Page 97 of Hate To Be Mine

I left the bungalow and felt adrift. I didn’t have a shoot to prepare for. I didn’t have people that needed to be told what to do. I ended up on the beach, walking along the shore and considering my options.

All I could think about was Bernadette. I couldn’t get my head around the idea I had fallen for someone so fast. It took me less than two weeks to lose my heart to her. We went from hating each other to whatever this was. Love? Obsession? A combination of both?

Things had clicked hard between us. There was nothing gradual about it. One second I hated her and the next I couldn’t get her naked fast enough.

But it wasn’t just about getting her naked. Although that was a lot of fun.

Could someone fall in love this fast? Especially someone like me, who’d spent years being a heartless fuckboy, keeping things light and never letting anyone too close?

Or was it just fear? Fear of admitting I was completely, utterly mad about her. Fear of what came next, when these two weeks ended and she went back to her life. Fear that I’d discovered something real and had no idea how to hold on to it.

Would it fade like a dream once we left the island? Would I go back to my old life and forget what it felt like to have someone challenge me and support me at the same time? Would I ever find another woman who would see past the charm to the person underneath?

Or would it forever feel like my soul was missing a part of itself?

And the practical question I couldn’t avoid: could I really trade a nearly limitless supply of casual hookups for one woman?

Said woman might not even want me anymore, by the way.

I put my hand in my pocket and felt the familiar crinkle of a candy bar wrapper. Cookie’s emergency stash that I’d pocketed earlier. I pulled it out and took a bite. The chocolate melted on my tongue as I stared out at the ocean.

Shit, I thought. I might actually be in love with Bernadette.

Not might. Was. Definitely, completely, terrifyingly in love with her.

34

BERNADETTE

Ilay in bed with the covers pulled over my head like a child hiding from monsters, except the monsters were real and they were coming from every direction.

My head still pounded. I had drunk no less than a gallon of coffee, which only upset my stomach. Cookie seemed to take pity on me and didn’t give me any shit when I went in search of food earlier. I didn’t miss all the stares directed at me as I perused my snack options.

I ended up with a sandwich, two bags of chips, and a package of cookies. What I really wanted was bacon and steak and potatoes smothered in gravy. I never ate like that, but the hangover had left my body craving fat and carbs.

I brought my booty back to the bungalow instead of sticking around and being studied like a zoo animal. No one seemed angry with me, but I knew my rise to fame and popularity had been shot to hell after the incident.

I had no idea where Sebastian was. I assumed he wasn’t in jail or kicked off the island. I was pretty sure I would have heard about that in the form of a mob at my door with pitchforks and torches.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. The thing had been unusually quiet. I thought Sebastian might text, but he’d gone radio silent. He was probably mad at me. Although it wasn’t like I had told him to punch Rico. Maybe he realized I wasn’t worth the hassle and was already in one of the model’s beds.

I almost didn’t look at my phone. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what new headache I was facing. A sense of foreboding washed over me. Maybe if I didn’t read the message, it would go away.

But I’d never been good at ignoring problems.

I allowed myself a few more minutes of blissful ignorance. Then I reached for it and discovered it was an email notification. The only way I got those was if the sender marked it urgent. That couldn’t be good.

I pulled up my email account and immediately wished I hadn’t.

Subject: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?

From: Dad

My stomach dropped.

Bernadette,

I’ve just been made aware of photographs circulating online of you “modeling” for the Blackwell campaign. MODELING. As if you’re one of their vapid little clothes hangers instead of a professional insurance representative.