At ten-thirty, our boat finally left Bermuda. A couple of hours later, we were cruising into Prideau’s very own private docking area on Saint Clare Island.

As far as islands went, the place was picture-perfect. A wide swath of pale pink sand unfolded in front of us, meeting the twinkling turquoise waves as they lapped steadily at the shoreline, and golden-tanned tourists lay outside on deck chairs, relaxing with colorful cocktails as they enjoyed the balmy weather.

The resort itself was a sprawling cream-colored Italianate building with terraces and wings coming off it on every side like branches of a tree. Stunning and classic. Bathed in bright sunlight, it sat right on the edge of the North Atlantic waters, enveloped with the fragrant aroma of its lush gardens, the salty sea air, and the thick verdant stretch of trees behind it.

“Oh, wow,” Georgie breathed, shielding her eyes with one hand on her forehead. “It’s gorgeous.”

Not as gorgeous as your ass in those white pants, I wanted to say as she leaned over the boat railing to peer at the resort grounds. Instead I remained uncharacteristically well-behaved, still feeling the guilt from earlier. “It is,” I said with an agreeable nod. “I’ll get all our cases. You don’t need to lift a finger.”

She gave me a half smile. “It’s okay. I’m not tired anymore. I think I slept enough today to last me about ten years.”

We lugged our suitcases onto the polished wooden dock, and we were greeted at the end by a tall man in a crisp white shirt and boating shorts. He insisted on taking some of our cases as he let us know exactly where to check in. His lilting accent was difficult to understand at first, but I got the general gist of what he was saying.

Flashing us a blindingly-white smile a moment later, he nodded and bade us goodbye, leaving us at the check-in counter. Georgie spoke to one of the young receptionists behind the desk while I kept an eye on our suitcases. She returned a moment later.

“Okay, so apparently my mother already collected our keycards and left a message for us. She’s in one of the hotel restaurants having lunch with Libby and Bobby right now. The girl at the desk said she can either give us spare cards, or we can leave our bags here to be taken up for us while we go collect our keys from Mom.”

“Keys? Plural?”

Georgie gave me a glassy stare, minutely shaking her head. “You didn’t think we’d be in the same room, did you?”

“Err…yeah, kinda.”

She pressed her lips together for a second before replying. “I booked an extra room for you. I told everyone we were taking things slow and didn’t want to jeopardize that by sleeping in the same bed.”

“Cute. But not really believable.”

She arched her brows. “Why not?”

“Because you’re too damn sexy for anyone to believe a man would agree to take things slow with you.”

In the past, she would’ve twisted her lips in a mixture of embarrassment and amusement at such a comment from me. Now she simply sighed. “Let’s just leave our luggage here and find Mom and Libby. Saves us taking it all up later.”

I scraped a hand through my hair. “Wow. Throwing me right in the deep end, huh?” I said.

“We don’t have to meet them now. But I’m pretty hungry.”

I shook my head and steeled my jaw. “No, it’s fine. Better that we rip the Band-Aid off as soon as possible. And the more time we spend with them, the easier it will get.”

“Yes. Do you remember everything?”

We ran through a brief last-minute checklist of the most important parts of our backstory. “I guess we’re as ready as we can ever be,” Georgie finally said with a sigh, picking at a fingernail.

I slung an arm around her shoulder and winked. “Let’s go, doll. We’ll be fine.”

We wandered through the lobby in search of the restaurant. A few moments later, Georgie stopped and pointed at a place with big glass picture windows and an outside deck with an ocean view. “That’s the one.”

A short, dark-haired maître d’ greeted us at the entrance with an eager smile. I told him we were here to meet a party already seated in the restaurant, and he quickly sprang into action, leading us toward our table.

Georgie stiffened for a second, then began to tremble. I squeezed her hand. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Everything will be fine. No one will suspect a thing. From this moment on, I’m your boyfriend, and I’ve always got your back. Got it?”

She nodded and sucked a shaky breath in. I moved my hand to her lower back, feeling the heat of her skin under the thin fabric of her top as I guided her through the restaurant.

“Your party is right there at table eighteen.” The maître d’ smiled and motioned toward a table at the very back of the restaurant.

I spotted a woman fitting the description of Georgie’s mother immediately. Cool-toned ash blonde hair, perfectly-coiffed. Ice blue eyes. Prim sweater set despite the warm weather. On her right sat a strawberry blonde girl, who had to be Libby. She was giggling with her right hand on the shoulder of a man next to her. Bobby, I presumed.

We drew closer, and my blood froze in my veins.

I halted and turned to Georgie, my forehead lined with incredulity. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

I turned my gaze back to the happy couple. Georgie’s sister was now draping herself across her fiancé’s lap. “That.” I pointed at them. “You knew about this, right?”

She shook her head slowly. “I have no idea what’s happening right now.”

I stared intently at her, my eyes narrowed with suspicion. Her own eyes were wide and filled with confusion. Clearly, she had no idea what my problem was, and she wasn’t doing this to spite me. This was all a not-so-happy accident.

I sighed and pointed directly at Libby’s fiancé. “You won’t believe this,” I began. “But that’s him. Robert. Your sister is marrying my fucking brother!”