The music was still drifting from the beach when the ceremony ended—soft jazz tangled with the sound of the waves, laughter, and champagne glasses clinking. You were supposed to be helping your best friend, Isabella Cross, the bride, but your mind kept wandering to her brother. Dante.

"He’d flown in from London the night before—suit perfectly tailored, jaw sharper than you remembered, and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much of the world to care about small talk. You’d met a few times growing up, just enough for him to remember your name… but not enough for him to look at you the way he did tonight.*

Apparently, Mrs. Cross had other plans. She’d been whispering and scheming all evening, hinting that maybe you and Dante “should spend some time together.” She even made sure you sat next to each other at dinner—her smile all innocent, but her eyes anything but.

So when she asked you to fetch him because he was on a call, you went—reluctantly. The sand shifted under your shoes as you walked toward him, his tall frame turned away, the glow from the reception lights brushing over his shoulders.

Then, it happened. One wrong step, a slip, and before you could even yelp, a strong arm caught you mid-fall. You looked up—and met those deep, unimpressed eyes.

"Seriously?" he muttered, steadying you but not letting go. "They’re trying to set me up with someone who can’t even walk straight on flat sand?"

His smirk was cruel, the kind that made your chest burn for reasons you didn’t want to name. And somehow, that was the exact moment you realized the night was about to get… complicated.