Angry voices cut through the hazy remnants of my dream. I lift one eyelid, squinting into the sunlight which streams through the open curtains. For a second, I’m not sure where I am, but when I roll onto my back, my backside ignites as if on fire, and the evening’s events come flooding back.

A lazy smile curls my lips up as I remember with vivid detail the feel of Mason’s agile tongue between my thighs. My pussy, sore from being devoured, clenches with the memory. I curl the pillow to my chest, and burrow my face into it, as though to trap my smile. I’m practically giddy.

But the grin fades when I recognize the voice outside the door. It’s Lucas, and he sounds mad as hell. I sit upright, straining to hear the loud conversation in the hall.

“What the fuck is she doing in your bed?”

“What the hell does it matter to you?” Mason’s tone is tight with tension, and it makes my heart thump a little louder. “I don’t question who you fuck.”

I pull my knees up to my chest and hold my breath.

“There’s a difference between fucking her in her bed, and sleeping with her,” Lucas fires back. Unease nestles at the base of my neck, making the hair stand upright. I shift closer to the headboard, and draw the pillow tight against my chest. “You don’t do intimacy, Mason. That’s not who you are”

“Agreed. There’s something different about this girl.”

Holden.

Though his tone is softer, more reasonable, it’s still leaden with tension. I’d thought at first that Mason’s partners just didn’t like me, but I’m starting to understand the root of the problem begins with an issue that is much deeper than their instant distaste—the simply don’t want him to get attached.

“This is highly uncharacteristic,” Lucas says.

My chest fills with ridiculous hope. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t over analyze the past twenty-four hours, would just give in to the pleasure, to the moment. But in this morning’s afterglow, I can’t help but wonder if maybe—impossibly—Mason might be developing feelings for me. Is it wrong to think that I am different somehow? A fresh alternative to the dozens of models and actresses and pop stars he’s taken to his bed?

“You guys are making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be,” Mason says, gruffly.

His response stings, but I cling to hope. It’s not as if I think we’re heading down the aisle and into wedded bliss—yet—but our chemistry is undeniable. And more to the point, he hasn’t denied that to his partners.

“She isn’t right for you,” Lucas continues.

Okay, now I’m getting pissed. My fingers dig into the pillow and I grit my teeth. Who the hell are they to decide whether I’m right for Mason? What does that even mean? They don’t even know me, for fuck’s sake.

“Girls like her…” Holden’s voice trails off, leaving my hyper-sensitive imagination to fill in the blanks. Like me how? Plain and boring? Maybe I’ll never make the cover of Sports Illustrated but I didn’t hear Mason complaining when his lips were clamped around my clit.

Do they think I’m a gold digger?

My stomach twists. Screw them. I plan to carve out my own success, without Mason’s pocketbook to fund the journey, thank you very much.

Their collective voices drop to a murmur. I lean toward the door, straining to hear what’s being said.

My chest grows heavy with regret.

How dumb can I be?

“We should continue this conversation over breakfast,” Mason says, not quite quiet enough for me not to hear.

But his partners are relentless. They poke and prod, needle and mock. Snippets of their insults float through the thin walls. Naïve. Young. Inexperienced. Only after one thing.

They tell Mason he’s going soft.

He assures them they’ve got the wrong idea.

With each degrading comment, I wait for Mason to defend me. To stand up for us—whatever us is. His friends have no business butting into his personal life… Do they? I shrink back under the covers, pulling the blanket up over my ears.

The argument has drawn out my self-doubt, and I begin to question my motives and actions. What is it about Mason that has allowed me to let down my guard and compromise my morals?

Emotions swirl in my stomach like a tornado.

God, I’m about to get sick. I’m no damn different than my mother, desperately clinging to something that isn’t there. Was never there.

I lean over the edge of the bed and freeze at the sounds of Mason’s voice, loud and clear, leaving no room for debate or misinterpretation. “That’s enough. I don’t fucking have feelings for her. Now let’s get on with it, okay? It’s business as usual.”

My heart squeezes with unexpected pain and my whole body goes numb. I close my eyes, blinking back the tears that hover just under my eyelids, threatening to crash down in a waterfall of self-pity. I keep them closed even as the door opens and I hear the soft tread of Mason’s feet on the carpet. He goes to the bathroom, to the closet and back, staying silent so as not to wake me. He shaves, brushes his teeth, gets dressed—I hear the swoosh of his pants sliding up his thighs—and then the scratch scratch scratch of pen against paper. Is he leaving me a note?

Squinting through blurred vision, I pretend to remain asleep as he puts on his shoes, grabs his wallet and briefcase, and slips out the door without so much as a backward glance.

I exhale a sigh I’ve been holding too long, and it releases a teardrop that trickles down my cheek. My skin is numb with shock. What an idiot to believe I could be different.

Whatever tenderness Mason showed me last night was just part of some elaborate act, and maybe I don’t understand my role in all of this, but I’m fucking done with this game. Anger cuts through the blur of my throbbing heartache.

I toss off the blankets and sit upright. My gaze lands on the note from Mason, a reminder of the meeting at 9 a.m. sharp—it’s been underlined twice—and a list of things to bring—folders, spreadsheets, my legal pad of notes. It’s cold and impersonal, just like I should expect.

The glowing red numbers on the bedside alarm clock let me know I have one hour to make myself presentable, but I already know I won’t be attending that meeting. Like hell I’ll walk into that room and act like everything’s okay, that I didn’t overhear Mason and his partners talk about me like I’m some two-bit gold digging trailer trash.

Fuck that.

And fuck them.

My spine stiffens. Pride be damned, not even I need the job this bad. I’d rather be a damn barista at Starbucks than subject myself to ridicule at the hands of this trio of ego maniacs. I can hardly stomach the thought of seeing Mason again, let alone his damn friends.

Clearly, I have no choice but to leave.

Forget Hawaii, the beach and the sun. Forget Mason and the way he made me feel last night. Screw the steady income and the security of a job. I deserve better than to be treated like this.

I pull my hair into a loose ponytail, and put on my robe. Leaving my discarded bikini on the floor, I put on a robe and peer into the hall. Not seeing anyone, I slip from Mason’s suite and into mine across the hall.

My heart beats fast, as though it’s racing against the clock. My eyes flit to the time. I can’t be in this hotel when the meeting starts or Mason will come looking for me. And right now, I couldn’t give two shits if I ever see him again.

I don’t bother to pack, and leave only with the clothes on my back. It doesn’t even matter what he bought—I have no need for his charity. In fact, I have no use for Mason Wood at all.

My stomach twists as I tell myself this. The truth is, my body longs for his touch again. I yearn for the closeness and chemistry I feel when I’m with him.

But I tell myself to be strong.

Hand on the doorknob, I glance back into the room. An incredible sadness hovers over me like a black cloud. Damn it. I wasn’t expecting fairytale bliss. I’m not that naïve. But I know that being alone can’t hurt any more than this.

Or can it?

In the lobby, I check out of my room and ask the concierge to call me a cab. On the journey to the airport, I max out of my credit card to book the first flight out of Hawaii. At the airport, it hits me how much I’m giving up—my job, maybe my only chance at becoming a day trader.

I ask myself if I can really turn my back on all of this.

Turn my back on him so easily.

And in the end, I decide that it won’t be easy—but I can. And I will.