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I fling the glass, and champagne shoots out, aiming straight for Jace.

You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes in moments of crisis? Well, mine decides to play in slo-mo, as if God is shuffling through this moment frame by frame.

Jace clocks the champagne heading straight for him. His eyes go super wide, and then he ducks. As he moves, his expression shifts to surprise, as if he’s not in control of his own body—like something actively pushes him. It’s just like the strobing lights, the locked door, the creepy spotlight, the pulsing quilt.

The champagne hits, but it’s not Jace who gets a face full of it.

It’s Rhett Maddox.

Who, for some reason, is standing behind Jace.

The lights flicker again, like they’re holding their breath with me—throbbing in time to my heartbeat.

God hits “fast forward,” and my life vaults back to normal speed just as the crowd gasps.

I stand still as a statue, my arm outstretched, fingers dripping. Rhett blinks at me through a mask of champagne, and my stomach free-falls.

Oh, crap. This night has gone from bad to worse. Why couldn’t he have stayed on the other side of the room?

This is it. I might as well throw up my hands and toss in the towel. There’s no coming back from this.

Worse, have I just proved Jace right?

Chapter 5

Rhett

I’ll admit this is my first time running a resort, so I expect drinks on the floor, sauces on my shirt. What I don’t expect is champagne sliding down my face.

People stare my way, and no one has to tell me it isn’t a good look for one of the owners to have a drink thrown at him.

Word will get around and rumors will start.

They’ll wonder what I did to this poor woman that she felt the need to sling champagne.

And part of me kind of wonders that, too.

I lick my lips. My tongue tingles from the acidity, and I announce to the crowd, “Not bad. If you haven’t tried the champagne yet, you’re missing out.”

People laugh nervously, but when I wink, their hesitation vanishes.

All the while, Cristina stares at me in horror. Her gaze flicks to the shirt clinging to my chest, to my eyes, down to my lips. I kind of wish they’d linger there.

I’m a sucker for a woman staring at my mouth. And the question I should be asking—am asking—myself isn’t lost on me.

How has she managed to go from stalker material to someone I’m starting to suspect might be the most complicated woman I’ve ever met?

And why is it such a turn-on?

She points to that guy . . . Jace. “That was meant for him. The drink. It wasn’t supposed to hit you.”

Her neck flushes, her eyes wild. She’s really stepped in it now.

“Somehow,” I say, not letting her off the hook, “the fact that you were trying to douse him doesn’t make me feel better.”

She grabs napkins and thrusts them at me like she’s about to start dabbing—aiming a little too far south for comfort. She’s biting her bottom lip so hard I’m worried she’ll draw blood. The need to reach out and smooth my thumb across her mouth surprises me.

I take the napkins, my fingers touching hers again, and something electric passes between us.