I don’t know why Westin completely flipped a one-eighty on me today. I mean, I get that I was stern and playing hard to get, but I never expected him to just flat out ignore me. But he’s a guy, and I know guys do all sorts of stupid shit that can’t be explained.

Sitting here, so utterly dumbfounded, I decide to call my brother, hoping he can give me some advice on where Westin’s head is. He is a guy after all.

“Hey, Sis,” Tommy answers in his usual energetic tone.

“Hey, how are you, Tommy?” I ask him, clearing my parched throat.

“I’m good, just got back to the dock from an epic day of fishing.”

“Yeah, what did you get?” Tommy runs a chartered fishing boat out of the Gulf of Mexico.

“Three monster sharks.”

“Nice. Listen, I need your advice if you don’t mind.”

“Really?” he blurts out.

“Yeah, why do you say it like that?”

“You just never ask me for advice, that’s all. What, is Rach busy?”

“No, I called you first. I’m . . . I’m working on a project with this guy and—”

“Stop right there, a guy?”

“Yes,” I chuckle, not sure why my brother and sister have both responded like they have when I’ve brought up a guy. Surely, it can’t be that much of a shock to them. I’ve dated, just not that many guys. “May I continue?”

“Of course,” he says, and for the first time, I notice the southern twang in his voice. This reminds me of when Westin accused me of having an accent. So I lead into the story of the flight here and how I saw him at the hotel with some girl who he ran out on and begged me to go out with him. I end it with our interaction this morning, and how after demanding that I ride back with him, he didn’t speak one single word to me. He was a total mute.

“Let me ask you this. What’s this guy have that has you so interested in him in the first place? I mean, I’m sure you’ve met other men while traveling or worked with them, and none of them have stuck out like this one.”

“That’s just it,” I tell him, taking a sip of the cheap wine I snagged a bottle of earlier today. “I’ve met other guys and haven’t given them the time of day, just like I tried to do with this guy. But he’s relentless. I mean, he literally won’t give up. And for no good reason, he called me out in the middle of my presentation this morning, made me feel like I didn’t know what I was talking about, then ignored me on the ride back.”

“Did you ask him why?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then ask him.”

“I don’t have his number.”

“I’m sure you can call his room.”

“So that’s your advice?”

“Hey, I’m no love doctor. If you wanted fluffy advice, you should’ve called Rach.”

“Thanks, Tommy. I really do appreciate the honesty.” I feel bad for bothering my brother. I’m not sure what I was expecting him to say, anyway.

I hang up with him and get off the bed to refill my wine, but it’s the last of the bottle, and I’m not done for the night.

Sitting back and enjoying the last of my drink, I look up at the stark, white ceiling, zoning in on the smoke detector and its tiny green flashing light. I try and clear my mind, to let all these crazy thoughts go; I can’t. And even though it does sound crazy, Westin and I are going to be working closely together on this project, so maybe I should track him down. We need to talk and lay all our cards on the table, then end this . . . whatever it is, between us.

Sitting up, I stretch and stare at the hotel phone, knowing what I need to do. I dial the front desk, and the woman answers on the second ring. I clear my throat, feeling guilty like I’m doing something wrong.

“Uhhh . . . Westin Smith’s room, please?”

“Spell the first name,” she requests, and I do. “Please hold.”

Then the phone begins to ring, and my palms get all sweaty. Immediately, I regret calling him. What am I going to say to him? Like a total loser, I panic and hang up, slamming the phone down on the receiver after three rings. I pick up my wine glass and guzzle the last drink.

God, I’m pathetic.

It doesn’t help that I started drinking at three in the afternoon, so my mind is really all over the place.

Slipping on my shoes, I head out on a mission for more wine—and that’s it. Taking the elevator down, I make a silent promise to myself to not even look at the bar to see if he is there with another woman. But if he isn’t, maybe he is fucking someone in his room, and that’s why he didn’t answer my call. Granted it only rang a few times.

Fuck me, I’m losing it.

I don’t even like the guy, so nothing that has to do with him should matter to me. But for some God unknown reason, it does.

As I walk into the lobby, it’s too hard not to look for him. My eyes are on the bar the second it’s in my sight. I don’t know how I can go against my better judgment like this. But thankfully, he’s not there. The instant I realize the coast is clear, I barge outside and down the block toward the liquor store.

Wine.

I remind myself. That is what I’m going to get, nothing else. No searching or looking for Westin like a lunatic. The evening air is fresh, and as I wait at a light to cross the street, I swear I spot him. But I’m sure it’s not him, I’m just tipsy and seeing things. He has a driver, so he wouldn’t be out walking, anyway. Regardless of my bouncy thoughts, my eyes stay on his back, and my body seems to follow on its own.

I keep a safe distance as I investigate, and I quickly realize it is Westin. I can tell by his walk, his suit, his hair, his . . . everything. But I still don’t know what he’s doing. Maybe he is going to meet someone? Then how stupid would I look if he saw me following him? I know I should turn back now, but I can’t.

Christ, what is wrong with me?

Westin crosses the next block, jogging before the light changes to the other side, and I get stuck waiting. My eyes stay on him the entire time, watching him enter a local bookstore. I find it strange that’s where he’s headed and wonder if maybe he is an avid reader. I really don’t know anything about him. With how the guy is always on his phone, I couldn’t imagine him reading an actual paperback book.

The light changes allowing me to cross the street, and as I get closer, I search for him through the big storefront windows. There is a guy smoking to my right who looks like a bookstore employee. He’s not paying any attention to me as I ogle through the windows like a whacko.

Then I spot Westin, and he is already heading toward the front door with a bag in hand. I panic, knowing I have nowhere I can go.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

“Can I bum a cigarette?” I ask the man rapidly.

He passes me one, and I lean in so he can light it.

God, please don’t let him see me.

I try to keep it cool, with my back to the door, but my throat burns and before I know it, fire is radiating through me forcing me to let out a loud hacking cough.

“Sasha?” Westin says my name in a way that makes me weak in the knees. Shit, no matter how hard I fight it, I do like him. But I’m too afraid to turn around, knowing I’m caught and how stupid this is going to look. Plus, all I can really do is cough like I’ve just escaped a burning house.

Westin is relentless as usual and turns my body himself, so I’m now facing him. I can barely breathe, my chest is heaving and his one hand still on my shoulder has me loving his strong and forceful grip. The connection between us is a combustion of electricity—the kind dreams are made of.

“Hey?” I hack a few more times, looking up and down his enchanting body. He’s holding onto a small bag from the bookstore, and I’m . . . speechless.

“You smoke?”

“Trying to quit,” I tell him and finally drop the cigarette, squashing it on the sidewalk. I glance over my shoulder, and the man I borrowed it from has already vanished; I’m sure he wants nothing to do with us. Westin stares at me, and there is a long silence that seeps between us.

“You should stop; smoking is so bad for you.”

“Like you care.”

“I do,” he says firmly.

And for the first time since I met him, there is a look of vulnerability in his eyes. The world around us seems to slow, and as we stare at each other, I remember what my brother told me.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” I ask.

“Sure.”