Vacationing is the worst pastime in the world.

Since we’ve landed, I’ve checked into my suite—admittedly, it’s a nice one—showered, and caught up on every email. I don’t think my inbox has been this empty in months.

It’s time to leave the suite and do something else. For one thing, if I’m going to properly vet this property, it’s important to know what kinds of systems and amenities they already have in place. For another thing, Dex has already sent me two separate emails telling me to stop working or he’ll have someone in the IT department block all my messages.

Brave man.

Still, I’m hungry, and the sun is sinking lower in the sky. It’s a spectacular view, the sunset over the ocean. But it’s nothing compared to the view I had on the plane.

Fuck, I hate even admitting it in my private thoughts, but Josephine Paxton has grown up to be an absolutely stunning woman.

I’m torn, because she was such a bitch in high school that it almost doesn’t seem right how gorgeous she is now. She had to have been awful to have dated that Greg Roberts asshole for so long. Even thinking of Greg Roberts raises my hackles. He was two years younger than I was, in the same class as Josephine, and he tormented Jackson, my youngest brother, fucking mercilessly. None of us knew how bad it was until a pool party during spring break. Fist-sized bruises, all covered up by his shirt. My mother almost had a stroke when she saw them.

Jackson wouldn’t rat him out, though. Not to her, and not to my father, and when I cornered him later and convinced him to tell me, he made me swear I wouldn’t punch that asshole on the front steps of the school.

That doesn’t mean Josephine is absolved of her guilt in that situation. There’s no way she was oblivious to how her boyfriend treated people. Still, she was happy to use him as an in for the parties he used to throw, sprawling things that lasted all weekend.

I stick my key card in my pocket and leave the lights on in the suite. I’m going to go down to the bar to have a drink before bed. I’m not going to think about Josephine or the way her breasts were so firm and pert underneath that little black tank top she was wearing. I’m definitely not going to think about her lips wrapped around the little straw in her mimosa. Or wrapped around anything else, either.

Chances are, I won’t even run across her while I’m here. Josephine Paxton is the type to reserve one of the bungalows next to the white sand beach. I can’t picture her getting a suite in the main building block like I insisted on having. Julia fought hard to reserve one of the bungalows, but I want to see the real workings of this place. You can’t see that kind of thing if you’re off somewhere isolated, like in one of the detached bungalows. 

And I sure as hell don’t plan on seeing Josephine.

That’s why it doesn’t make sense, the twinge of disappointment I feel when Josephine is not in the lobby, not walking along the tiled pathway leading to the pool and numerous bars. I count no fewer than three bars in the pool area, two on the sides and one in the middle, one of those a swim-up bar with people in bathing suits hanging onto the edge. One of them has dark hair, and in the fading light, she looks enough like Josephine that I glance twice. Then a third time.

I’m so damn busy looking that I wander straight into the middle of the first bar.

Is it her?

No. It’s not her, and now I look like a fool, staring into the water like that. The last thing I need is to look foolish while I’m at this resort, especially if this turns out to be on the table in terms of an acquisition. 

“Sweetheart, trust me, you don’t have to buy your own drinks.”

The voice, off to my left, is pure sleaze, and it breaks into my thoughts after I’ve determined that no, the dark-haired woman in the pool isn’t Josephine. It’s such an aggressive, obnoxious voice that I can hear it over the thumping, too-loud music blaring in a coordinated wall of noise from what seems like all three of the set-ups.

In fact, Josephine is sitting at the bar.

Barely.

Josephine Paxton is drunk. So drunk that she’s having trouble staying upright on the barstool, and some douchebag with gelled hair and an unbuttoned shirt is pressing in close. Too close. She’s halfheartedly trying to twist away, but he leans in, whispering something in her ear.

God, she’s an idiot. She was an idiot in high school, and she’s an idiot now.

I want to sit down in one of the booths and forget her. Or, better yet, go to the other bar, where there is no Josephine Paxton in sight.  I don’t want to get involved in this shit.

But then I hear her laugh, high and nervous, and it sets my teeth on edge, sends a pulse of adrenaline racing through my veins.

The asshole doesn’t let up. He moves in closer, reaching out and putting one hand around her waist. She bats at it, trying to push it away, but he’s not as drunk, and he’s persistent. The other hand slides up and onto her knee, then starts edging higher. She’s still wearing the same yoga pants she wore on the plane, but it doesn’t matter that she’s not wearing a skirt—this is invasive as fuck. 

Walking away from this isn’t an option.

I force myself not to roll my eyes as I make my way through the chairs. God, there are a hundred chairs in here, and only about twenty people. Maybe the music is meant to disguise the lack of a huge crowd. It’s failing.

At the bar, I don’t hesitate. I get right up close and personal with the two of them. “Hey, buddy, fun’s over.” Then I turn to face Josephine. “Come on. It’s time to go.”

Her pink lips drop open a little bit, and she looks from me to the douche. “It’s too late to stay here anymore,” she says, slurring some of the words. “I have to go.”

His plan crushed beneath my fist, the douche starts to wind himself up. “Hey. Hey! I was talking to her. You can’t just—”

I don’t bother. Why would I? He’s human garbage, and Josephine is innocent. Today, anyway. I put my arm around her waist and scoop her off the bar stool. She stumbles over a bag on the floor. “Wait,” she says, her face going pale, then green.

Her eyes go wide, between me and the bag on the floor, and she claps her hand to her mouth.

Too late.

She throws up all over my shoes.

* * *

Josephine sleeps in my bed like a hungover angel.

Me? Not so much.

The last thing on earth I was going to do was climb into bed with her last night. Doing that would have made me no better than that asshole at the bar, and it doesn’t matter—I don’t want anything to do with Josephine. The suite doesn’t have a second bed. I insisted on booking one of the midlevel rooms. I can report back that the sofa doesn’t pull out—how could it?—and the hard leather is not ideal for sleeping.

I’ve been tapping out an email to Adam, who will think this entire situation is hilarious, and thinking about going for a hike. My second brother has crowned himself de facto king of all our entertainment properties and spends most of his time traveling around the world to “manage” them. I’m about to hit send when Josephine rolls over, stretches, and then bolts upright with a snort.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

I don’t know what it’s meant to be—a joke? A dismissal?—but Josephine’s face goes bright red and something in my gut turns over.

“Oh, God,” she says softly, under her breath. “I—” She’s casting nervous glances around, looking for her clothes, which she’s still wearing. No, I did not undress her. Not a fucking chance. 

Even if I did, for a reason I can’t fathom, want to. 

I look away to give her a chance to collect herself, but suddenly she’s all grace and speed, slipping out from under the covers and heading for the door.

“You’re welcome,” I call after her, an edge to my voice. I’m pissed, and I don’t know why. It’s none of my business whether Josephine wants to put herself at risk in some bar.

She stops for a single instant, her face aflame, biting her lip. “I don’t know what happened, but—” She shakes her head a little bit. “Thank you.”

Then she’s gone, the door closing quietly behind her.

I ignore the fact that I’m rock-hard just from watching her walk away.

I finish writing the email to Adam, send the damn thing, and stand up and stretch. There’s no chance I can fall asleep again.

It’s time to head to the trails.