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I slip them off and pull on a pair of bikini bottoms. These are better, right? Except all my bikinis are held together with strings and this dress is a little form-fitting over the hips.

I put the TW’s back on and sigh. That’s what I get for not making a packing list. And I have such cute underwear at home. Not the really expensive kind, but cute stuff.

I let it go and blow-dry my hair instead. It’s one of my best assets. It’s a color that can only be described as honey-blonde. It’s thick and long, almost to the middle of my back, and perfectly straight. I love that. Some girls wish for curls when they have straight hair, but not me. I love the fact that I can let it dry naturally and it barely has any wave to it at all. And when I blow-dry it, it falls over my shoulders and down my back like a waterfall.

My makeup bag is filled with all the usual, but I opt for a light dusting of powder and some eye makeup and that’s it. I’ve spent the entire summer bumming around in the sun on the cheap, so my tan is perfection. Why hide it with makeup?

I smile at that and adjust my girls inside the built-in dress cups. My breasts aren’t overly large, but they are decent and they are natural.

I slip my feet into my favorite pair of espadrille wedges and take stock in front of the mirror.

Cute.

I’ve always been cute. People never call me sophisticated or glamorous or beautiful. No. It’s always cute.

But it could be worse. I could be plucky or perky.

If someone calls you plucky, you’re a side character. That’s how they describe side characters in movies and books, right? The plucky sidekick.

I admit, I’ve been Bebe’s plucky sidekick before. Many times. She’s definitely the stock image of glamorous and sophisticated. Her long hair is dark, wavy in all the right ways, and perfectly matches her dark eyes. Everything about her look says mysterious sexy woman you want to take home and fuck.

A sigh escapes before I can stop it and a wave of self-doubt washes over me. Everything about my look says always a bridesmaid, always a sidekick, always an afterthought.

Never a star.

“Oh Jesus, Grace,” I chastise myself out loud. “Stop wallowing in self-pity. You’re young, you’re pretty enough, you scored a fantabulous job that’s waiting for you back in Denver, you have your own apartment—finally!—and you’re about to go on a date with a movie star while enjoying a free vacation on one of the most beautiful tropical islands in the world.”

I kick my leg up and smack my butt with my shoe. “A reminder,” I tell the cute face staring back at me. “A reminder that life is what you make it. Happiness is a #Hashtag. You do not look like Bebe and that’s OK because you look like
you
.”

Do I have this pep talk often?

Yes. I admit I do.

It’s not Bebe’s fault she’s beautiful. Plus, she’s my best friend. We’ve been best friends for years and never once has she ever made me feel inferior even though she excels at everything she does. She’s always supported me. She’s always been there when things were falling apart. She never once questioned my past choices and she stood by me through all of it.

It’s not her fault I’m so messed up.

I shake my head and my perfectly straight hair gently laps at my face.

“Snap out of it!”

And then I paint on my trademark smile and after a few seconds, it’s real.

I’m going on a date with Vaughn Asher
.

When I glance at the clock it’s quarter to nine and I decide to head out early just in case I get lost. I sorta know where the Sunset Cove Beach is—on the other side of the lazy river—but I’m not sure which path to take to get there.

When I open the door the fragrant flowers mixed with the sea air bathe me in peace. This place really is something else. It’s one of the oldest resorts on the island, but they take very good care of it. All the bungalows are updated with modern fixtures and electronics, the staff is friendly and attentive, and all the pools and beaches are immaculate. Never in a million years would I be able to afford this vacation.

Hell, I’m pretty sure this one is even out of Bebe’s price range now that she’s on her own. Her family is not super rich, but they are well-off. And Bebe had every opportunity growing up. But her parents believe in hard work and pulling yourself up on your own. Her family paychecks stopped the day she graduated from med school last May. She’s adjusted well. Not like some trust-fund kids. She knew it was coming and planned for it all through undergrad and when she was accepted into the physical therapy program at the University of Colorado Health Science Center, she roomed with three other students in a crappy neighborhood the entire time. She saved most of her living expenses and now that she’s an actual licensed physical therapist with an actual paying job at a local gym in Denver, all that scrimping and saving is gonna pay off.

My life was not so easy. I’m a few years younger than Bebe, and I have never aspired to a PhD like her. But I’m not doing too bad. I went to Colorado Mountain College, a small two-year school up in the Rocky Mountains where they specialize in hotel management, resort management, restaurant management—all kinds of recreational management, in fact. As well as culinary training, renewable energy and event planning.

That’s what I do. I’m an event planner.

Yes, like weddings and stuff. But I was mostly hired to plan parties, not weddings. You have to work up to that level of responsibility. My professional life the past few years was mostly Super Bowl parties and bar mitzvahs, but I’ve been doing more and more weddings the past several months and I’m really good at it. I just got a new job and that is a huge step up for me.

I feel like my life is finally starting. Like the past is behind me.

All this deep thinking has me turned around on the winding paths and for a moment my heart beats fast at the thought of being lost out here in the dark. Silverware clanks on plates off to the right, so I take that path to try and get my bearings.

The path turns a corner abruptly and I find myself staring at an extravagant sit-down dinner party. There are several dozen round tables covered in white tablecloths and fancy place settings. Hundreds of guests, at least. All dressed to the nines in what I’d call summer formal. Cream-colored suits, crisp white shirts, flowing linen dresses, hair up in sparkling pins, and everything has a feel of being light and airy. Like these people are all caught up in a summer breeze.

It’s a gorgeous event. There’s a path that surrounds the party and I walk along it, trying my best to remain unnoticed and invisible. I take stock of the fine china, the silver on the table, the cut of the crystal that the fresh flowers are sitting in. I notice the engraved place cards, the subtle lighting, the flowing curtains of the large tent where a band is setting up for a night of dancing. Out here in the dining area there is a string quartet playing soft melodies that allow you to enjoy the music without it being overpowering.

This event is perfect and I’m jealous. Not because I wasn’t invited, but because I didn’t plan it. I shake myself out of that stupid funk and pick up my pace. I’m going to be late for my date with Vaughn Ash—

Wait. There he is.

He’s here, at this party.

Hmmm. I stop and watch him for a few moments. He’s deep in conversation with a tall, beautiful woman. Her hair is dark, like his, and she’s dressed in a pale pink strapless gown that flows down her slender body and pools at her feet like satin water.

Vaughn cups her face with both his hands, his eyes intent on hers. Her eyes are glued to his lips as he whispers. And then she nods and wipes a tear. Vaughn leans in and kisses her gently on the cheek and then pulls her into an intimate hug.

I turn away, my heart beating so fast inside my chest I have to take deep breaths. I swallow down the lump in my throat and before I know what I’m doing, I’m running.

Chapter Eight

#SecondThoughtsSuck

I
FIND
myself on a beach. Not the Cove Beach or wherever the hell Mr. Asher invited me to. Some other beach that’s finally open because obviously that party was the one responsible for closing down the resort this weekend. His party.

Why would he invite me out tonight if he’s at a party already? If he’s got a girl here with him? What was he saying to her? Giving her an excuse for why he needed to leave and meet me?

That’s bullshit. I’m not a boyfriend-stealer. I think girls who date married or taken men are scum. I would never do that. Not in a million years.

But I feel dirty. Like—ashamed for even thinking about it.

I know his reputation. He’s a flirt, if I want to be nice. He’s a man whore, if I want to be honest. He’s not married and most of his relationships are very private. But there are rumors about
why
they are so private. Something akin to a nondisclosure agreement.

Which, OK, that makes sense if you’re rich and famous. I guess. But after what I just witnessed, I think he might have those contracts because he’s hiding things.

His sexual preferences have been in the weekly tabloids more than once. But for some reason none of those stories ever affected him. Maybe people just don’t care. I never did. The thought of Vaughn Asher being a deviant in the bedroom is more appealing than not, if I’m being honest. Lots of women feel that way today, so it’s no wonder that these stories of his dark sexual side never touched his movie-star persona.

But I’m not into secrets. I have too many of my own to bother with strangers’. I like fun and flirty. Do I really want to know about Vaughn Asher’s dark side? Wouldn’t it be better to just leave him up on that pedestal I made for him and go on living in a fantasy?

I swallow down my heartache. Which is just ridiculous. I have no relationship with this guy. And he came off a little bit obnoxious before I realized who he is and changed my tune. But he
is
obnoxious. Pushing himself into my raft today and sending me this bizarre invitation to meet him on the beach.

For what?

For sex, you dumbass!

He wants to use me. And I was fully planning on letting him. But no way, not if he’s got a girlfriend. Not even if he was breaking up with her, because that’s almost what that conversation looked like. She was sad for some reason—he was comforting her.

I drop to the sand and remove my shoes, my toes digging in until they are on the verge of cold. “Grace,” I say in a soft whisper. “You’re way too impulsive, Grace. You’re so eager for a fairy tale, you create one where it doesn’t exist.”

“It’s the wrong beach,” a husky voice calls out from behind me.

Vaughn. He’s found me.

“Did you get lost?” he asks. He stands beside me for a moment before taking a seat on the sand. “A few of the waiters saw you on the path outside the party and said you came this way.”

I can’t look at him and I have no idea what to say, so there’s nothing but the crashing of waves.

“This beach is private.”

“Oh,” I say, as I laugh a little to myself. I grab the straps of my shoes and I’m about to stand up when his large hand wraps around my small wrist.

“It’s OK,” he says in a soothing voice. “We can stay here.” His grip pulls me down and I give in and settle back on the sand. “Did you eat dinner?”

I shake my head no.

“Are you hungry?”

Another no.

“Are you mute?” he asks with a laugh. But when I stare up at him his laugh dies in his throat. “What’d I do? You’re looking at me like I’m the devil.”

I take a deep breath and look away. His beautiful eyes are too distracting. I can’t concentrate when I gaze at him. He steals my breath and invades my thoughts in all the wrong ways. I can feel the heat of his body next to mine. He’s still wearing his suit. Not a light one, like the rest of the people at the party, but dark. A black suit.

It’s an omen, I think. An omen that foreshadows the darkness inside him that I’m just beginning to see clearly. I know more about this man than a stranger should. I’ve been obsessed with him for years.

Maybe that makes me the dark one?

He huffs out a breath. “Did you hear something? Did you read something? I mean, you were normal this afternoon and now—” He changes position and flops down on his side in the sand, his hand propping up his face, his smile a devious smirk. “Now you’re…” He stares at me in the moonlight, his eyes darting back and forth between mine. “Now you’re… afraid.” He lets the word hang there between us. “Afraid
of
me? Or just of
being
with me?”