The heat in his gaze promises the kind of incentives that have left me boneless and breathless every night since we crossed that line.
We’re sprawled across each other on the top deck of what can only be described as a floating Chuck E. Cheese for adults. This triple-decker catamaran is what would happen if a cruise ship and a water park had a baby after a tequila bender. The gleaming white monstrosity cuts through the waves with impressive speed.
Below us, the main deck shines with floor-to-ceiling windows. Most of the fifty tourists onboard are on that level enjoying the breakfast buffet—platters of fresh pineapple, mango, and papaya arranged in rainbow spirals, alongside grilling mahi-mahi that releases wafts of mouthwatering aroma even up here. The bottom deck features a glass floor panel where people can watch fish without risking their blowouts.
But the real party tricks of this floating amusement park are the twin water slides corkscrewing off either side and the “walk the plank” jumping platform extending from the stern.
“I hope I get to see a turtle today,” I say, already mentally rehearsing what settings I’ll use on my waterproof camera.
“I hope you’re wearing a thong bikini under these very modest shorts,” Reece counters, his long, strong fingers finding the hot-pink string peeking out above my waistband. He gives it a gentle tug that sends electric currents racing across my skin. “Preferably one that ties at the sides for easy access.”
His fingers slip beneath my shirt, exploring with the confidence of a man who’s spent the last several days mapping every inch of my body with obsessive attention to detail.
“There’s no way my bikini is more stunning than swimming with exotic fish in a volcanic crater,” I argue, trying to sound stern but failing spectacularly as his fingertip traces the underside of my breast.
“Agree to disagree. I’ve seen exotic fish from Fiji to Japan,andI’ve seen you in a bikini. No comparison.”
Right before I properly roast him for his priorities, he dips his head and attaches his mouth to my neck like a sexy vampire. The heat of his tongue against my skin is a direct hit to my happy place, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would scandalize the nice midwestern family two rows over.
“You sure you want to play this game?” I gasp as his teeth graze my pulse point, “because I can get aroused without visible proof, but you? Board shorts aren’t gonna hide that thick cock of yours.” I deliberately glance at his board shorts, which are already showing I’m the clear winner.
He growls against my skin—an honest-to-God animal sound that vibrates through me—before reluctantly pulling back. His pupils are so dilated his eyes are almost black, and I feel a surge of feminine power knowing I did that to him.
“Fine. Later,” he promises, threading his fingers through mine and pulling me closer. He rests his head on my shoulder with a contented sigh, the kind that lingers, that sinks under my skin and burrows in dangerously deep.
We sit in comfortable silence as the Molokini crater grows from a smudge on the horizon to a distinctive crescent shape rising from the water. It looks like something from a sci-fi movie—the partially submerged remains of an ancient volcano, its curved spine creating a natural harbor of turquoise water. Half a dozen other boats converge on the spot like colorful beetles drawn to the same flower.
It’s perfect. Beautiful. Everything I could want from a Hawaiian vacation.
Except for the storm brewing inside me.
What happens when this ends?
I still can’t believe Reece set up yesterday for me at Lahaina. The memory floods back—him assisting me with the documentary, learning my process, supporting my vision with such genuine interest and enthusiasm. I wanted so badly to tell him that this is exactly the type of content I want to make for my channel. The channel I’ve yet to mention, never mind asking for his help to promote it.
But reality lingers beneath the surface, circling like a shark. I’m leaving. I have to tell him about my resignation—but when? Cause once I do, our fake relationship is over. And I’m terrified this version of Reece—the man who watchesMission Impossiblein bed with me, who runs around our room making me laugh, who calls me “baby” like he means it—will disappear forever.
What if I stay?The thought is an ambush.What if we could be a couple and make meaningful content together?
The Lahaina footage proves that I’m not delusional. The way he showed up, helped me, actually gave a damn about telling those people’s stories. That wasn’t for clout. That was real—a glimpse of what we could do together. His platform could be more than thirst traps and viral stunts. He has the power to make real change, to spotlight causes that deserve more than fifteen seconds of attention. To be more than the sultan of Shallow Content.
The possibilities unfurl, tempting and dangerous. I won’t sign Gordon’s contract, but I’ll continue working with Reece as his… what? His videographer with benefits? His actual girlfriend? The uncertainty makes my stomach clench.
He acts obsessed with me… but is he, really? Or is this just Island Reece—relaxed, playful, affectionate because we’re trapped in paradise with nothing but time and each other? Once we head back to real-world pressures, demanding sponsors, and the relentless content machine, then what happens?
The sex is mind-blowing, earth-shattering,thank-you-Lord-for-making-male-bodies-capable-of-THATincredible. But it’s the other moments that have my insides all gooey—the way he looks at me when he thinks I don’t notice, how he remembered my sister’s name, how he cuddles me and never wants to let go.
I’m still waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under me. For Reece to go back to grumpy boss mode, Mr. Critical. Because this Reece Dare—the one who’s thoughtful and protective, who listens when I talk about camera shots and lighting with genuine interest—I’m falling for him. Hard.
I know that regardless, I need to make a decision and fast, because in two days we return to LA, where I’ve already given my notice. Where Gordon is waiting with a contract that would extend our staged romance for months—a contract I have no intention of signing. Yesterday made it clear: it’s time to pursue my plans to start helping others.
“OMG, besties! The view from up here is literally everything!”
Astrid explodes onto the top deck like a confetti cannon filled with narcissism and lip fillers. She prances around in her gold metallic bikini, shoving the camera into Blaze’s hands. “Hold this. I need you to capture my full goddess energy.”
“On it, babe.” Blaze salutes her, nearly dropping the camera in the process.
Blaze’s outfit today is an assault on fashion—extra in the worst way, like a fever dream curated by a colorblind clown in a hurry.
