Page 61

61

ALLISON

T he second we step out of the airport, I realize I made a terrible mistake.

Humidity punches me in the face like a wet sponge.

Within seconds, my hair frizzes, my shirt glues itself to my back, and I feel my will to live evaporate into the tropical air.

“Connor,” I mutter, wishing I had chosen somewhere cooler for our honeymoon.

He grins, adjusting his sunglasses like the heat isn’t actively trying to roast us alive.

“Welcome to paradise, baby. This was your idea.”

I groan. “Why did I think this was a good plan?”

He laughs, grabs my sticky hand, and tugs me toward the shuttle van. “Because you’re chaotic and unwell.”

I drag behind him like a disgruntled tourist in flip-flops while he struts like he’s auditioning for a tropical cologne commercial.

“You’re thriving, aren’t you?” I mutter.

His smirk is pure evil. “Little bit.”

I narrow my eyes behind giant sunglasses. “I want a divorce.”

Our bags thud to the sidewalk behind us.

He stops dead.

His expression darkens like a brewing storm.

“Say that again,” he growls.

My stomach flips. “Connor?—”

He grabs the hem of my tank top and yanks me against him. “You think I’d let you walk away, baby?” His voice is low and lethal. “You think I’d ever let you go?”

My heart stutters. My traitorous body melts against his.

“It was a joke, hubby,” I whisper.

“Not funny,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over the shell of my ear.

I shiver despite the heat and shove his chest before I combust on the sidewalk. “Get the bags before I leave you for a cabana boy.”

He growls—but it turns into a smug grin.

“You’d be bored with a cabana boy.” He leans closer, voice dropping to a wicked rasp. “I’ve ruined you for anyone else.”

He’s not wrong.

He has.

* * *

The beachfront bungalow is gorgeous in that postcard meets mosquito ambush kind of way.

Tucked between palm trees and ocean views, it screams tropical charm, complete with gauzy curtains billowing dramatically and a suspiciously perfect fruit basket on the table.

Ceiling fans spin overhead. A massive bed dominates the space.

And on the patio, a private hot tub glistens like sin waiting to happen.

Connor kicks the door shut behind us, already pulling off his shirt.

His abs catch the light like a personal attack.

“Forget the heat,” he says, stalking toward me with dangerous intent. “I’m about to give you something else to sweat about.”

My breath catches. “You’re insufferable.”

He smirks, backing me toward the bed. “And you are completely at my mercy.”

Heat flares low in my belly. I don’t know if it’s the tropical air or the way his eyes devour me like I’m dessert.

He presses a slow, devastating kiss to the side of my throat, right over my hammering pulse.

“Let me overheat you properly, baby.”