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I swallow.

Fuck. Me.

Does she keep saying things with sexual innuendo, or am I just imagining it?

She barely has time to rub the lotion in before I say, “My turn. Turn around.”

“But you don’t have very much on, and I didn’t get it everywhere.”

“Trust me, I have enough.” I pin her with a look that says don’t argue with me.

She grins and then turns.

I squirt the lotion onto my hands and massage it into her shoulders.

I notice the goosebumps across her skin immediately.

“Shit, is the lotion cold?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

In total silence, I finish the rest of her back and drop my hands.

“Thanks.”

“Yep.”

She moves to lie back, and I just sit there.

Like a weirdo who can’t be making this any more awkward.

“I’m gonna take a dip,” I announce.

Am I sweating from the heat or Grace?

Both.

The answer is both.

After two hours of torture—watching Grace lie by the pool, looking happier and more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her, eat nachos as if no one were watching, drink a mojito as if it were the best drink in the world then order a second to drink while she gets ready for dinner—I’m ready for a healthy dose of reality to put me back in place.

Dinner with people from the company is just what I need.

Someone to remind me that I’m here because the world thinks we are engaged to be married and not because I decided to take the woman I’m crushing on all over again on a romantic vacation.

I sit on the edge of the bed, wishing that were the truth, but it’s not.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me anymore.

That’s a lie.

What’s wrong is that I want Grace. I want her when she’s working, I want her when she scowls at me, I want her when she’s relaxing by the pool, and I want her to want me back.

Deal be damned.

“Ready,” she says as the bathroom door opens.