Back at the hotel, I lay sprawled on the bed with a wet washcloth on my forehead. I’m back in my tourist T-shirt get-up, the most comfortable thing I have, and after a good hour in the bathroom, I think the worst of it has passed.

Either that, or I’m dead.

“OK,” Ryan says, letting himself in, “I cleaned out the gift shop. We’ve got ginger ale and Alka-Seltzer, plus some Pepto-Bismol just in case.”

“Thank you,” I say weakly, feeling utterly humiliated. So much for being an asset; I just screwed up his big chance with Mason.

“No sweat,” Ryan says, plunking his haul down onto the bedside table. “They didn’t have Saltines, but they did have plain Goldfish, which I’ll eat if you don’t want them. I also got peanut butter crackers, but that felt more like a Hail Mary pass.”

“Goldfish are great,” I promise, though the thought of eating anything has my stomach roiling again. My head throbs. Even my back aches. But my pride is the most injured of all. “I’m so, so sorry, Ryan.”

“What, for yakking?” Ryan shrugs. “It happens.” He grins. “The very first time I ever flew on an airplane I was with my high school girlfriend, senior year. We were going to Daytona Beach for spring break, and she’d worn her flip-flops on the plane, like one does when one is escaping northern Michigan in March.”

“Uh-oh,” I say, suddenly suspecting I know where this is going.

“Uh-huh.” He sits down on the edge of the mattress, wincing at the memory. “Just as we were landing I got totally airsick. Puked all over her freshly-pedicured feet.”

“Oh nooo.” I clap a hand over my face, laughing in spite of myself. “Is that true?” I ask, peeking at him between two fingers. “Or are you just trying to make me feel better?”

“Guess you’ll never know. Here,” he says, opening the bottle of ginger ale and holding it out in my direction. “Drink a little of this.”

I sit up and reach for the bottle, taking a small, cautious sip. I haven’t had ginger ale in years—it reminds me of being home sick from school, my mom laying a cool hand on my forehead, and the feeling of being taken care of. It’s been a long time since I had somebody to tend to me when I wasn’t feeling well.

Which suddenly reminds me—

This isn’t actually Ryan’s job.

“You should go meet back up with Mason,” I say firmly, setting the ginger ale back on the nightstand. My head is swimming but I force a smile on my face. “I’m fine. Seriously, the last thing I want to do is mess this up for you.”

Ryan shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, kicking his shoes off and leaning back against the headboard beside me, his warm, solid shoulder brushing mine. “You’re not messing anything up. Besides, I’ve been meaning to catch up on my Kardashians.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I mutter, but I don’t have the strength to argue. At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s nice to have the company, sure, but more than that it’s nice that the company is Ryan—the soap and sunscreen smell of him, the relaxed, laid-back rhythm of his breath. He reaches out and brushes my hair back off my face, rubbing lightly at the crown of my head with the tips of his strong fingers. “That feels nice,” I mumble, my eyes slipping closed.

“Really? Good to know.”

“Mm-hmm,” I tell him, trying not to purr too audibly. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises quietly. The feeling of his fingers in my hair is the last thing I remember before I fall asleep.

When I wake up, it’s dusk, and I’m alone in my hotel room. I try not to feel disappointed about that—after all, Ryan has already gone above and beyond for me today. Besides, I’m feeling way better, though I’m certainly not going to go out on the water again anytime soon.

Or eat that second helping of caviar.

I feel like I’m sweating grossness, so I get up and hop into the hotel’s enormous marble shower, lathering up with coconut-scented body wash and rinsing out my hair. I’ve just emerged from the bathroom and wrapped myself in a fluffy terry-cloth towel when there’s a light tap at the door.

“Come on in.”

Ryan steps into the room, half a dozen takeout bags in his arms.

“You’re up,” he smiles. “How you feeling?”

“Better,” I say, relieved. “At least, I’m not about to go running for the nearest window. Thanks.”

“Good to hear,” Ryan replies. Neither of us say anything for a moment. It feels awkward suddenly, none of the easy intimacy from this afternoon. Then he holds up the bags. “I brought food,” he says. “I didn’t know if you’d be up to it, but I figured, since you lost your lunch and all.”

I manage a hollow laugh. “I’m starving, actually,” I admit, realizing as I say it that it’s true. A couple of hours ago I was sure I’d never eat again—never underestimate the restorative power of a nap, I guess. “Thank you. Again.”

“No sweat,” Ryan grins. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a little of everything. Plus, it all looked good to me.”

“I’ll be right out.” I feel too naked in my robe, so I duck back into the bathroom to change into denim shorts and a silky white tank top. By the time I come out, Ryan’s set up a picnic on my unmade bed. He wasn’t kidding about getting a little of everything: there are tacos and French fries and a Caesar salad, even a couple of slices of pizza.

I think of him running around town, getting all of this together—after doing the exact same thing earlier with my medicine—and I can’t help but smile.

Under all the charming pick-up lines, this guy is really a sweetheart.

I gingerly dig in, but thankfully, my nausea seems to be passed. We pick at the food—well, I do. Ryan pretty much inhales half the spread. “Are you tired?” he asks, finally pausing for air. “I only stopped by to drop off the food. I can get out of your hair, if you want to crash.”

“I slept all day,” I say, shaking my head. “What I’d really like is to get out of this room. Maybe take a walk?” I suggest. “I mean, you don’t have to come with me,” I add quickly. “You can do . . . whatever you like.”

“I know,” Ryan flashes me a grin. “And I’d like to take that walk.”

The two of us head downstairs. Ryan takes my hand as we cross the patio towards the beach, his palm warm and slightly calloused against mine. I’m surprised, but he doesn’t say anything, so neither do I.

Maybe, just this once, it’s OK to go with the flow.

We hit the beach and walk in silence for a while, just the crash of the waves and the sound of some little kids laughing down the shore, wringing out the very last of a long day on the beach. But it’s not a tense silence. No, this is something easy. Relaxing.

I exhale, and my stress seems to melt away. I’ve been using those damn meditation apps for months, trying to unwind, but it turns out all I needed was a hunky ex-football player to lower my blood pressure—and send my pulse racing at the same time.

Go figure.

Up ahead, there are hammocks strung up between the palm trees, and Ryan leads us over and sinks into one, holding it steady while I lower myself in beside him. He slips an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close.

“Is this OK?” he asks. His fingertips are just brushing the hollow underneath my collarbone, and the feeling the simple touch is sending through me is more than OK.

“Yes,” I say, swallowing my heart back into my chest, wondering if he can feel my pulse racing. “That’s OK.”

“Good,” Ryan says, his lips spreading into a heart-stopping smile. He pulls me closer, and I rest my head against his chest. We swing quietly for a moment, watching as the last bit of pink-purple sunlight disappears underneath the horizon. “So, you’re not a fan of the open sea, clearly,” he says finally, tilting his head down to me. “What other secrets are you hiding?”

I smile. I don’t usually talk about myself, but right now, I’m feeling an open book to him.

I mean, he’s definitely seen me at my worst today. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” He idly traces my arm. “How’d you get into matchmaking?”

“It’s not technically matchmaking,” I remind him. “More . . . problem-solving, for the rich and alone.”

“Same difference. Come on, what’s the origin story?” Ryan urges. “You have to admit, it’s not exactly a conventional path.”

“What?” I tease. “I don’t know about you, but I was playing with my high-end escort dolls all the time as a kid.”

He laughs, a rumble against me.

“I started in college,” I admit. I haven’t thought about it in a long time. Sometimes it feels like it’s always been this way—wealthy clients, and an office in a cozy brownstone. But it didn’t start out like that at all. “I was studying business—this was after I moved out of the hellhole I shared with Vanessa—and a friend of mine was having problems with his parents, they were super-traditional, and he was . . . not. He needed someone to play girlfriend for them at Parents Weekend, and one of my roommates was looking to impress her family, too, so . . . I put them together. It worked out great, for both of them. And then another friend asked if I knew anyone who’d be willing to go home with him for the weekend to make his ex-girlfriend jealous, and I found him a date for that. Paid, this time.” I smile. “I guess word spread. It was a hobby, but the time I graduated, I thought maybe there was a business there, too. I mean, being single can be great, it’s just, sometimes you need someone on your team.”

“Do you like it?” Ryan asks. “I mean, as more than just a job.”

“Yes,” I answer simply. “I guess I’m good at people. Knowing how to read them, figuring out what they need, and how the pieces will fit together.”

“Real romantic,” Ryan jokes, as his fingertips keep idly stroking the hollow of my neck.

It’s hard to focus on conversation with him touching me like that, but I try my best. “It’s nothing to do with romance. I mean, sure, I’ve had some clients that have turned their . . . arrangement into something more, but most of the time, it’s clear-cut. Simple, straightforward. Nobody gets the wrong idea, and nobody gets hurt. The whole point is to make it an easy trade, where everybody wins.”

“That doesn’t start to bum you out after awhile, though?” Ryan asks, running his thumb along the skinny strap of my tank top. This time I can’t hold back a tiny shudder, my nipples tightening up underneath my clothes. “The . . . transaction of it?”

“I mean, that’s what love is, right?” I manage to reply, even as my pulse starts racing. “If you’re really honest about it.”

Ryan laughs out loud. “That’s the darkest thing anyone has ever said to me, you demon,” he chides, tugging my hair gently. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“No,” I sigh, suddenly self-conscious. “I mean, I saw my mom and dad, back in the day. They had something real. But they’re the exception. It’s rare, finding love like that, and I don’t know . . . the odds seem stacked against it.”

Ryan‘s voice softens. “Maybe you just haven’t found the right person yet.”

I swallow. The conversation has suddenly turned way too intimate. “Now you sound like Vanessa,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

“Even a stopped clock is right twice a day,” he reminds me with a grin.

“Her clock is stopped, all right.”

Ryan laughs. He lets go of me then, reaching his arms up in a stretch that reveals a toned, tan strip of stomach—and a thin trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his shorts.

Talk about a happy trail. I’d joyfully go following wherever that led.

“I don’t know,” he says, and I have to focus to remember what we were even talking about. “I think there’s got to be more to it than just ticking a box, or meeting somebody’s need. A relationship isn’t just practical.”

“No?” I ask, my breath suddenly feeling hot.

“No,” he answers. “It’s about chemistry. Instinct.”

My heart thumps faster. We’re on dangerous territory, curled together in the moonlight like this, but I can’t stop myself from walking right up to that line—and stepping over it for good when I ask, “What are your instincts telling you right now?”

“What do you think?”

Ryan reaches for me then, tilting my face up and pressing his lips against mine in a sizzling hot kiss.

It’s electric, a surge that wipes my hesitations away and sends me reeling, straight off the deep end.

Fuck, there’s no point fighting it anymore.

I want him too much.

I close my eyes and kiss him back passionately, winding my arms around his neck. Ryan’s tongue slides into my mouth, his body pressing harder and his hands moving up underneath my tank top. His fingertips brush my nipples through my bra, and I gasp.

“Closer,” I murmur, fisting my hands in his T-shirt and yanking. I want him all over me like I want to breathe.

“I get any closer we’re both going to fall out of this hammock,” Ryan reminds me, but it doesn’t seem to stop him. He shifts, bearing down on me with that delicious weight as I arch up, eager to feel all of him—

“Hey!”

A barked greeting interrupts us, and I could almost pretend like it doesn’t exist, until a flashlight comes shining into my eyes.

I pull back, panting. It’s a security guard, looking bored. “Sorry, kids. You can’t be doing that out here. Take it inside, will you?”

“Busted,” Ryan mutters in my ear. “Sorry, sir.”

“Sorry, officer,” I echo. “We’ll go.”

The guard shuffles off, shaking his head and muttering disapprovingly to himself. I should be mortified, but I’m way too giddy—and, OK, horny—for that. I scramble out of the hammock, nearly toppling over in my mad dash to get upright. “Come on,” I say, grabbing Ryan before either of us can think through what a spectacularly bad—and sexy—idea this is. “Let’s get out of here.”