Get a grip, Willow. He was just a naked man—okay, an exceptionally stunning naked man—and she had a job to do here. Which was to get him out of the villa.
“Artemisia,” she supplied, her arms starting to burn from holding the basket high enough to cover her face but still see. “And, yes, you are in the wrong villa, because we have guests booked to arrive soon, and you’re not one of them.”
He turned his hands skyward in a less threatening gesture, not that his hotter-than-a-thousand-suns body wasn’t threatening enough. “Yes, I am,” he said. “And if you will please turn around, miss, and leave that in the living room, we’re cool.”
“No, we are not cool.” There was an understatement. “Because I’m pretty sure you have more, um, body hair than the bride or maid of honor we’re expecting.”
He took a step closer, and she hoisted the basket high enough to completely cover her face.
“Man,” he said
“Excuse me?”
“I’m a man.” With two hands, he lowered the basket. “As you’ve obviously noticed. Man of honor. Not maid.”
The words registered, but not the meaning, because she was face-to-face with his broad chest and wide shoulders and a deep-purple tattoo of…oh, really? Was this God’s idea of a joke? That was the earth and star on the cover of Zenith, the number-one best-selling Z-Train record of all time. “Really?”
“Really. I’m the man of honor in Misty Trew’s wedding.” His tone was a mix of waning tolerance and growing amusement.
She finally lifted her eyes, finally coherent enough to process what he’d said, and realize the mistake was hers. “I get it,” she whispered, meeting cocoa-colored eyes as rich and inviting as the truffles in her arms, and a mouth that could be forgiven for whatever sour notes he’d hit with it, and…
Once more, the world slipped out from under her, this time because recognition nearly buckled her knees. “You’re…” Her throat closed.
“The man of honor.”
“No, you’re…” The one who…the boy who…no, now the man who…crushed her spirit.
“A male version of the maid.”
“You’re…” Nick Hershey.
“Naked,” he supplied, adding a slow, sexy, sinful smile. “But you’re not.”
She clung to the basket as if it were the last logical thing on earth because right now, it was. “I’m not…” How long had it been? Ten or eleven years since she’d lived in a dorm at UCLA? And he’d been right down the hall. “Thinking straight.”
“Clearly.” He laughed and reached for the basket. “Here, let me take your junk so you can stop staring at mine.” Placing the basket on the dresser, he held up a hand. “Just a sec. I’ll get your tip.”
“No tip, I’m not with the resort.” The rote answer fell out of her mouth as he took a few steps, forcing Willow to stare some more at that round, hard handful of Nick Hershey’s world-class ass before he disappeared into the en suite. “That ought to be illegal,” she murmured on a sigh.
“So should breaking into a hotel room,” he replied.
“I wasn’t expecting…anyone. Or at least, not a man.” Buck-naked. And she sure as hell hadn’t been expecting the guy she’d tried to give her virginity to one slightly tipsy night after finals. Tried being the operative word, because he…
A dose of shame and a splash of self-pity mixed into a cocktail of humiliation, rising up to choke her. He’d turned her down cold and flat.
Willow rooted for a coherent thought, trying to center on the present. The bride was from New York. Nick was from California. How was it even possible that he was standing here in Mimosa Key, Florida?
It didn’t matter. He was here, and a key member of the wedding party she was coordinating, so Willow would have to maintain professionalism and get control. She closed her eyes, willing her body and brain to get in line, the way she always did when she wanted to be stronger than whatever temptation or distraction threatened her well-honed control.
“So, you’re a friend of Misty’s?” she asked.
“Not exactly. Her brother is supposed to be here, but he’s still deployed.” He stepped back into the room, a towel wrapped around his hips, tied low, exposing a trail of dark hair that ran from his belly button down to his…no, no one could ever call what she’d just seen junk. “I’m doing him a favor and acting as Misty’s second-in-command.”
“She doesn’t have a girlfriend to be the maid of honor?”