosphere’s perfect. And we have something to celebrate—an extraordinary faux honeymoon that’s just getting warmed up.

Luckily, there’s a break in the music just as the waiter returns with our champagne. He uncorks the bottle—recklessly toward the sea—and fills our flutes.

“Cheers, to a great day and an even better night.”

She smiles and clinks her glass with mine. “Cheers!”

“Now it’s time for our Hula-Hoop challenge!” the emcee shouts to the crowd, destroying our moment. “Who out there has the best hips and knows how to use them? The winner gets the pride in knowing that they do….and being the best of the best in shaking ’em! Anyone? Any volunteers?”

There are plenty of enthusiastic volunteers from the crowd, waving their hands in the air, shouting, jumping up and down...

Without consulting her, I put my hand up and look to Macy, giving her a heated glare and smug wink.

This should be fun.

“This woman right here knows what she’s doing!” I yell at the emcee, pointing at Macy.

He looks at me and then waves her over.

Macy laughs and shrugs her shoulders. I expected a tongue-lashing, but surprisingly, I’m met with a brazen woman and an agreed-upon challenge.

She whispers in my ear as she makes her way to the stage. “Watch me.”

That I’ll do.

As she takes to the stage and to dancing like some sort of world-renowned hula fucking superstar, I can’t take my eyes off her.

And those damn hips—damn!

She circles them right on pace. Slowly, widely to start, and then she increases her speed, balancing the hoop as it slides up and down her body.

She’s a fucking pro.

It’s mesmerizing. I feel almost entranced by her hips, putting me under some crazy-ass spell.

I feel like I’m in a dream. One of the best dreams I ever had.

Her body fluidly moves, making her tits bounce ever so slightly when she jerks her hips from one side to the other.

Now I’m thankful for her outfit.

I scream out her name, cheering her on. She eyes me as I do, giving me a coy but teasing grin. Fuck!

One by one, she beats her competitors. It’s not too long after she crushes them all.

I applaud her for her triumph, and the losers for their effort.

But, fuck yeah! Macy’s the fucking winner.

This is not just some sweet dream.

Macy fucking won, and she’s my real life...

I mean, my fake wife.

Fucking Freudian slip.

Sitting back down, out of breath, she smiles at me and drinks some of her champagne.

“How in the hell did you get so fucking good at Hula-Hooping?” I’m not hiding my shock at all.

“I’ve had some practice,” she says casually, with a trace of arrogance.

“Practice my ass. Those are some expert-level skills. Are you secretly a professional Hula-Hooper on the side?”

There’s something in the way she laughs that tells me she’s about to share an anecdote, and I lean forward to give her my un-fucking-divided attention.

“Well, when I was a kid, I spent a lot of time Hula-Hooping. It was one of my favorite hobbies, if you can call Hula-Hooping a hobby. I loved being able to challenge my friends at recess, showing them up every chance I got.” She smirks, recalling the memory.

I’m listen intently to her story, captivated by her.

“I see, you are a professional Hula-Hooper then.”

“I guess so…but it’s dancing I really love. I taught myself how to dance. I was relentless. I would practice all throughout the night. I would also read about the techniques and the various moves for all of the styles—jazz, tap, ballet, hip hop…you name it.”

I hone in on the sparkle in her eyes that grows with each word about dancing.

She’s so fucking charming. It almost hurts how charming she is. It’s the second time tonight that I’ve find myself enamored by her.

Her body.

Her mind.

Her passion.

Fuck, I shouldn’t be feeling this way.

Not with a fling, and a vacation fling at that.

I need to fucking calm myself down.

“So why was the reporter so interested in Anna Bell? Is she that big of deal to your new project?”

Fuck, that’s out of the fucking blue. So much so that I freeze up, unable to answer at all. “Who knows.” I shrug, hoping that’s the end of it.

Hopefully forever.

But it’s not, of course.

Macy picks up a second later, like she’s got her own freelance job with Variety, and she chose this moment to suddenly start peppering her subject with questions at such a rapid fucking pace with such devoted fucking interest that it’s unnerving.

Macy acting like a fucking paparazzo has my instinct for dealing with this shit switched on, which means I at least tune out while grunting near non-verbal responses to questions about my dating history, and if I ever dated her, and who she’s dating now, and what our history is outside of dating.

My fears are confirmed.

Jealousy has entered the picture, which means I need to leave it.

To nip it in the bud.

It’s just a fling, after all.

But goddamn it. I can’t even get myself to stand up, and I can barely stop myself from answering all these questions as I hear the pleading tone in Macy’s voice.

But I don’t answer, and eventually she gives up, just shutting down completely.

Fuck. That’s really not what I wanted.

I wanted this evening to continue like it was, before it was derailed.

Listening to Macy talk about herself.

Fortunately, getting most people to talk about themselves isn’t too much of a challenge.

“Enough about me and work. What else does a brilliant, amazing hula champion fucking dance vixen do for fun?”

Her smile, though mild, gradually returns, and I see her body relax.

Fuck, that was close.

I could get pissed about this toxic fucking industry continuing to follow me wherever I go, but I think I’ll forget about all that shit and enjoy Macy’s company instead.