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“It was champagne, not acid.”
“My Brioni shirt begs to differ.” He gestures to the chair opposite him. “Join me for coffee? We should discuss our strategy.”
“Our what?”
“Strategy. For convincing people we don’t hate each other.”
I cross my arms. “But I do despise you.”
“That’s the spirit.” He grins. “Very convincing.”
“I won’t do this.”
“You will if you want access to our emission reports, waste management data, and the engineering specs for our new desalination system.” He takes another sip of coffee. “Which I’m guessing you do, given your publisher’s deadline.”
My jaw drops. “How do you know about my deadline?”
“I make it my business to know about people who throw drinks at me.” He stands and moves closer to the dividing wall between our balconies. “Look, we can help each other. You need data for your report. I need to avoid looking like a villain in the environmental press. One week of playing nice, and we both get what we want.”
“Playing nice doesn’t include Tantric Yoga.”
“The yoga is negotiable. The obstacle course isn’t.” His expression turns serious. “The cameras will be there, Harper. This is our chance to reframe yesterday’s disaster.”
I hate that he’s right. I also hate that he uses my first name like we’re friends. But mostly, I hate that I’m actually considering his proposal.
“No funny business,” I finally say. “We pretend to get along, I get my data, then we never speak again.”
“Deal. Though you might change your mind about the ‘never speaking again’ part. I grow on people.”
“Like a persistent rash, I’m sure.”
His laugh is genuine. “Breakfast? The pastry chef here is incredible.”
“I’d rather eat on my own, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He turns to go back inside, then pauses. “Wear the gear they sent. It’s actually made from recycled fishing nets. Part of a new sustainable clothing line we’re launching.”
I narrow my eyes. “Was throwing that plastic back into the ocean really your goal?”
“Reducing waste was. But keep making assumptions about me.” He winks. “It’s cute when you’re wrong.”
Before I can respond, he disappears into his suite, leaving me seething on the balcony.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m dressed in the irritatingly comfortable recycled-plastic athletic wear, making my way to the main deck. The Lover’s Obstacle Course is already drawing a crowd. Heart-shaped flags mark the course, and staff members bustle around making last-minute adjustments to what appears to be a series of physical challenges.
“Dr. Bennett!” A perky event coordinator spots me. “You’re just in time. Your partner is already warming up.”
Sure enough, Ethan stands near the starting line, stretching in matching athletic gear that hugs his unfairly well-defined muscles. He waves when he sees me, the picture of enthusiasm.
I paste on the fakest smile in human history and approach.
“Don’t you look sporty,” he says, eyes traveling from my ponytail to my sneakers. “The eco-warrior goes athletic.”
“Let’s get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit.” He lowers his voice. “The cameras are by the pool deck. Try to look like you don’t want to murder me.”
“I make no promises.”