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“I am so mad,” Jean informed the empty darkness as she hurried across the grounds. Not that she needed to hype herself up. If she were a kettle, Jean would be seconds from a full rolling boil.

How dare Charlie deceive her? How dare he ruin what they had by not being who he said he was? Or being who he didn’t say he was. Same difference.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say Charlie? I meant Charlie Pike . Beer Bachelor. Dater of pop stars. Snake scientist, my ass.” The Silent Freaking Storm —she cut off that thought before it could take root. Jean had no desire to contemplate another woman’s lyrical ode to Charlie’s tongue.

And to think she’d been worried about going easy on him.

He is kind of quiet , an unhelpful part of her brain pointed out. When he’s not talking about snakes. That’s probably where the “silent” thing comes from—

“Shut up.” She smacked herself in the forehead to drive home the message. “We don’t care.”

When Jean reached the cottage, the porch light was off, like he was trying to hide from her wrath. Joke’s on you, she thought, pounding the door with the side of her fist. Playful knocks were for yesterday’s Jean. What a freaking patsy!

The vision in Jean’s mind had been crystal clear. The door opens. Before Charlie can get a word out, Jean plants both palms on his chest and shoves. And then: the yelling!

But it wasn’t Charlie who opened the door. In a flash, Jean’s entire plan skidded off track.

There was a woman in Charlie’s cottage.

In that first feverish instant, Jean half expected to see Adriana Asebedo in full makeup and spangly stage costume, here to reclaim her man.

But this was a face Jean had never watched in news clips or music videos.

Her long dark hair was pulled back in a low, normal-person ponytail (not to be confused with the kind that required professional styling), and she was wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt that looked like regular clothes, as opposed to the designer boutique version.

Which made it even worse. This girl was so comfortable with Charlie, she didn’t feel the need to dress up.

Not that her big dark eyes and wide mouth required makeup to be striking.

Was she another guest? Had Charlie been seeing her this whole time?

Did she use gel or were her eyebrows like that naturally?

The angle of those covetable brows grew more dramatic as she stared Jean down.

“Turndown service,” Jean blurted, when what she really wanted to say was, you’re holding his pajamas . Jean loved the faded blue paisley of those old man drawstring pants.

Used to love. Past tense. Had been tricked into sort of liking. Against her better judgment.

“We don’t need it,” the other woman said, polite yet firm. She started to close the door.

“Are you sure?” Jean tried to smile, while also surreptitiously peeking into the cottage.

Was that the shower running? Charlie was showering, and this person was here, answering his door?

Jean’s hands and feet were ice cold, probably because her blood had stopped circulating. Your heart had to be pumping for that.

Charlie’s lady friend didn’t return Jean’s strained half grin. Possibly she was wondering why a deranged resort employee was trying to force her services on them.

Because I’m too stunned to move . Jean’s pride saved her from the humiliation of admitting it.

“I don’t have any change,” the other woman said, frowning at Jean’s continued presence. “We’ll leave some cash on the dresser.”

The door closed, followed by the sound of the dead bolt sliding into place.

Hildy found her on a lounge chair next to the infinity pool. Time had passed; Jean couldn’t have said how much.

“You and the Silent Storm, huh?”

Jean flinched, less at being found out than the nickname.

At least it wasn’t the kind of question that required an answer.

What would she even say? Not anymore implied that she and Charlie had been together at some point in the past. That seemed questionable at best, considering her “Charlie” didn’t exist.

It wasn’t until the cottage door slammed in Jean’s face that she realized how big a part of her had expected Charlie to make it all better.

Charlie who? he was supposed to say, his face glowy with happiness like she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Jean, it’s just me. Same as always.

It didn’t have to be a long speech. Actions spoke louder than words. Like inviting someone over for a “special surprise” and then letting your other girlfriend answer the door. Classy!

“I guess he was in Australia, doing some kind of research?”

“Snakes.” Jean roused herself long enough to glance at Hildy, who had claimed the lounger next to hers. “Is that news?”

“The default assumption is always cult, rehab, or plastic surgery. Not that his face needs work.” Hildy tried to pass her huff of amusement off as a cough when Jean glared at her.

“Which obviously we hate his stupid face.” She pretended to gag.

“Last week there was a rumor he’d been spotted driving a UPS truck in Kentucky.

Does he even have the legs to pull off those shorts?

” Hildy paused in case Jean wanted to weigh in.

“But I guess we know where he really was.” Her voice trailed off, another hopeful ellipsis. “You really had no idea?”

“Nope.” The word tasted like fish oil. There were few things Jean hated more than not knowing the score. “He told me his name was Charlie.”

“Just Charlie?”

“We mostly talked about other stuff.” Snakes.

Poker. Sex. The big-ticket items. It had been a game to her, trying to guess why he was there.

Way to ignore the clues, Jean-ius! Charlie wasn’t just shy or antisocial, any more than he’d grown up on a freaking family farm.

He was hiding from the world. Deliberately incognito.

“It would be weird if he went around introducing himself as the Silent Storm,” Hildy said, as if that were an excuse.

“Can we not?” Jean wanted to scream every time the chorus started up in her head.

That entire (irresistible, inescapable, incredibly sultry) song was about longing for the one who got away, who spent the titular “Lost Weekend” taking you places your lady parts had never seen and then leaving you high and dry.

Everyone who heard it came away hot and bothered.

It was an anthem to sex—a banger about banging.

And apparently also a playbook for the guy she never would have pegged as being a player. This was the same Charlie who had strongly implied he needed Jean to show him the ropes in the bedroom. Only not actual ropes, because she hadn’t wanted to throw him in at the deep end.

“Sorry! I just have so many questions.” Hildy mimed shoving something back into her mouth.

“You and me both.” Had he taken up with Jean because she was so very available, the human equivalent of extra towels?

Did he always ghost the people he slept with, or was she not exciting enough for a guy who’d dated one of the most famous women in the world?

Maybe it was because she’d fessed up to her less-than-glamorous past. Recreational slumming was one thing, but a semidelinquent with a family legacy of fried snacks? No thank you!

“Listen.” Leaning forward, Hildy put a hand on Jean’s knee. “I know it hurts, but I promise you won’t always feel this way. Is it your fault you fell for someone who turned out to be a dirtbag? No. So you pick up the pieces and move on.”

Easy for someone with a trust fund to say. “Move on where? My waitstaff gigs have fully dried up, my two best friends are busy with their own lives, I can barely afford my shithole apartment as it is.”

“I’m talking emotionally .”

“If you tell me my heart is a forge and that forge is on fire, I can’t be responsible for my actions.” They’d be shoveling sidewalks in hell before Jean was ready to take advice from an Adriana Asebedo lyric.

“Please. I’m talking about stepping past the sads into an exciting new phase.”

“I know I seem vulnerable right now, but I’m not in the market for nutritional supplements or a life coach. See ‘my ass is broke,’ above.”

“Ha! Why should you change? He’s the one who did you wrong.”

Jean managed to lift one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. This was true, but not particularly useful information.

“I’m talking about real satisfaction.”

“I don’t have money for sex toys, either.”

Hildy shook her head. “TMI. But also, take it from me. The best medicine is revenge.”

The overcooked noodle that was Jean’s spine snapped back into a semblance of its former shape.

No wonder she felt so terrible, sitting there like roadkill.

Jean was not that person. She didn’t let anyone walk all over her.

If Charlie thought he could play her for a fool, he’d picked the wrong woman to use and then cast aside like… a damp towel.

A flickering heat started low in her chest. “Are we talking Saran Wrap on the toilet? Swap his cold brew for soy sauce? Dead fish under the bed?”

“Hold that thought. I’m getting a notification.” Hildy extracted a phone from the pocket of her linen pants. Her face fell. “Duck on a stick! Those bastards.”

“What?”

“Someone beat us to the punch.”

“Sabotaging his room?”

“Breaking the story.” She turned the screen so Jean could read the headline Beer Baron Goes Beach Bum in acid green on a black backdrop.

“I need to make a quick call. This was so much easier when I had my own photographer.” Hildy skimmed through her contacts, holding the phone to her ear as she waited for it to connect.

“Who can we get to the Honolulu airport right away? No, not tomorrow. Listen to the words coming out of my mouth. We don’t have time to run it up the chain, but that’s okay because I know what I’m doing—oh great.

” She lowered the phone, rolling her eyes at Jean.

“They put me on hold. And click .” Hildy ended the call. “Screw that. We’ll go ourselves.”

“Go… to the airport?” Jean had a feeling she’d still be lost even if she’d heard both sides of the conversation. Weren’t they going to confront Charlie? Or at least make it very hard for him to ignore Jean’s existence?

“Oh yeah,” Hildy said, as if it were obvious. “He’ll make his escape ASAP, if he isn’t already gone.”

“Gone as in checked out?”

“For sure. My money says he’ll get off the island before shit really hits the fan. The question is where he’s going to ground.” She narrowed her eyes at Jean. “You have insider knowledge. Where do you think he’ll hole up?”

Jean could only shrug. She knew Charlie exclusively within the context of his cottage—a fact that had been made abundantly clear tonight.

“That’s okay.” Hildy couldn’t hide the pity in her eyes—or the disappointment. “Good riddance, right?”

She was clearly trying not to rub Jean’s nose in her own uselessness. How much more pathetic could Jean get? It wasn’t like her to have zero ideas. Surely there was something she could…

“Hildy.”

“Hmm?”

“A story would still be worth something, wouldn’t it? A real exposé, not just a quick sighting before he disappears again.”

She looked up from her phone. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Jean gave a slow nod. “I bet he’ll go home. To South Dakota.”

“You think?” That was more like it: Hildy staring at her with unmistakable interest. No more of this “poor Jean” nonsense.

“His parents are having some kind of party. He felt guilty about missing it. Allegedly.” Who knew if any of that had been true?

She told herself it wasn’t a betrayal, even after Hildy started “hitting up her network,” which was apparently business speak for texting your sorority sisters.

Charlie had done her wrong. The lying was bad, and the cheating was worse, but walking away without a word? That hit like a harpoon to her heart.

Tell me you don’t give a shit about me without telling me you don’t give a shit about me.

Two could play that game.

The tables were about to be turned.

Watch your back, Charlie Pike.