Carly closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath. Right now, while hurtling through the air in a metal tube, was not the time to throw up. The plane jolted and she let out a little squeak, her fingers digging into the armrests. The seatbelt sign came on, and even though she’d never taken hers off—because, hello, she did not have a death wish—she tightened it to the point of constriction. It dug into her hips, painfully pressing her jeans into her skin. Her heart throbbed in her chest, and she glanced around the plane, wondering how the hell everyone else could be so calm when they were all clearly about to die.

The plane shook and bumped again, and she pressed her lips together, trying—and failing—to suppress her whimper. A wave of dizziness rocked her, and she forced herself to breathe, despite the instinct to hold her breath.

Dean looked away from the movie he was watching on the little screen hanging from the ceiling and pulled one of his earbuds out. “Hey, are you okay?”

She managed to nod, rapid jerks of her head. “Uh-huh. So good.” The plane suddenly dropped, sending her stomach up into her throat and she gasped, shutting her eyes tightly.

“Really? Because you look like you’re going to puke.” He fished out the air sickness bag from the seat pocket in front of him. “Need this?” he asked, offering it to her.

She shook her head. “No, I just . . .” The plane bumped again and she flattened herself into her seat, as though she could somehow will the plane to stay in the air if she held perfectly still. She swiveled her head to look at Dean, who was studying her with concern. Something about the way his blue eyes were intent on her, his brow furrowed, loosened the knot in her chest a little. “So, it turns out that I might be a little scared of flying.” Blood rushed to her cheeks as she admitted it, feeling like a dork, but also not understanding how people weren’t afraid of flying. It was totally insane when you thought about it. There was nothing but a sheet of metal separating her from falling forty thousand feet to the ground below.

Oh, God, and now she had to pee from thinking about falling.

“Hey,” said Dean, “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” He somehow managed to pry her fingers off the armrest and slid his palm against hers, weaving their fingers together. His hand was big and warm, reassuring in its strength and solidity. She met his eyes and he gave her hand a squeeze. Butterflies that had nothing to do with her flying jitters unfurled in her stomach, and she tentatively squeezed back. “You didn’t mention that you were scared of flying when I asked you to come with me,” he said, but there was no accusation in his voice. Only concern.

“I didn’t realize I was until we took off. The last time I was on a plane was when I was seven years old and my family went to Disney World. Apparently, I was braver as a child.”

He traced his thumb absently over her knuckles, and she thought that if he did that for the remainder of the flight, she just might survive. Somewhere in the back of her fear-addled brain, she knew that she shouldn’t be thinking that way—this was Dean, who was only bringing her on this trip because his family wanted him to keep his dick in his pants, who was both her friend and her boss, and therefore off-limits—but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Something about his fingers twined with hers felt . . . good. Right.

“We’ll be there soon, Car. The beach. The ocean. Tacos, and piña coladas, and sunshine. Tequila and parties by the pool. It’ll be awesome.”

She sent him a tiny smile. “I’m excited about all that stuff, too. I just really wish humanity would get its shit together and invent teleporters so we could skip out on this part.”

He gave her hand another squeeze. “Thanks for coming with me. I really appreciate it.”

“I know, you’re a horrible friend, offering me a free trip to Mexico. Jerk.”

He laughed, and that low chuckle coupled with his hand in hers sent heat curling through her. God, why did he have to be so damn good-looking? And nice? And fun?

And completely unavailable, she reminded herself. For the second time since he’d asked her to come with him, she wondered if maybe this was a bad idea. The first time had happened the morning after he’d asked her, her doubt triggered by the smoking-hot sex dream she’d had about Dean.

They’d been alone on a beach at night, lying in the sand and kissing as the surf lapped at their legs. Even in the moonlight, he’d looked at her with such lust that she’d barely been able to breathe. Slowly, he’d peeled her out of her clothes, trailing his mouth over every inch of her skin, taking his time, exploring and savoring her. He’d been hard against her thigh, and she’d reached down between them, stroking him as he kissed her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. Then, he’d pushed her thighs apart, sweeping his tongue over her clit. Her fingers had woven tightly in his hair, everything inside her coiling tight, when he’d—

The plane jolted again, startling her out of her sex-dream replay. She was semi-aroused just remembering it. And she was still holding Dean’s hand. She was holding his hand and fantasizing about him.

Oh, boy. This was bad. Really, really bad. But hey, at least she wasn’t thinking about how she was about to plunge to her death anymore.

* * *

Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so acutely aware of a woman’s hand in his. Had he never held Carly’s hand before? He frowned, trying to remember. Maybe he hadn’t. He tried to think of a reason why. Yeah, she was an employee, and he didn’t get involved with anyone who worked at the bar, but something about this felt . . . different, but he couldn’t figure out exactly how, or why. All he knew was that it was a good different.

She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, squeezing his hand tightly. He studied her, and in a way, it felt as though he was really seeing her for the first time. He wasn’t looking at her as his buddy Carly, or his employee, but as a woman, who in this moment was vulnerable and real.

Her light brown hair fell in waves around her slim shoulders, and her fair skin was even paler than usual. Her features were sharp—pointy little chin, long, slender, upturned nose, high cheekbones, thin lips that hid a wide smile, ears that stuck out a little. But together, they all worked, and suited her funny, outspoken personality. Objectively, he’d known she was attractive (he had working eyes, after all), but he’d never stopped to really think about it until right now. Never allowed himself to not just look at her, but see her.

Well, shit. Carly Jensen was beautiful.

He already knew that she was beautiful on the inside—kind, loyal, funny, hardworking—but it was as though someone had pulled back a curtain, and now he could see all of her.

The instinct to pull his hand away gripped him, but he fought it down. Her fear was more important than his. It wasn’t her fault he was suddenly looking at her with fresh eyes.

She opened her eyes, and he couldn’t help but notice what a pretty shade of blue-gray they were. For a brief moment, her eyes held his, and she felt like the best kind of stranger—someone both new and familiar.

She flashed him a smile and pulled her hand out of his. Immediately, he missed the contact, but he didn’t reach for her.

“Thanks,” she said, and the smile dropped off her face. She arched a slender eyebrow as she reached up and touched her cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”

Dean gave his head a small shake. “Uh, no. Why do you think that?”

“Because you’re looking at me really weird.”

He forced himself to smile. “I am?”

“Yeah. Like you’re holding in a fart or something.”

He laughed and shook his head and the moment was over.

“Can I watch the movie with you?” she asked, pointing at one of his earbuds. “I could use the distraction.”

“Sure.” He offered it to her, and she popped it in, having to lean a bit closer to him to accommodate the short length of the chord. A warm, citrusy smell hit him, and his stomach tightened. Carly’s perfume. He’d smelled it dozens and dozens of times before, and he’d never thought twice about it. But now, with the bare skin of her arm brushing his, he found himself wanting to dip his head and inhale.

He’d known Carly for years, but he’d never seen her quite like this. Never . . . felt things when she was near him. He couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with his lingering guilt and embarrassment over how his family saw him. Maybe he was projecting his desire to be different onto her, somehow. And that wasn’t fair to Carly, who’d never, ever done anything to indicate she might be into him.

Or maybe he’d been blind to what had been under his nose for the past two years, too caught up in his own self-destructive patterns to see what was right in front of him.

Carly let out a soft laugh, her attention on the movie, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore. He was too busy trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.

* * *

Carly stepped off of the charter bus that had picked them up at the airport, inhaling a lungful of tropical air. Dean had told her that the rest of the guests were already here; she and Dean were the last ones to arrive. Because of his schedule at the bar, he’d had to fly out a day after everyone else. The wedding would be small, only about a dozen guests, and they were supposed to meet up with everyone later at a welcome dinner.

“I’ll go get us checked in,” Dean said from behind her. She nodded, and his hand brushed against the small of her back as he moved past her. A warm shiver worked its way up her spine, and she rolled her eyes at herself.

She stepped into the open-air lobby of the Royal Sunrise Resort as porters unloaded the luggage from the belly of the bus, unable to stop the wide smile from spreading across her face. Limestone walls climbed toward the clear, blue sky, topped with an intricately thatched straw roof. The marble floors gleamed in the late afternoon sunshine. As she moved farther into the lobby, tropical music floated on the humid, salty air, and a soft breeze rustled the fronds of the palm trees just outside the lobby. A massive black marble fountain contrasted elegantly with the white of the floors and walls, gurgling happily in the center of the lobby. Gigantic pots laden with tropical flowers dotted the space, adding bright pops of color to the otherwise sophisticated but neutral lobby. From her vantage point, she could see a limestone path leading away from the lobby, with villa-type buildings nestled into the lush greenery on either side. If she squinted, she could see the piercing blue of the pool through the trees. The beach was farther down the path, the view obstructed by the resort’s trees and buildings.

Her tropical home away from home for the next few days.

“Welcome cocktail, señorita?” A server all in white approached her, a silver tray full of what looked like mimosas perched on one gloved hand. Carly wondered how he wasn’t melting in his uniform; she was in jeans and a T-shirt and could feel the sweat starting to trickle down her back and between her boobs.

“Yes, gracias,” she said, plucking one off the tray. Not only did she want it because it was something cool to drink, but she’d more than earned it by surviving that plane ride. She took a sip and glanced over to where Dean stood by the check-in counter, a couple of people still ahead of him. His black T-shirt clung to his back, and she suddenly realized that she’d likely get to see him shirtless a whole bunch.

Yes, please.

Her mind flashed back to the plane and the feeling of his hand in hers, how sweet he’d been with her, how he hadn’t made fun of her fear of flying. And she was having sex dreams about him and wanting to see him shirtless. She took a long sip of her mimosa, trying to cool herself off.

She reminded herself that the only reason he’d invited her on the trip was because of his reputation, and because his family had asked him to bring a date. Clearly, he’d chosen her because there was zero chance of anything happening between them. Maybe the key to surviving this trip would be to stuff herself silly with Mexican food, so that she felt bloated and unsexy. The burrito method of abstinence.

“Carly?” A familiar male voice came from somewhere behind her, and she turned, taking another sip of her mimosa. She almost choked when she saw who’d called her name.

Dr. Mike Travis, her ex-boyfriend, stood only a few feet away, wearing a linen shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. His short, reddish blond waves were artfully mussed. “Uh, Mike? What are you doing here?” she asked, unable to think of anything else to say. She was relieved to find, though, that her inability to say anything more intelligent than that was only because she was genuinely surprised to see him. Looking at him, the only thing she felt was the dull ache of her bruised pride. No flare of attraction, no pang of longing.

“I’m here for a wedding,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. Over the past week, Dean had filled her in on the details of the wedding, and it only took her about half a second to put two and two together.

“You work with Christie,” she said, not a question, but a statement, because she already knew she was right.

He cocked his head and smiled condescendingly at her, as though she were a little kid who’d just put together a puzzle. “That’s right. I do. I didn’t realize you knew her. So, then I take it you’re here for the wedding, too?”

She nodded. “Yeah, with the Grayson side.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Mike cleared his throat. “Listen, Carly, I’ve been meaning to get in touch.”

She frowned, unsure where this was going. “You have?”

“Yeah. I just . . . I wanted to make sure that you’re okay.”

She fought the urge to snort and roll her eyes. “I’m fine.” And really, she was. Sure, her ego was bruised, but bruises healed.

He looked at her pityingly, as though he didn’t believe her. “I know how tough breakups can be, and I hope you’re all right.” He glanced down at the floor, and she couldn’t tell if it was because he genuinely felt bad, or if he was putting on the “oh, poor Carly act” for his own egotistical purposes. Hunting her ego with his own.

Before she could respond, Ashley sashayed up to Mike, a fruity cocktail in one hand and a large, floppy sunhat in the other. She actually sashayed, like some old-timey movie star, as though walking normally wasn’t fancy enough for her. Her thick, blond hair fell down her back in waves, and her pristine white sundress fluttered around her slender calves in the breeze. She turned her big brown eyes on Carly.

“Oh, Carly, my goodness. I didn’t realize you’d be here, too. How are you? You’re doing okay?” she asked in the same condescending tone Mike had used. She studied Carly, frowning sympathetically. Carly had no idea if her misplaced sympathy was genuine or not, but frankly, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t wanted, or needed.

Carly didn’t blame Ashley for “stealing” Mike; she didn’t buy into the myth of the man-stealer. Mike had found someone who suited him better, and that someone happened to be Ashley. If Mike had been happy with Carly, if he’d had deep feelings, he wouldn’t have found someone else, plain and simple.

“I’m fine,” she said again, this time through clenched teeth. Anger flooded her, at Mike for the way he’d made her feel, at Ashley for her condescending bullshit, at the fact that she’d have to deal with these two for the whole trip.

“You’re so brave to come to a wedding alone,” said Ashley, smiling at her as though Carly were some sort of hero, as though she couldn’t possibly be here with someone, pathetic creature that she was. “I think I’d die of embarrassment.”

Carly’s nostrils flared, and she forced herself to stay calm. “I’m not here alone. I’m here with Dean.” She tipped her head in the direction of the check-in desk, where Dean was currently signing something.

Ashley’s mouth dropped open and Mike frowned. “You’re here with Dean Grayson?” he asked, the pretentious condescension gone from his tone. Something about the way Mike looked mildly perturbed, while Ashley looked equal parts surprised and impressed, made her feel good. As though she’d somehow flipped the conversation around and now had the upper hand.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t realize he had a girlfriend,” said Ashley, eyeing Dean appraisingly.

“Oh, uh . . .” Carly knew she should correct them and set the record straight. But then she’d have to put up with their pitying, condescending looks for the next several days. So, she opened her mouth before she could talk herself out of the lie. “Yep. Dean and I are dating.”

She’d barely finished her sentence before she saw Dean out of the corner of her eye. He’d apparently finished checking them in and had arrived just in time to hear the lie. Her heart thundered to life in her chest, and she held her breath, waiting for him to correct her, to challenge her on what she’d just said. She could practically feel her nose growing. But he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Room’s ready,” he said simply, smiling at her.

She froze for a second, but then managed to regain her composure. “Great. Dean, this is Mike Travis, and his girlfriend, Ashley. Mike works with Christie,” she said, directing the conversation away from her and Dean.

“Doctor Mike Travis,” he said as he and Dean shook hands. Dean smiled affably, clearly not fazed by Mike’s dickish attitude.

“Well, we’ll let you two get settled. See you around,” said Mike, taking Ashley by the elbow and leading her away. He glanced over his shoulder once before disappearing around the corner.

“So,” came Dean’s voice in her ear. “You want to fill me in, sweetheart?”