offer him the ticket and I’m stressing out my hungover brain with crap that has zero relevance or point in my life.
Okay, so I’m just going to stop thinking about it now and try to enjoy this solo snorkeling trip of mine.
I walk out of the cover of the palm trees and across the beach. I can feel how hot the sand is, even with my flip-flops on. It’s a scorcher of a day. I already applied sunscreen, but I’m glad I put a bottle of it in my beach bag because I’m gonna need another application. I have pretty good skin. I don’t burn and tan easily. But I don’t want to age my skin prematurely or risk skin cancer, so I always apply a good factor sunscreen in the heat.
Leaving the beach, I step up onto the jetty, where a group of people are already standing under the cover of the open building that sits at the end. To the right is another smaller building, which looks like a hut, and next to that sits a docked boat—or dhoni, as they are called here in the Maldives—which I’m guessing is what will be taking us out to the reefs today.
I’m halfway up the jetty when I see West. It’s not like he’s hard to miss.
He’s like a water fountain in the middle of the desert.
My stomach does this little flip-floppy thing at the sight of him standing there, leaning up against the hut, just slightly away from the main group of people. His face is turned down, reading something on his phone. His hair is tied back in one of those man buns, and he has a pair of aviator sunglasses covering his eyes. I’ve never dated a guy with long hair before.
And you don’t plan on dating this one either, Dillon.
He’s wearing white flip-flops, red board shorts—the color looks great against his strong, tanned legs—and a white tank with a sports logo over the left pec. Those gloriously muscular pecs and splendiferous arms are on show. Can you tell I went through a phase of reading historical romances? Anyhoo, I can see the flex of muscles in his forearm as he types something on his phone.
And I’m clearly looking at him way too hard if I can see that from here.
I force my eyes away, face forward, and keep walking.
My heart beats faster as I approach everyone. I’m telling myself that it’s the nerves of coming here alone, in front of all of these couples, but it’s not. It’s because West is here.
Should I go up and say hello? Or pretend that I haven’t seen him?
As I’m bouncing back and forth in my head over what to do, my eyes unwittingly go in his direction again, and at that precise moment, he lifts his head and looks right at me. I can’t see his eyes because of those damn sunglasses, but I can feel his eyes on me. Then, his lips lift at one side into a smile. A sexy smile.
And there’s that damn flippy-floppy thing going off in my stomach again.
My feet travel in his direction without guidance. Honestly, I don’t think I could have stopped myself from going over if I tried. He just has this pull to him. Like the display picture that stands outside of the coffee shop I pass every morning on my way to work—of the caramel latte, topped with a caramel crumb, and a double chocolate muffin, topped with salted caramel—purely left there to lure unsuspecting victims inside. And even though I would give myself a big pep talk the whole way there—that my thighs and butt did not need the fresh calories or fat cells to provide me with new additions to my ever-growing canvas of cellulite—I would still stop at the coffee shop, open the door, go inside, and buy them.
I’m a weak-willed woman. What can I say?
And I’m definitely not the only one who feels the magnetic pull of West. I can see the furtive glances in his direction from the coupled-up women here. Honestly, I don’t blame them. If I’d been here with the prick, I’d have been looking at West too. I’m not a cheater—never have been, never will be—even though I have half the DNA of a cheater. But West is a hard man not to look at, and a little window shopping has never harmed anyone. It’s when people start making purchases on their maxed-out credit cards that we have a problem.