Panic seized me so swiftly that I didn’t think. I broke away and pushed him, hard. I scrambled back and caught myself, adjusting my bra strap, regaining my footing so I didn’t fall back in the dark water.

  We stood across from each other on the sandbar as the ocean waves lapped against us. We were breathing like we’d just held our breath underwater past the point of pain, gasping with desperation. My breath hitched as it mixed with a repressed sob. I shook my head, staring at him.

  His eyes were still full of arousal, but it was dimming by the second, shifting, dying.

  What did we just do?! I screamed in my head.

  WHAT DID WE JUST DO?!

  The question was so loud I almost covered my ears, like that would help dampen the alarm bells. I couldn’t hear anything, not the rhythmic crashing of the waves on shore, not my name slipping from his lips.

  I acted on pure impulse as I turned and fled back to the beach, swimming like I was being chased by a giant sea monster intent on swallowing me whole. I scrambled onto the sand and grabbed my clothes, tugging my shirt on and not even bothering with my shorts. I wanted to get away from Cole, away from my mistake, as fast as possible. I could only see things through the lens of my panic as I rushed away from that beach. What could have been consensual and fun felt dirty and wrong, like I’d thrown myself at Cole and he’d been forced to accept it. I was the one to invade his privacy on the beach when he was all alone. I forced us into the water. I jumped on him. And maybe now that I’m thinking back, I kissed him first. I can’t remember it clearly.

  I’ve replayed that night in my head over and over, trying to piece the puzzle together from different angles. Sometimes I can convince myself that Cole was equally as invested, just as turned on as I was. The moans weren’t just slipping from my lips. Other times, I get so deeply embarrassed remembering it, it feels like someone is pressing a hot branding iron to my cheeks.

  I considered calling in sick the next morning, to avoid the inevitable awkwardness, but I knew it would have to happen eventually. Grab hold of the Band-Aid and rip that sucker off, Paige.

  I ran through all the possible excuses on my way to the main lobby:

  Cole, oh my god. I was drunk last night. Sorry if I acted strangely!

  Cole, I think I sleepwalked last night!

  Cole, I don’t know how to explain this, but I fell prey to a Freaky Friday situation. Yes, the early 2000s movie with Lindsay Lohan where two souls swap bodies, uh-huh. So if I did something—like kiss you hardcore while desperately clinging to you in the ocean—that wasn’t actually me.

  Also, I was drunk.

  I walked through the sliding doors toward the main lobby with shaking hands and a queasy stomach. Forgoing breakfast had been a bad idea, but the thought of forcing down even a single bite of scrambled eggs was inconceivable. Just inside, I froze and scanned the lobby, searching for broad shoulders and a familiar head of black hair. I looked past the tacky prints of sailboats, the sculpture of a swordfish that collected dust on the center table, the mom with a heavy Jersey accent telling off her kids while rubbing her temples—“Joseph Anthony! Antonia! Giana! So help me, I’ll lose my friggin’ mind if yous guys don’t stop jumping on those chairs!”

  Cole was over by reception, dressed to the nines and put together like he’d just enjoyed a peaceful eight hours of sleep (propped upright in his coffin, of course). Never mind that I’d only managed thirty fitful minutes bookended by a lot of agitated tossing and turning. In the mirror that morning, my skin looked pale, and no amount of concealer could hide the dark circles under my eyes.

  When he first saw me, I almost thought I saw worry play across his features, but as soon as I recognized it, it was gone. I doubted it had ever been there as he started to cross the room to get to me. I wondered if the truce he called for last night still held true in the light of day.

  “Good morning, Ms. Young.”

  I immediately bristled. Last names? Who was he kidding?

  “Morning, Mr. Clark.”

  He scanned the area of the lobby over my head and continued with a succinct announcement meant just for me. “To be clear, last night never happened.”

  My face fell before I could prevent it. If he looked down, he’d witness the hurt that sank its claws into me, twisting my stomach, shredding me to pieces.

  What had I expected Cole to do this morning, after I bolted away from him? Gift me a smile? Suggest a round two?

  Oh god.

  Clarity gnawed its way to the forefront of my thoughts. I felt like a fool. Worse. Up until then, I hadn’t hated Cole. Not at all. Deep down I knew I wanted his attention—his approval—more than anything. But “last night never happened” formed a thick sheath around my heart, so that anything Cole did or said from that moment forward only served to further my bad opinion of him.

  He chose a blue tie today? That’s so like him, to spoil my favorite color.

  Another all-staff email? Surely, he’s only doing it to annoy me.

  I convinced myself my hard feelings at hearing his rejection only had to do with the fact that I hadn’t been the one to turn him down first. Yes, that’s it. I hated coming in second place.

  So I played into that. I harnessed all those false feelings and shrugged indifferently as I replied with a nasty little “Oh thank god.”

  It felt good to pretend I felt nothing but relief at hearing his words.

  “Never happened,” I agreed quickly, eager to set things to rights with him. Well, as “right” as we could ever be. I imagine if we polled a group of board-certified psychiatrists, they would unanimously agree that Cole and I are dysfunctional at best, damaging on average, and at worst downright destructive. The product packaging for our relationship would warn that prolonged contact with Cole Clark or Paige Young may result in nausea, bleeding from the ears, and homicidal tendencies.

  He reached up to adjust his tie, ensuring it lay directly flat in the center of his chest. Only then did he look down at me. My stomach did a little swoop and dip when our gazes met.

  He gave me a quick audit, checking me over to make sure I was still in one piece after last night. Sure, yes, my limbs were intact. I wasn’t down a finger. But my insides? Total goop.

  Could he tell how badly I slept? Did he notice the unkempt top bun I’d had to do because I’d collapsed into bed with my hair still wet from the ocean last night?

  His mouth flattened into a disapproving line. Then he gave me clear instructions. An alibi. “You went straight back to your dorm. I was never on the beach reading—”

  “Wallowing,” I corrected. “All alone in a sad pit of despair.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, not with anger or annoyance but with mischief. My relief was palpable. We could reset, just like last time. It wasn’t too late. These hard feelings could go away, if only I forced them to.

  He looked away, back to scanning the lobby. “Right. If someone asks, you can tell them you spent the evening like you usually do, brainstorming new ways to torment me.”

  “And you spent the night alphabetizing your ties by brand while imagining what it would be like to have a friend.”

  His mouth tightened. His brown eyes pierced me. “Is that what you think I need? A friend?”

  “You’re right. I can’t imagine you with a friend. You need a henchman. A three-headed dog to help warn people away.” I tapped my chin as I hummed in thought. “What would you name it . . .”

  He tilted his head, watching me with an expression that said, By all means, continue.

  “Cole Jr.”

  He couldn’t keep the amusement off his face. He wasn’t laughing. No, no. That would be preposterous. But he was looking down at me like he thought I was absolutely fantastic. That, or deranged. It was hard to tell.

  “You left your shoes on the beach when you ran off last night. I left them by your door. Figured you wouldn’t be able to survive without your beat-up hiking sandals . . .”

  He stared pointedly down at my feet, and I clicked my heels together like Dorothy.

  I was wearing a second pair of beat-up sandals. For the record, I have this exact style in three colorways; I hate that he probably knows that.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t keep them for yourself as a little memento from the best night of your life.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Best night?”

  It looked as though he was considering the possibility for a moment before eventually casting it aside. He merely shrugged. “It was informative.”

  Informative, my ass. HIS MOUTH WAS ON MY . . .

  I lifted my chin, threw back my shoulders, and donned my armor. “Informative, yes. Just for the record, you kiss . . . differently than I was expecting.”

  He frowned, eyeing me speculatively. “In what way?”

  “I don’t know . . . it’s hard to explain.”

  I desperately wanted to look at his full, pouty lips, but that would surely give away my X-rated thoughts, so instead, I looked down at his hand and remembered how intoxicating it felt when he used it to haul me against him. He has quite the grip strength. Who knew?

  Beneath my careful scrutiny, his hand flexed, and then he tucked it away into his suit-pants pocket as if it were giving away all his dark, sordid secrets. Those hands did a lot of his dirty work last night. I remember what it felt like when he slid down the strap of my bra, when his fingers bit into my skin, when he cupped my breast and toyed with my—

  “Sorry I’ve ruined you for all other men,” he quipped, tugging me back to the present.

  I shot him a glare. “Ha ha. Hardly.”

  His head tilted as he studied me. “Your cheeks are flushed.” Realization dawned, and I could feel the energy shift between us as he regained the upper hand. “Are you thinking back on it right now? At work? How depraved . . .”

  I pressed my hands to my face, Home Alone style, to conceal the evidence. “I walked briskly on my way here. That’s why I’m flush. Last night? Pfft. I barely remember any of it.”

  “Liar.”

  Of course I was lying. I could recreate the entire night from beginning to end with painstaking detail. The moonlight reflected in Cole’s brown eyes. The gentle pressure of his lips on mine. The slow teasing warmth that spread through my body, a promise of what was to come.

  I shivered, and he saw it. The edge of his mouth moved, and I couldn’t stand it—him circling the truth, so close to stealing the innermost part of me. I took a step closer, grabbed his tie, and yanked it so it was just slightly askew. God, it felt good. Juvenile, yes, but we were far beyond acting our age at this point.

  “Nothing happened,” I reminded him, effectively ending the conversation like I was slamming together two sides of a heavy book just as I’d gotten to the good part. I was going to climb to the top shelf in the library, way up high near the ceiling where the cobwebs cover the spines of the books. I’d find a dark spot, and I’d shove our book there, hiding it away once again.

  His shoulders stiffened, and he looked away with a firm set to his jaw. “Exactly.”

  Soon after The Thing That Never Happened, I had a hard time reconciling it. I didn’t tell a single person about that night, and Cole must have kept his mouth shut, too, because word never spread through the resort, thank god. For the first few days I lived in a perpetual state of dread that Lara or Camila or someone else on staff was going to waltz up to me with a knowing smile and say something painfully accurate like “Girl! Oh my god! I heard you threw yourself at Cole!” But when the dust settled and I realized that I’d somehow gotten away with it, my feelings turned inward. They cocooned into me, all day, lying dormant and quiet, only to be reborn at night as I lay awake in my bed. I fantasized about every part of that night with Cole, but in different ways. Occasionally, I would replay it all from start to finish, imagining slightly different endings. Most of the time, my musings were mundane: our kissing would shift into heavy petting and so on. Sometimes, though, my imagination ran wild. The fantasy would end with Cole dragging me back to the shore so he could ravage me like some wicked pirate or, or, he’d not even bother taking me back to shore. Angry, possessed, in desperate need of me, he’d tug my panties aside, and we’d have rough sex right there on the sandbar.

  I tormented myself with make-believe scenarios to the point where it started to become painfully obvious that I had a problem. A big six-foot-two, black-haired C-O-L-E problem.

  Fortunately, Blaze started working at Siesta Playa two weeks later.

  A perfect distraction.

  Chapter Nine

  PAIGE

  Yesterday, I had my chance with Blaze down by the pool, and Cole ruined it with that domineering-manager schtick. I’m sure he’s been gloating about it ever since, walking around with a pep in his step. His evil deed for the month, done—check.

  I just know he loves tromping around this place in those suits. He gets off on the power. If he had to wear cheesy Siesta Playa–branded merchandise like the rest of us, the spell would be broken. He’d shrink two feet, suddenly speak with a squeaky, high voice, and sprout a little rat tail.

  That’s my theory, at least, but it’s yet to be peer-reviewed.

  Today, I could leave well enough alone, but I have a fifteen-minute break before I have to lead an evening beach meditation, and I haven’t seen Cole all day. Besides, I actually could use his help with something.

  Past Siesta Playa’s main lobby, down the hall from reception, in a quiet area of the resort meant solely for executive offices, I find Cole still hard at work. Everyone else is gone. Their doors are closed; their offices are dark. Todd probably clocked out at 3:59 p.m. and dashed straight for his car, tires squealing as he peeled out of the parking lot. Meanwhile, Cole’s still standing at his desk. Yes, he has a standing desk, and I doubt it has anything to do with the harmful effects of living a sedentary lifestyle. He’s simply too busy to sit. Oh, there’s a situation down in the spa? An argumentative guest in the lobby? Why would he waste 0.01 precious seconds getting to his feet when he could already be out the door? If there’s an opportunity for efficiency, Cole Clark is going to take it. I’m surprised he doesn’t speed through the resort on a Segway or, at the very least, roller skates.

  I’m not surprised he’s still working. I imagine him there at his desk all night long. His version of sleep is standing with perfect posture, arms bent at exactly forty-five degrees, hands flexed like a Ken doll. He doesn’t move or blink from the hours of 7:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. while his battery charges.

  I peer through the cracked door of his office. He’s standing in profile, hammering his fingers down on his keyboard with pistonlike precision. If he were forced to witness my hunt-and-peck typing strategy, he’d have an aneurysm.

  “Knock, knock.”

  I tap my closed fist on the door and push it open a little wider.

  He doesn’t look up at me. In fact, he doesn’t take his attention off his computer screen as he fires off a quick “No.”

  Just like that, he’d like me to see myself out immediately.

  I don’t have the energy to feign offense.

  “As much as I would love to leave you alone, I have a matter of dire importance to discuss with you,” I say, bypassing the invisible Do Not Enter line on the floor. I’m surprised he doesn’t keep the place booby-trapped against me. Actually, I’m not certain he doesn’t . . . at this very moment, a gallon-size paint can could be arcing down from its perch above the door to clock me in the back of the head. Just in case, I duck.

  “Dire importance? Who did you injure now?” Quickly, he reaches for his phone to check the screen. His eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Dr. Missick hasn’t called me.”

  “No one’s hurt,” I assure him with a casual eye roll before looking over my shoulder to make sure there’s not a blowtorch primed to set my hair on fire.

  He drops his phone back on his desk and resumes typing like he’s in a competition to beat the world record.

  “Well, I don’t have time for any other dire circumstances, I’m afraid.”

  He leans over his desk and narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting across his computer screen like he’s on a mission.

  Is his job really that high stakes? He can’t pause for even a moment?

  I find that a little hard to believe. I won’t force him to give me the time of day. Instead, I’ll coerce it out of him. All I have to do is peruse his office, glance over the framed diplomas, run my finger along the back of a chair that looks like it’s never been used, take note of the mostly bare shelves.

  It might seem weird, but I’ve never had a reason to be in Cole’s office before. It’s as sparse as I would have expected. There are no personal items whatsoever. No family photos, no childhood keepsakes. Not even a Glade PlugIn. The last I only make note of because in this confined space it’s so easy to pick up the subtle notes of his cologne with its nicely spiced and wintery undertones. I’ve come to love that scent.

  “If you break it, you buy it,” he warns just as I start to pick up a heavy paperweight off a side table. It’s an award for five years of excellence with the resort.

  Right. I think better of it and decide to leave it alone. I couldn’t hope to earn such a replacement trophy myself, and I doubt he’d be content to substitute in one I could earn: a Year and a half of baseline competence medal or a More or less meets expectations ribbon.

  I turn on my heel to face him, surprised to find that he’s not even looking at me. I narrow my eyes with suspicion. How did he know what I was doing?

  “What are you working on?” I ask, stepping closer to him so I can peer over his shoulder at his desktop screen. My, my, my, that’s a lot of information on those spreadsheets.

  Like a teenage boy whose mom is about to walk in and find his hasty image search of “hot naked ladies,” he scrambles to minimize his Excel windows. The spreadsheets disappear before my eyes, revealing his desktop background. It’s a screenshot of last year’s record earnings report.