Blood rushes to my ears, the sound drowning out the gentle crash of waves outside.This is it. The moment.I need to tell him now, or I’ll lose my nerve.
Three little syllables dancing on my tongue, ready to shake up everything between us. I’m ready.
BANG! BANG!
The words die in my throat as someone pounds on our door like a jackhammer with a raging hard-on.So much for romantic timing.
“GO AWAY!” Reece bellows. “WE’RE BUSY!”
He rolls over to pin me beneath him. His nose nuzzles into the curve of my neck, legs tangling with mine. A giggle escapes as I wiggle under his weight, loving every second of it.
“Busy getting busy.” he whispers before leaning in to kiss me.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The pounding intensifies, somehow becoming even more aggressive. Whoever’s out there is either running from a zombie horde or doesn’t understand the concept of “do not disturb.”
A man’s voice penetrates the door, sharp and demanding. “REECE! OPEN THE FUCK UP!”
He freezes mid-nibble. His head jerks up, brow furrowed in confusion. “Is that…Gordon?”
Our eyes lock, mutual horror dawning between us. Gordon Thorne—Reece’s manager and professional narcissist—is supposed to be in Los Angeles, not pounding on our Maui love nest door at the crack of dawn.
“Put something on. No one gets to see my baby naked but me.”
The possessive growl in his voice sends a shudder up my spine that has nothing to do with the AC blasting against my suddenly exposed skin. I scramble for my hotel robe and cinch it at my waist while Reece yanks up his shorts, not bothering with underwear or a shirt.
He strides to the door resembling a panther whose territory has been invaded—all deadly swagger and coiled tension. I smooth down my sex-rumpled hair, aiming forwell-rested professionalinstead ofsomeone who’s been riding her boss like a mechanical bull.
Reece barely cracks the door when Gordon forces his way in, his short stature vibrating with fury. Despite his agitated state, his hair—clearly fresh from a salon touch-up—doesn’t move, a testament to whatever industrial-strength product he’s shellacked it with. His skinny jeans look painted on, and his crimson blazer—dear God, he’s wearing velvet in Hawaii?—strains against his narrow shoulders.
“I knew it,” Gordon hisses, beady eyes darting between us and the rumpled sheets of destruction behind us. “I fucking knew it.”
“Gordon.” Reece crosses his arms over his bare chest, biceps flexing and nostrils flaring. “I’m sure you’re pissed about my text, but flying to Hawaii is a bit much, even for you. Besides, my mind is made up.”
Wait—what text? What decision?
Gordon waves his hand dismissively. “We’ll talk about your little identity crisis later.” His eyes swivel to me, narrowing into venomous slits as he shows me his phone. “What the fuck is this?”
His scathing tone, dripping with contempt, forces me to take a step back. I’ve been on the receiving end of Gordon’s wrath before—like when I’ve suggested Reece take a day off or refused to film a particularly dangerous stunt—but this? This is seethingrage.
Reece steps between us, an arm positioning me safely behind him. His fingers grip my hip protectively, and that dominant reassurance calms the storm in my chest.
“You better calm the fuck down,” Reece threatens. “No one talks to her like that.”
Gordon’s too-tight face twists into something ugly. “Before you defend her, look at this.”
I don’t like how he says that.
He thrusts his phone at Reece, who receives it with obvious reluctance. I peer around Reece’s shoulder and when I see the screen, my heart plummets like a malfunctioning elevator.
There’s a YouTube thumbnail of Astrid—her expression a masterpiece of calculated devastation. Crocodile tears streak her perfectly contoured cheeks, her signature overdrawn lips trembling for maximum sympathy.
But it’s the title that makes my blood turn to ice water in my veins:
Exposed: Camila Morales Confesses to Using Reece Dare!
Oh no. No no no no no.
