He nods and watches me eat. I’m not sure why. Do I do it wrong? Am I shoveling it in too fast? Oh well, I’m too hungry to care.

  “What’d you learn while you were down there?” I ask between bites.

  For the record, I put on a Siesta Playa polo and khaki shorts after my shower. Cole is wearing work slacks and a hunter green sweater that looks absolutely divine against his olive skin and dark hair. Hair, by the way, that is back to its pristine condition. He’s shaved his stubble and applied some deliciously scented aftershave. What would it be like to be that put together? And this, after going to bed at 2:00 a.m.!

  “It’s not great, but could be worse. You probably saw there’s some major flooding. The grounds crew has surveyed everything, and it looks like most of the buildings have been spared, except for some staff housing.”

  I gulp, and he notices.

  “Your dorm should be fine. We think it was only a dozen or so units down closer to the water, but we’ll have to see. There’s a large portion of the resort that’s still without power, but that’s to be expected considering how much of the island as a whole is without power. It looks like, from early reports, Turks and Caicos was mostly spared from the worst of it.”

  Thank god.

  “What does all that mean for us? Staff?”

  “We’ll have you all remain in the hotel for the time being. No point in moving anyone until we get a better handle on the situation. It’s easier to just keep things as they are.”

  “So . . . roomies for another day then? Interesting . . .”

  He thinks I’m funny, I know it. There’s a smile in that gaze. A little curl to those lips.

  “I thought we did pretty good, don’t you? No bloodshed. I mean, I didn’t wake up handcuffed to the bed, so that’s a plus.”

  His eyes narrow in amusement. “Where does your brain come up with this stuff?”

  “I don’t know. I read a lot as a kid.”

  He nods like this might explain things.

  Then he pushes off the dresser and takes his coffee. “Lucky for you, I’ll be gone most of the day. You’ll have the room to yourself.”

  I frown. “I’ll be gone, too, won’t I? Aren’t you going to put me to work?”

  Turns out, I should have just accepted the day off.

  Originally, Cole wasn’t going to have me go downstairs and clock in. For now, resort operations have temporarily ceased. Activities, excursions, the dog and pony show—yeah, it’ll have to pause for the day as everything gets sorted out. Camila, Lara? They’re holed up in their room watching a movie marathon. They texted me a picture of a bowl of popcorn with Notting Hill in the background. I mean, classic Julia Roberts? Say no more!

  Meanwhile, where am I?

  I’m playing triage nurse for Dr. Missick.

  No scrubs or sensible clogs for me. I have a clipboard and piece of paper on which I write down every person who walks into Dr. Missick’s waiting room, and from there, I have to decide where they rank in terms of least concerning injury to most concerning injury.

  Why is this necessary, you might ask?

  The preppers.

  Yes, oh yes. While the rest of us were lying low for the last twenty-four hours, they’ve apparently been having a field day.

  Why take it easy in the safety of a hotel room when you can throw yourself full force at danger and then come crying to the resort doctor (a.k.a. Mommy) when you accidentally hurt yourself?

  I’m honestly shocked by how many injuries there are.

  Let’s go down the list, shall we?

  There’s the guy with a herniated disc from chopping up palm trees for hut building.

  Oh, or how about the man who went out in the floodwaters to “hunt and gather” and wound up getting bitten by a snake?

  More?

  Okay. There’s a case of bacterial gastroenteritis in the guy with the knockoff LifeStraw. (“It was the zero point zero one percent that must’ve got me.”)

  Currently, I’m sitting across from a guy as he explains that he went out into the storm last night because he wanted to test how windy it was, and while he was out there, he got whacked in the head with a heavy palm leaf. He’s complaining that he can’t hear out of his left ear at all.

  “Could you speak up?!” he asks me as I go through the intake forms.

  Instead, I speak softer and then act seriously concerned when he can’t hear me. Oh dear, it’s worse than we thought.

  These guys just keep coming.

  By the time I get my thirty-minute lunch break, we’ve run out of chairs.

  I escape while I can. After all, Dr. Missick needs lunch too. My intention is to go directly to the cafeteria, but my feet lead me astray. I take a turn around the lobby; then I poke around the side hallways, acting casual about the fact that I’m doing a thorough search for Cole. I don’t have anything I need to tell him. I guess I just . . . miss him. Oh dear. Maybe I should put my own name down on Dr. Missick’s triage list.

  Twenty-five-year-old female presenting with a case of lovesickness.

  Proposed treatment plan? Unknown.

  I don’t even end up finding Cole, which leaves me feeling like a deflated balloon for exactly how long it takes me to get back to the clinic to find the waiting room filled with hotel guests, and then I’m too distracted to care.

  Dr. Missick and I bond like two enemy soldiers on the battlefield. At the start of the day, we were adversaries. I was his last resort when I showed up this morning, offering my services. He very nearly turned me away altogether. “You know what? I’ll manage fine on my own.”

  But as the day wears on and it becomes an “us versus them” situation, we learn to stick together.

  Close to 4:00 p.m., he sends a patient out of his exam room and then calls me in. He’s sitting on his stool, shoulders slightly slumped as he disposes of his nylon gloves in the nearly overflowing trash can nearby.

  “How many more?” he asks, not bothering to hide the fatigue in his tone.

  “Three, if you count the guy who rolled his ankle at the lunch buffet.”

  “Is it swollen?”

  “No.” I lower my voice as I continue. “And between you and me, I saw him walking on it just fine to go raid the snack basket a few minutes ago.”

  He nods, appreciating my candor. “Give him an ice pack and instructions to keep it elevated. If it’s not better by the morning, we can send him off for an x-ray. Who’s next?”

  When I’m released from my post, I all but race back to the hotel room. I’m careening down the hall before I realize it and force myself to slow to a moseying walk. I hold my breath as I slide the key card over the door and then walk into the room, only to be disappointed when I find it’s empty. But it figures. It’s only a little past 5:00 p.m. Cole likely has to work late tonight.

  It’s actually better this way, considering my first objective is to immediately strip off my clothes. After spending all day in the clinic, I feel like I need a full spray down in one of those military-grade airlock chambers, but I settle for a quick rinse in the shower. After, in my comfy towel, while I hum a little tune to myself, I pick out lounge clothes: a pair of sleep shorts and an old T-shirt I got from the time my parents took me to Yellowstone National Park when I was a teenager. It’s a little tight, and it exposes a teeny bit of my midriff, but it’s too soft to part with.

  I toss everything onto the bed, and the moment—I mean, truly, let’s get an official in here to review the game footage—I drop my towel, the door to the hotel room opens.

  I let out an involuntary shriek, and then I’m scrambling to pick the towel back up and cover all the important bits as fast as I can. Boobs are partly covered, vagina is . . . not so much.

  “Hold on!”

  It’s too late. Cole’s standing in the foyer as the door slams shut behind him. He looks like he’s been frozen in place, a statue of shock. Michelangelo’s David, only replace the weapon in his hand with two Styrofoam take-out containers.

  The concept of turning around and averting his eyes doesn’t even occur to him. My naked body has rendered him absolutely senseless.

  “Cole!” I snap.

  And finally he stammers, “Uh, yeah, um . . .”

  He whips around toward the door; then a second later, his forehead drops against it.

  “Say you’re sorry,” I demand dryly.

  “And what if I’m not?”

  Of course he’s not. He just got the milk for free, no purchase necessary.

  “How much did you see?”

  “Most everything.”

  I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “Erase it.”

  “It’s already been cataloged.” He double taps the side of his head with his finger. “I have a photographic memory for things I care about.”

  “COLE.”

  “Are you finished getting dressed yet?”

  He makes like he’s going to turn around again, and I emit some kind of squawk that forces him back around toward the door.

  I wrench my T-shirt over my head and then sigh. “There. Done.”

  He turns and looks at me, and it’s like his brown eyes are equipped with x-ray vision. The layers of clothing mean nothing to him.

  I throw up my hands. “This isn’t fair.”

  “Want me to take off my pants? Even the score?”

  I let out a laugh and shake my head, pointing to the take-out containers.

  “For you?”

  He walks into the room and holds them up. “For us.”

  My greedy little mitts take the top container, and I bring it to my nose to inhale. “Thank god. I was too tired to stand in line for dinner, and I wanted to shower. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do . . .”

  “I figured. Tough day in the clinic?”

  I groan in agony just thinking about it. “You could say that . . . Dr. Missick is a saint as far as I’m concerned.”

  He arches both brows. “You didn’t use to think that.”

  I lift my chin. “I’ve had a change of heart.”

  And not just about Dr. Missick . . .

  I open the lid on the container to reveal a cheeseburger (smash style) and a heaping pile of thin-cut french fries. Hubba hubba.

  “Ketchup?”

  He tosses me two packets, and I catch them deftly.

  Then we sit across from each other at the small table in the hotel room, and we eat. It’s civilized in a way we’ve never been before. When I run through my ketchup almost immediately (I need a dollop for every bite, obviously), Cole voluntarily gives me his spare pack without me even having to ask. It’s a far cry from my date with Blaze, where he couldn’t remember my name, oh and he was gay.

  Not that this is a date.

  I know that.

  Cole knows that.

  But if it were a date, it would be a really good one. The kind that feels spontaneous and unexpected, yet perfect. A picnic in the park versus a fancy dinner in a crowded restaurant; a stroll through a quiet bookstore versus shouted conversations in a smoky bar; a movie night where you make it fifteen minutes in and then lock eyes across the couch and turn absolutely feral.

  “This is so good,” Cole says, polishing off his burger in four bites.

  He’s almost done with his fries, too, but I don’t want all of mine so I tilt my container toward him in invitation. He takes them with a grateful nod.

  “So is this it?” I say, patting my full stomach. “Have we entered the friendship phase?”

  “Friendship phase?”

  “Yeah, you know, the type of relationship where we aren’t constantly at each other’s throats? We’ve moved beyond the enemy phase.”

  Cole assesses me while he finishes chewing. Whatever it is he’s thinking about, it’s making him irritated. I resist the urge to check for ketchup on my face. I won’t buckle under his scrutiny, not anymore.

  Finally, he reaches for more fries and shakes his head.

  “Sounds kind of boring.”

  Oh, what’s that I detect? An air of annoyance? Well, excuuuuse me. Remind me to never bring up friendship with Cole ever again.

  “Friendship offer officially revoked.”

  He laughs. “So enemies again?”

  “For life,” I tease.

  He clears our dinner as I go wash my hands. “What should we do now?” I call from the bathroom.

  “I was going to head down and go for a run in the gym.”

  “But you just got back,” I pout.

  I dry my hands and walk back out into the suite to see that Cole’s taken his sweater off so he can hang it back up in the closet. His undershirt is tight over his sculpted chest. His biceps flex in a way that zaps my brain cells.

  “You don’t need to go work out. Look at you! You’re in tip-top shape. Your body-fat percentage is probably like point zero three.”

  His gaze slices to me. “Okay. So what should we do instead?”

  I swear his eyebrow lifts slightly.

  A flame ignites low in my belly, but I don’t think he meant to turn me on with his innocuous question. I’m just a horndog.

  “Argue about what TV show to watch?” I suggest helpfully.

  I walk over to retrieve the remote off the dresser, and I wave it out for him to take. “Come on, you can go first. Pick something.”

  He walks over to take the remote from me, but when he reaches me, he pauses for a moment. Those heady x-ray eyes are back as he looks down, cocky in his inspection of my T-shirt and sleep shorts. I watch him swallow, and I fear for my resolve.

  What would I do if he took another step closer?

  If he bent down and fisted my shirt, tugging me toward him?

  If he wanted to kiss me . . .

  Knuckles pound on our door, distracting us.

  I’m expecting housekeeping (Pavlovian response, probably, because who else knocks on your door when you’re staying in a hotel?), but when I open it, Camila and Lara are standing out in the hall.

  “She’s alive!” Lara exclaims, throwing her hands up in celebration.

  Camila wastes no time leaning in, trying to see past me. “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  When she spots Cole still standing near the TV, her jaw drops open so wide I worry it might become permanently unhinged. Her gaze slowly shifts to me, filled with disbelief. “We heard you two were rooming together, but it just seemed like a dumb rumor. I mean, the odds . . .”

  The two of them exchange a glance; then Lara looks to me.

  “You said you found a spare room,” she says like she’s accusing me of lying.

  I try to close the door a smidge, to make our conversation a little more private, but Camila won’t let me. She props her foot out like it’s a doorstop.

  “I did find a spare room,” I insist. “It just so happened to include Cole.”

  “So you’re willingly here right now?” Lara asks, pointing inside the room. “This isn’t like a hostage situation?”

  “Damn it.” Camila props her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “We should have come up with a safe word for this situation! With you two, this was bound to happen eventually . . .” She walks over to me and leans in really close, lowering her voice. “If he has you here under some kind of blackmail situation or worse, you just say the word and—”

  Cole scoffs from his perch in front of the TV where he’s scrolling through channels. “She’s free to go whenever she wants.”

  Lara grins and reaches out for my hand, like problem solved. “Okay, good. C’mon. We heard there’s some chocolate chip cookies downstairs. They’re left over from lunch, but who cares? I’m in need of something sweet!”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Grab your shoes,” Camila tells me.

  But I don’t move. In fact, I actively resist Lara’s tugging. “I’m pretty full. I just ate a cheeseburger.”

  “Sooo?” Lara drawls, waving her pointer finger in a circle like she’s waiting for me to get to the point. “You always say you have a dessert column and a dinner column. So . . . this should be no problem.”

  Okay. I didn’t think I’d need to come up with another excuse here.

  I sigh, sounding exhausted. “I’ve had a long day.”

  Camila drops her chin and glares at me from beneath her eyebrows. “Paige.”

  “You don’t have to stay,” Cole says behind me, giving me the out.

  And yeah, okay, but what if I want to stay? What if, for once, I did the thing that I truly want to do deep down, which is to hang out with Cole and actually admit that we enjoy each other’s company?

  “I think I’ll just stay here . . . ,” I say noncommittally. It’s like, well, I’m already in the hotel room so it’s not like I can just walk out, you know? I have to find my shoes, and it’ll be a whole big thing.

  But they don’t buy it.

  “Holy shit,” Camila says, covering her mouth with her hands while she laughs with glee. “It’s happening! It’s finally happening!”

  “What’s happening?” I ask, feeling like I’ve been left out of the loop.

  Lara doesn’t answer me. She’s looking at Camila like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’s fluttering her hands in front of her face.

  I turn back to Cole to see if he can make sense of any of this, but he just shakes his head and turns back to the TV.

  “Right, well, see you later, weirdos. Enjoy your cookies.”

  Then I shut the door so I can willingly spend the rest of my night with Cole.

  There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.

  Chapter Twenty

  PAIGE

  The dust has barely settled on the closed door before buyer’s remorse sets in about my decision. Not about hanging back with Cole—not at all. It’s about turning down the cookies. I should have gotten more information. Like are they the thick, gooey ones or the thin, crunchy ones? What chocolate-chip-to-dough ratio are we talking about here?

  I chew on my bottom lip.

  Cole’s still by the TV with the remote. He’s given up finding anything worthwhile. Now, he watches me.

  “Why do you look sad? You didn’t have to stay with me.”

  “No,” I rush out. “It’s not that. I just kind of regret not going to get something sweet.”