The tropical morning dawns with the trills of birds and a spectacularly clear sky. I pull a face at it and rub my bleary eyes. I’d probably appreciate the view more if I hadn’t spent most of the night staring at the shadows on my ceiling instead of sleeping.

And thinking of the man I definitely shouldn’t have been making out with up against that tree.

I’d thought it was hard keeping my mind off Will before. But now, when I have a technicolor-vivid memory of his hands . . . his mouth . . . every inch of that scorching hot body against mine . . .

I catch myself trailing my fingers down my neck along the line he traced and yank my hand away with a groan. Would another cold shower do the trick? It’s hard to have much hope when the first two didn’t make a dent in my horny misery.

What would have happened if I hadn’t stopped him? Would we have fucked right there against the tree?

The thought flushes my body with fresh heat. I shake my head against the pillow. No, I can’t think about that. I need to wipe him totally out of my mind. It’s a good thing I stopped him, as much as my inner wanton is sulking right now. Nothing’s changed. I know I can’t trust him. I know the closer I let him get, the more I risk falling for him all over again. It’s not as if I can pretend there haven’t been moments when I’ve already started.

If one of my clients came to me with a problem like this, I’d tell them to go full no-contact. Cut the guy out, don’t give him a chance to get any further under your skin. I don’t have that option for the next five days, but I’ve got to freeze him out in every way possible.

Not least because that line of thinking has me imagining all the parts of me I would like him getting under . . .

Back into the shower it is!

Thankfully the only activity planned for this morning is a girls-only yoga session. I catch up with Brooke and Maggie just outside the studio, and Lulu bounds in a few minutes later, looking so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed I want to vomit.

“This is so much fun!” Lulu chirps, doing an effortless handstand while the rest of us puff and pant into a cat-cow.

“Remind me to kill her later,” Maggie grimaces.

“God, I was flexible once.” Brooke sighs. “Now I’m old and creaky.”

“There’s a reason I don’t do cardio!” I agree.

By the end, I’m spaghetti. I flop back on the mat, wondering if there are any auditions going on for alien blob monsters. I’d be a shoo-in.

“Take your time cooling down, ladies,” the instructor says with a smile. “The next session isn’t for an hour.”

As soon as she leaves, Brooke, who is sprawled similarly boneless beside me, rolls onto her side. “So,” she says meaningfully. “You and Will looked pretty cozy in the ballroom last night.”

Maggie snorts. “If by ‘cozy’ you mean they practically burned down the place with the heat they were generating with that tango.”

Shit, were we that obvious? I cover my face. “I might have gotten a little carried away,” I admit.

“I didn’t see either of you in the bar afterward,” Brooke says with a teasing poke of my shoulder. “Very suspicious.”

Thankfully, my hands are already shielding my face, because I can feel my cheeks flare bright red. “Nothing happened!” I protest. “I was . . . tired, from the dancing, so I went up to my room. Alone.”

It’s technically true. Even if it does leave out the whole ‘panty-melting kiss and maybe more’ part of the evening.

From between my fingers, I see Maggie raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“What’s the problem?” Lulu says. She’s still sitting up, stretching her arms like she’s ready for another go. Deliver us from uber-limber children. “A wedding’s the perfect time for a quick fling. Romance is in the air, you have some fun, no strings attached.”

“Sure,” I say. “If it was anyone other than Will.”

“There’s . . . a history,” Brooke says tactfully.

“Exactly,” I say, trying not to recall my very recent idiocy. “Not that I care about that stuff anymore, but getting involved with him would be . . . dangerous. Better to leave sleeping dogs lie and all that.”

Lie in beds on the opposite side of the resort.

Alone.

“Well, if you don’t want him, I’ll take him,” Lulu says cheerfully, bending over her splayed legs. “With a body like that, I can only imagine what he’s like to—”

I make a pained sound, and Maggie knuckles her kid sister in the arm. “Let’s say Will is hands-off in general, Miss Vixen. You’ve got plenty of other eligible bachelors here to get your groove on with.”

Lulu shrugs. “I was just saying.”

“Maybe it’s time you get some space,” Brooke says to me. “I saw a bunch of cute-looking shops in town when we headed down there the other night. Come check them out with me? I still need to pick my ‘something blue.’ ”

“That sounds perfect,” I say. “I’m in. As soon as I can remember how to walk again.”

* * *

An hour—and another cold shower, this one therapeutic—later, we’re browsing the market in the small town just a short distance away. “What do you think of this?” Brooke says, holding up a silver hairpin that dangles a blue-tinted crystal. The other shoppers bustle around us, checking out the spreads of goods laid out on tables beneath the colorful storefront awnings. The town is more happening than I expected given how remote the resort feels. Apparently there are a few big hotels a bit farther down the beach that supply the locals with plenty of tourist commerce.

“It’s pretty,” I say. “Does it go with the other jewelry you’re planning on wearing?”

She bites her lip. “That’s where I’m not sure. Ugh. Why does fashion coordination have to be so hard?”

“You’re the art expert,” I remind her. “Figuring out what creates a cohesive picture should be right up your alley.”

“I don’t think it’s very much fun being a painting.” She shakes her shoulders as if dispelling tension. “I guess ‘fun’ is kind of low on the priority list when it comes to weddings.”

“Come on.” I bump my shoulder against hers. “You’re getting hitched to your one true love in the middle of paradise. How can that not be fun?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She smiles vaguely, and then her gaze darts away. “Oh, look at this ribbon!”

I amble with her to ooh over the length of turquoise satin she ends up setting back down on the grounds that it’s “not blue enough.” A sweet pastry-like smell tickles my nose. I scan the street for the source, the gurgle of my stomach notifying me that it is almost lunchtime.

I don’t spot the baked goods of my desire. Instead my eyes stop on the object of last night’s more carnal desires, looking delicious in his own right in that casual sky-blue T-shirt, sauntering down the street toward us.

My pulse lurches. Will’s head starts to turn our way, and I spin on my heel. My hands snatch up the first item they come into contact with, which happens to be a straw hat with a brim large enough to rival the Enterprise. I plunk it over my head, assured that it’ll cover anything identifiable about me from the shoulders up.

“What are you doing?” Brooke asks.

“Trying on this hat,” I say. Obviously.

Brooke still looks puzzled. “You hate hats. You said your favorite part of moving to LA was that the winters never get cold enough that you have to wear one.”

“True,” I say innocently, keeping my face pointed straight toward the storefront. “But, I don’t know, this one is kind of nice. It would be really good for . . . keeping the sun off. That’s the point, right?”

“It’s not really your style,” Brooke says. Then her gaze slides past me to the street beyond. I can pinpoint the exact moment she sees Will by the twitch of her mouth—upward, in amusement. “Oh,” she says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I declare. “I really just thought this hat might suit me.”

“No, I don’t think it quite works. Maybe this one?” She hands me one with a slightly smaller brim but a huge tuft of purple feathers protruding from its band. Her twitch of a smile has grown into a grin.

I glower at her. Then I take a quick glance behind me. There’s Will’s back, moving farther down the street, past us now. Potential disaster averted. I whip off the hat.

“Actually,” I say, “you’re right. I hate them all. That store down there looks like it has some nice blue stuff.”

Brooke shakes her head, but she comes with me, putting more distance between us and Will, wherever he’s gone off to now. Does he come into town every day, or is it just my bad luck?

“I’m sorry,” Brooke says. “This was supposed to help you get some space from him.”

“What?” I say innocently. “Who?” She shoots me a look, and I grimace. “I’m fine,” I add. “Really. It’s no biggie.”

I keep my eyes peeled as we browse onward. There’s no more sign of Will.

After several minutes, I start to relax. We come across the churros I smelled and buy a couple of the heavenly foodstuffs. We’re just heading up to one of the white benches set along the sidewalks when I glance over at Brooke and spot a blue T-shirt amid the crowd behind her. I swallow a yelp and duck down behind the bench.

“Ruby,” Brooke says, propping herself against the back of the bench beside me, “what are you doing now?”

“I’m, uh, tying my shoelaces,” I say. Then I look at my feet. Oh, right, I put on my gladiator sandals for this outing. They’ve got about a million buckles, but no laces to be seen.

Brooke sounds like she’s smothering a laugh. “What’s the worst that could happen if he saw you?”

“Death. Destruction. The end of the universe as we know it.” Or worse, I might let him kiss me again. I have no idea how my body is going to respond if I have to look him in the eyes. Those striking, panty-melting eyes.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, brain.

“Well, unfortunately I think he’s seen me,” Brooke says. “And it looks like he’s coming over to say hello. So unless you can come up with a better excuse for being down there, you might want to—”

With all my senses blaring red alert, I glimpse my salvation. Just a few feet down the street from my soon-to-be-nullified hiding spot is a whitewashed church front, the wooden door standing open to admit visitors.

I scuttle from my bench to the neighboring one and then bolt for the church, hoping Will is too focused on Brooke to notice my brief appearance as I dart across the sidewalk and already mentally composing an extensive apology to my bestie.

Inside, the cooler air inside the dome-ceilinged room washes over me. I breathe in the smell of old wood and candle wax. A few people are sitting in the pews, heads bowed in prayer.

It’s impossible not to be affected by the aura of serenity that fills the space.

I inhale deeply and exhale my jitters, resting my hands on the back of the last pew. Suddenly my mad dash in here seems pretty silly.

Then Will’s voice carries through the doorway behind me. “I know it’s not your and Trevor’s thing, but we’ve had other couples hold their ceremony in here before heading back to the resort for the reception. It’s really very lovely.”

So much for serenity.

I leap for the nearest shelter, which happens to be an ornately carved wooden booth against the side wall, with one of its doors slightly ajar. I drop onto the cushioned seat inside and yank the door closed after me, wincing at its creak.

Footsteps rasp against the floor outside as Will and Brooke come in. I peek at them through the tiny gapes in the woodwork. It looks like he’s just pointing out the architecture to her.

A shutter in the wall across from me rattles, and a rasping voice asks a question in Spanish.

I flinch in my seat, and then it clicks. I’ve snuck into the confessional.

The priest on the other side of the screen between us clears his throat. “Um, si,” I say, not sure what he asked. Where’s a Babel fish when you need one? Maybe if I’d paid a little more attention in high school Spanish . . .

He says something else, and I catch a few words I recognize. Presumably he’s asking what I want to confess. I think about last night, and my face burns.

Dear Father, it’s been forever since my last confession. Last night I nearly had sex up against a tree with a man I’m not even dating, who never wanted to date me, and Lord help me, part of me wishes I could cross out that “nearly.”

Even if I had the language, I suspect my issues are above his pay grade.

“Perdóname,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Siento.” Then I say a little silent prayer of my own, that he doesn’t come over and drag me out of this box for misusing it.

I peek through the gaps again. Will and Brooke are just turning to leave. Then her sandals tap back inside. “Ruby?” she says under her breath. “The coast is clear.”

I spill out of the confessional with another hasty apology to the priest. “I panicked,” I say to Brooke. “I’m an idiot. It’s not like he even matters.”

Even if she wasn’t my oldest friend, she would still see through that whopper of a lie.

“Oh, hon,” Brooke says, grabbing my hand, “of course he does. But that’s okay. Now come on. He said he’s heading back to the resort, so let’s have that me-and-you time I promised.”