I stay silent.

“Oh, no! Oh, honey—is that the problem?”

“Well, we only had sex once. Ok, twice.” I frown, recalling details. “Well... not enough!” I fume.

“What’s going on?”

“The resort management is sucking up to us. Couple’s massages and cheese courses and chocolate and lobster lunch buffets.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Grace has a master’s degree in Sarcasm, with a minor in Boo Hoo.

“This isn’t remote enough,” I hiss to Grace. “I need someplace where there are no cell phone towers. No cell phones. No way for him to communicate with the outside world at all.”

“You need a serial killer’s lair.”

“YES!”

“That wasn’t a serious suggestion, Shannon.”

“But it would work!”

Silence.

And then I swear I hear her mutter, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” but that can’t be right.

“Let me see what I can do,” she says in that clipped, officious voice she uses when it’s time to get down to business. A man with three flaming spears walks by, oiled up and impressively muscular, making my mouth water.

I wonder what Declan would look like in that?

“Can you get him outside?” Grace asks. “Pretend you’re doing a helicopter volcano tour?”

“Pretend?” Maybe if I act like the volcano has coffee growing in it, I’ll have a shot.

“I have a plan.”

“You have a plan? We haven’t been on the phone for twenty seconds, Grace, and you already have a plan involving a helicopter escape?”

“You and Declan set a precedent for that, Shannon.”

Ha ha.

“Do you trust me?”

“To unwind Declan from his workaholism? Yes.”

“Then get him to the heliport tomorrow morning. Ten a.m.”

“Great. And don’t say a word to James. Please.”

She snorts. “As if I talk to him at all.”

“He’s the one turning our lives into one big free PR junket.”

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be your wingwoman.”

My throat goes dry. “Uh...”

Deep, throaty laughter is all I hear before the line goes dead.

* * *

At three a.m. I hear the door creak open, and Declan crawls into bed. I ate so much roast pig I feel like one myself. The last thing I want is sex.

I play possum.

He shakes me gently. Lovingly.

I get nauseated from the movement, like I’m seasick.

He tries. He does. Five times.

Finally, he sighs and gives up, curling behind me.

And I don’t know what to do.

Tears pool in my eyes, silently soaking the sheets.

By the time I roll over, ready to talk, he’s snoring lightly, face angelic in the moonlit night.

“Tomorrow,” I whisper. “I swear.”

Chapter 8

Room service bangs on our door at eight a.m. I get up and shower, a familiar tightness in my lower abs.

No.

No no no no no.

I knew that lobster dipped in chocolate tasted a little too good.

I google “how to delay your period.” Oh, sure. Every bit of advice involves advanced planning. If I could have planned in advance, I wouldn’t be googling now, would I?

I shake my fist at the sky. This would be a perfect time for thoughts and prayers. Which, for the record, do not appear on the list of ways you can delay your period.

They did work in college a few times for people who were hoping to get theirs, though.

Ignoring the pending signs, I suck down my Mayan mocha and look at the clock. 8:45 a.m. Maybe a well-timed little something before—

Bzzz.

Damn it.

That’s my phone.

“Hello?” I whisper.

“Shannon?” It’s Grace. “There’s a storm coming, and we need to move the helicopter flight up to 9:30 a.m.”

I look at Dec in a panic. He’s rolling over, doing that stretchy thing that makes his perfectly-sculpted calf peek out from under the wrinkled sheets. Man, do I want to lick him.

“Lick what?” Grace asks.

Oh, shoot. Said that out loud.

“Lick the storm!” Lame. I know. “What about packing?”

“I’ll have staffers do it. Just get to the helipad by 9:30 a.m.”

“Got it.”

“Wha’s up?” Declan’s rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Volcano tour!” I chirp, turning away as a cramp seizes me. I close my eyes and do a Kegel, as if that will help. My uterus isn’t a hose I can fold in half, after all.

“Volcano what?”

“Resort staffers can’t find you there. I get you to myself. And remember that one time, when we—”

He perks up. “You’d give me one on the helicopter?”

I smile sweetly. “As long as we’re there by 9:30, we can do whatever you want.”

Never seen him move that fast before. Fifteen minutes later, he’s combing his wet hair, throwing on a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, and Birks, stuffing a chocolate croissant in his mouth.

“Ready?”

He swallows, puts down the comb, and reaches for me.

“I am so sorry about yesterday.”

I try to pretend it’s fine.

I fail.

“We have five more days,” he assures me. “Legal’s got the mess under control. You are my priority now. No more—”

Tap tap tap.

Right.

He opens the door to find Mr. Miyadori there.

“Mrs. McCormick?” He winks at me, stepping aside, sweeping his arm out in a gesture of welcome. “Your helicopter is ready. The car service is downstairs in the private driveway for our very special guests.”

Declan’s eyes dart between me and Mr. Miyadori, who takes on a professional look.

“Thank you,” I say, shaking his hand. He pulls me in for a very friendly hug, kissing both cheeks, and on one of the kisses whispers, “We have staffers packing the instant you leave, and the other helicopter will deliver your belongings.”

“Thank you,” I say again.

He smiles. We leave, climbing into a Land Rover. The driver points out sights of interest along the drive, but Declan and I are lost in each other, making out like high school kids on their first date in Dad’s car with the big backseat.