“After my parents both died I sold the house to pay for college and even with my fancy new job, there’s no way I could afford to buy there now. Most of the homes start at half a million. My parents bought our house back before the revitalization, so prices were cheap and the hood was bleak. But now… it’s out of reach for me.”

When I look over at him he’s got a solemn expression. I know it well. Pity. When people hear that my parents died when I was young I get that look often. I like to get past it, so that’s why I opt for telling instead of evasion. And then I always turn the conversation back around. “Is your family close? I mean, I knew you had a sister and a brother, and I’ve seen your brother in a few indie films, but I’ve never seen your sister before.”

He nods as I talk. “Yeah, we’re close.” And his smile when he looks at me tells me that’s the truth. “We bicker and shit, but it’s all in good fun. We’re very close. Even my father, the great Adam Asher, is a big family guy at heart. But I don’t see Samantha often. She hates the spotlight. She hates the paparazzi. They wrote a story on her when she was a teenager, a real nasty one, and it about killed her. My father sued the magazine and they gave in and pulled the story before it ran. So all turned out OK. But Sam was… traumatized. That’s why we had everyone background-checked.”

That whole story makes me shiver. “Why let anyone come to the resort at all? Why not just buy up all the rooms?”

He stops and waves his hand at the expansive back lawn of a sprawling beachside estate. There’s a line of mature palm trees flanking a center walkway paved with pea stones that leads up to the Spanish-style house. “We own this place. The beach, the resort, the house. So we can do whatever we want with it. But—”

He looks down at me and this is the first time I realize how tall he is. I know his actual height, six foot two, because I know all those trivial facts about him from my fangirl stalking. But seeing him in person is quite different. I have to look up to pay attention to what he’s saying and it makes me feel vulnerable.

“But some people,” he stresses these words, “are on their honeymoons. And Samantha wouldn’t hear of ruining them.”

I laugh a little. “We lied.”

“Obviously,” he says back with a smile. “I wasn’t sure at first, no offense,” he adds with a chuckle. “You and your friend together are a fantasy come true. But the guy showing up and announcing himself as her boyfriend sorta blew your cover.”

“It wasn’t cover,” I explain. “We just never thought about it, I guess. The rules never said you actually had to be newly married. And Bebe’s current boyfriend is more of a toy than a commitment, so she brought me with her instead of him.”

“Looks like that might’ve backfired for her.” Vaughn’s genuine smiles leaks through his feigned attempt at seriousness. “She seems to have forgotten about you.”

“I know,” I sigh. “I’m not usually a jealous bitch, but I was a little annoyed when the call came saying she was spending the night on some island.”

“Well, I’m happy to keep you company and occupy all your thoughts while you wait for her to come home. Want a tour of the house?” He waves me forward and onto the little pea-pebbled pathway.

“Wow, these stones feel so good on my feet.”

“They really do, don’t they. You don’t normally hear those three things together. Bare feet, stones, and feels good. But they are smooth and polished. It’s like a foot massage as you walk.” He chuckles to himself and adds, “And if you ever find yourself lying on your back, they massage that too.”

“Is that right?” My God, he just admitted to f**king someone on this path.

“Wanna feel it? Here,” he says as he takes my hand and kneels down on the pebbles, pulling me down with him. “Lie down, I’ll show you.”

“No.” I pull away, forcefully this time. With enough gumption for him to realize that’s never gonna happen. “No, I don’t want to.”

“OK,” he says, getting back to his feet. “You’re a tough cookie to crack, aren’t you?”

“Define crack?”

“To break, to open—”

“Now you’re the one sending mixed signals.”

“Am I?” he replies quickly. “I think I’m sending all the right ones, to be honest.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what you want? Why ask me out? Why all this strange interest?”

He stares down at me with a flat line for a mouth, his eyebrows melded together in an expression of confusion. “Why not you? You’re pretty, you’re here, and you’re the only beautiful woman around who is not on her honeymoon or part of my family.”

Oh my God. The god just insulted me by practically labeling me ‘available’. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?” I ask him. It takes a lot to undo my Happiness is a #Hashtag motto, but I admit, I am very, very annoyed at this point.

“Are you looking for a compliment? Because I can dish them out, Grace. I can tell you your eyes are beautiful, your ass is perfect, and your tits make me hard just picturing them inside that flimsy little piece of fabric you’re calling a dress. Do you need to hear all those things right now? Do you need your ego pumped up? Because from where I’m standing, all those things are so obvious to me, I kinda figured you’d think I was some pathetic player if I said that to you tonight.”