I wake up early the next morning feeling more relaxed than I have in years, my whole body humming with a happy glow. For a second I just lie there, enjoying the sleepy buzz of an early morning on vacation.

Then I turn my head and realize Ryan is lying in bed beside me.

Stark naked.

He’s sprawled out on the mattress like some kind of sleeping Adonis, his bare chest gleaming in the sun, and the trail of dark hair beneath his navel disappearing beneath the sheets. I lift the blankets to peek, I can’t help it. His cock is hard, jutting long and thick against his flat stomach.

Good morning to me.

I drop the sheet, my cheeks—and the rest of me—on fire as everything we did last night comes flooding back in slow-motion Technicolor glory.

Oh my God.

I can’t believe I broke my own rules like that. Not just broke them—shattered them. Into a million little pieces.

And all I can think about is doing it again.

I creep out of bed and slink off to the shower, my mind racing. Sure, it was the best sex I’ve had in years—OK, maybe ever. But what if Ryan wakes up and it’s totally awkward? Or worse, he acts like it doesn’t even change anything? I’ve been telling him for days it’s all professional, so what if, gulp, he believes me this time?

I’m rinsing the conditioner out of my hair and trying to come up with an appropriate morning-after monologue—this never should have happened but congratulations on your cock?—when there’s a knock at the bathroom door. “Hey,” Ryan says, easing it open—and yup, even through the steamed-up glass I can tell he’s still totally, gloriously naked. “You up for some company in here?”

And just like that, all my awkwardness and regret slides away like hotel shampoo down the drain.

“Sure,” I smile, pushing the shower door open. “Come on in.”

Ryan is just as gorgeous awake as he was snoozing in bed. “Morning,” he says as he steps inside, pressing a warm kiss against my mouth. “How’d you sleep?”

“Amazing,” I reply.

His gaze slides down my wet, soapy body and my pulse kicks. Just how good a morning is this going to be?

Very.

Ryan steps under the spray and finishes rinsing the conditioner out of my hair, combing through the tangles with long, capable fingers. His hands travel from my neck to my shoulders and downward, curling around my waist as he kisses me again. His cock slides against my stomach, and I arch my hips and press myself against him.

Ryan groans. “Turn around,” he orders, his voice low and rough in my ear, but I hardly even have time to react before he’s spinning me to face the tile and pushing his broad chest right up against my back, easing my legs a little wider.

I shiver against him, loving how he’s taking charge. Last night, I was the one going crazy, but now it feels amazing just to have his hands on my body, doing whatever he wants.

He slides two fingers inside me, curling them right up against my G-spot in a way that makes me moan. “Oh my God,” I manage, crossing my arms on the tile and dropping my forehead. “Oh my God.”

“Is that my new name?” he teases, fucking me slowly with his hand. I hum in reply, shoving my ass back in his direction, my hands slipping against the tile as I search for something to hold onto. I want more. Fuck, I want everything.

Ryan reaches around with his free hand to pluck at my soapy nipple, toying gently in time with his fingers pumping in and out of me, and I gasp.

“Yes?” he murmurs, sexy in my ear.

Holy shit. “Yes,” I moan, louder this time. “Fuck, Ryan. So good.”

Ryan bites down gently on my shoulder. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and I twist around to face him. The water is still raining down on us, beads of it sliding down his tan, freckly shoulders. His eyelashes have gone spiky with the steam. “You’re so tight,” he mutters in my ear. “Fuck, Olivia. I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought about was your cunt.”

“Oh my God,” I say, shocked half out of my mind and suddenly wickedly close to losing it. I’ve never been much for dirty talk, but with him—

Ryan chuckles again. “Well, I know you like that,” he says, pulsing his fingers inside me. “You know, you seem so prissy, but I’m starting to think it’s all for show.”

I try to protest, but it’s hard with him driving me crazy like this. “I’m not prissy,” I insist—achingly close now, dropping a hand down to rub at my own clit before I can think to be shy about it. Ryan groans, his gaze darkening.

“That’s it,” he says, drawing back to watch how I touch myself. “Show me how you like it.”

God.

It doesn’t take long like that, the warm press of his body against me and the steady, demanding thrust of his fingers, my moan echoing off the tile so loudly I’m worried the whole hotel can hear. My body tightens, and then I’m crashing into another epic orgasm, so good I swear I see stars.

How does he do that?

And how many times can it happen again?

When we finally get out of the shower, Ryan’s phone is ringing. “Oh shit,” he says when he looks at the screen, wrapping a towel quickly around his waist. “It’s Mason.”

He takes it out onto the terrace while I dry my hair, mentally crossing my fingers for good news. I know I didn’t make the best impression—what with all the vomit—but Ryan’s pitch still rocked, and I’m hoping that made up for my mistakes.

He deserves this, and not just because he’s a one-man orgasm machine. He’s worked for it, and I know he could rock it if given the chance.

When he comes back in, the smile on his face could light the entire Miami skyline. “He’s in,” he announces.

I almost drop my hairbrush. “Seriously? Congratulations!”

“It’s not a done deal yet,” Ryan adds quickly. “He wants me to come in and pitch his full investment team,” he explains. “Get him the financials, our books, that kind of thing. But he’s totally on board.”

“Ryan! That’s amazing.” I throw my arms around his neck, and he picks me up and spins me around. We fall back on the bed, our towels already history, and Ryan reaches for me again, but this time, I pull back and give him a saucy smile before slowly scooting lower down his body.

Ryan’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?” he asks, his cock already thickening.

“Congratulating you,” I smirk. “Now shut up before I change my mind.”

Ryan shuts up.

Later—much later—we head over to my dad’s house.

“Hello?” I call, strolling in the empty front door. There’s a weird sobbing sound coming from inside the house, so I cover my eyes, just to be safe. “Dad? Vanessa? You guys PG-friendly?”

There’s another wail, and I open my eyes to find Vanessa is sitting on the sofa surrounded by her coven—er, bridal party—tears squirting out of her face like she’s a character in a vintage comic strip. Her face is blotchy. Her hair has frizzed.

This is not a happy bride.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my mind flying to all kinds of catastrophic conclusions: infidelity, a death in the family, an impending Category 5 hurricane forcing mass evacuations.

“My photographer cancelled,” she wails.

“Oh,” I say, relief flooding through me. “Is that all?” Then I catch the icy look Crystal sends my way. “I mean, um, that’s terrible,” I say, perching on the edge of the coffee table and patting Vanessa’s knee. “Did she say why?”

Just like that, she starts wailing all over again. Kirsty holds out a Kleenex, and Vanessa blows her nose noisily before looking at me. “She had the nerve—the nerve!—to say I was difficult to work with!”

“Can’t imagine why,” Kiki murmurs behind me, quietly enough so I’m the only one who hears. I glance over at her, surprised—dissent in the ranks?—but she’s already turned back to Vanessa, rubbing her back soothingly. “You didn’t want to work with her anyway,” she promises. “She’s a total hack. She doesn’t even have a blue check mark on Instagram.”

I want exactly zero to do with this particular drama, and I’m edging back toward the doorway when my dad appears. “Livvie,” he says, casting a worried look at his blubbering bride-to-be, “you must know someone who can fill in, right? With all your New York contacts?”

I glance from him to Vanessa and back again. I do know someone, actually, but it feels shitty to subject her to this circus—specifically its blonde, buxom, bilious ringmaster. Still, the look on my dad’s face has me relenting. “Sure,” I say, patting his hand. “I can make a call.”

I reach Hallie at her photography studio in Soho and explain the situation, not even trying to sugarcoat it. “Full disclosure: Vanessa is awful,” I tell her, “but the pay will be good. And obviously I’d love it if you came down to hang out. But, you know, again: Vanessa is awful.”

There’s no way I’m expecting her to say yes with a pitch like that, but to my surprise, Hallie laughs. “I’m in,” she declares.

“Wait, really?”

“And see this clusterfuck for myself? I wouldn’t miss it. Besides, the weather in New York is utter shit right now. I’m not exactly mad about the idea of a working trip to the beach. Plus, I want to meet this football hottie of yours.”

I cringe. “He’s a client,” I remind her—and myself.

But Hallie isn’t buying. “Uh-huh,” she says. “Just like my setup was, right? All business.”

I open my mouth, then close it again, imagining Ryan’s hands on me this morning in the shower.

“Text me your flight info,” I say.

“Okaaaay,” Hallie laughs, knowing and singsong. “See you soon.”

I head back into the living room. The bridesmaids are still clustered around a teary Vanessa, clucking like hens. “Crisis averted,” I tell them. “My friend Hallie can come cover for her.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Livvie,” my dad says, but when I turn to Vanessa she’s scowling.

“Wait a second,” she says, shrugging the girls off and narrowing her eyes at me. “Who is this Hallie? Is she even a professional?”

Oh, come the fuck on. “Well, she’s willing to come all the way from New York on twelve hours’ notice,” I point out.

“But why is she available in the first place?” Vanessa persists. “Is she just some loser friend of yours with a point and shoot? I mean, seriously, does she even know how to use filters?”

“I think what Vanessa is trying to say is thank you,” my dad says gently.

“Clearly. And FYI, Hallie is the best,” I inform Vanessa, “she just got done on a shoot for Vogue. Is that verified enough for you?”

I don’t wait for an answer, I turn and stalk out of the room, heading down to the dock.

I take a deep breath, staring out at the ocean and trying to pull myself together. I don’t ever let myself wallow in self-pity, but I’m surprised to find tears pricking the backs of my eyes. I’m tired of having to act like none of this bothers me—the wedding, Vanessa, my dad’s parade of ditzy wives.

The truth is, I miss my mom.

I miss her bad.

She was the best—smart and funny and a killer dresser, and a sucker for soap operas. She used to record them while she was at work and then stay up late catching up on all the crazy plotlines. I spent the last year of her life sitting beside the hospital bed we moved into the living room, the two of us watching them together as she slowly faded away.

I hear footsteps behind me, and brace myself for the Bride Tribe, but when I look over my shoulder, there’s Ryan with two bottles of Corona in his hand, bright green wedges of lime sticking out of the tops.

A hot guy bringing me booze. Could he get any more perfect?

“I heard what happened in there,” he says, as Jagger comes trotting down too. “Thought maybe you could use one of these.”

I smile gratefully. “How could you tell?”

“I mean, the visible plumes of smoke coming out of your ears were a pretty good sign.” He smiles back. “You’re a good daughter, you know.”

“Yeah, well.” I push the lime into the bottle with my index finger, watching the beer fizz in response. “I’m tired of being good.”

Ryan smirks. “So don’t be,” he says, shooting me a wicked grin before taking my hand and licking the taste of the citrus off my fingertip.

I shiver, I can’t help it. “I’m serious, though.”

“I know,” Ryan sighs. “And you’re right. They’re a handful, that crew in there. But the good news is you don’t have to deal with them by yourself.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh no?” I ask, my heart knocking softly against my ribs.

“Nope,” Ryan says, and clinks his bottle gently against mine. “I’m on your team.”