Golden Hours

Icen

Her amber eyes track me like she’s trying to read every locked part of me. The light from the setting sun through the window caught the fine flecks of gold in her irises, making them glitter with dangerous curiosity. I could feel the microscopic movements of her breath, the slight, nervous shift of her weight as she waited for my explanation. Every second she studied me, the fortress of my control seemed to crumble a little more.

I still remember the weight of her in my arms, the sudden, intoxicating crush of her body against mine during that fake kiss. The scent of her skin—something clean, floral, and deeply unsettlingly real—was fogging up my brain until I’m half-conscious and stupid. I could still taste the bright, sharp flavor of her mouth, a taste that obliterated the memory of every other kiss I’d ever experienced.

She’s nosy. Too bright. Too pretty for her own good. And my need for a fake fiancée? It’s dragging me into hell.

It wasn't just hell, it was an irresistible vacuum, pulling me off my fixed, predictable orbit. Dragging me to her, stronger than gravity. Standing in the same room with her feels wrong. It switches something primal in me I’ve fought to bury. It was the feeling of a cold, empty chamber suddenly being flooded with warm, pressurized air—dangerous, volatile, and necessary.

"This can’t go on," I say, the words tight and deliberate. I forced my gaze up, looking past her shoulder at the shimmering blue of the lagoon outside, before I end up devouring her with my eyes. I couldn't look at her face.

She tilts her head, confusion softening her whole face, taking the edge off her defiant expression. She looks like a woman stolen from the 80s—baggy shirt, loose pants—a rebellious rejection of the resort's expensive glamour. But somehow none of it dulls how painfully, timelessly gorgeous she is. The loose fabric only highlighted the casual, sensual way she moved within her own skin.

I wish I were blind. It would make this easier.

“What? I thought we agreed that we were going to pretend—"

I cut her off. I can’t help it. The sound of her voice was chipping away at my resolve. I needed to divert, to create friction, anything to pull focus away from the devastating physical awareness that was threatening to consume me. I scan her from head to toe like a man checking the damage after a car crash, cataloging every soft curve hidden beneath the volume of her clothes.

“You need to abandon this boyish fashion sense.”

The insult landed exactly where I intended. Her eyes widen. They go gold. Literally gold. The flecks in her irises seemed to flare with indignant heat, momentarily silencing her. The fury was stunning.

Fuck me. She has no idea how beautiful she is when she’s ready to fight.

“Mr. Suit, I dress for comfort,” she snaps, the nickname falling from her lips with cutting sarcasm. She stomped her feet like a child who refuses to be told no.

Mr. Suit? Strange nickname. But it sits on me in a way I shouldn’t like. It felt tailored, chosen specifically for me by her.

“What do you mean?” she presses, rocking side to side like she’s daring me to explain myself, her arms crossed tight over her chest.

I shake my head. Willa is chaos wrapped in warm skin. She is the scent of a wildfire, the brilliant flash of lightning—the total opposite of me, the glacier. A danger zone that smells like temptation, and I am standing in the center of the blast radius.

"We are here for a wedding. My brother's wedding. You are my fiancée. You need to look the part of a woman who belongs here, next to me. A woman who knows how to ruin a wedding in style." My voice was flat. "Those clothes look like you grabbed them out of a lost and found bin."

A fresh wave of offense washed over her face. "They are comfortable linen! And I don't need a styling lesson from a man who wears the same color palette as a tombstone."

"A tombstone that cost more than your last three vacations combined," I countered instantly, the reflex sharp and unthinking.

Her lower lip jutted out, a silent, adorable defiance that made my chest ache. "Fine. But I am not wearing anything fussy or pink."

"Black is acceptable," I concede, turning toward the door. "And the shoes will be high. No stomping allowed in six-inch heels."

"You are infuriating." The words were hissed, but she was already moving toward her luggage. "I need my purse. And where exactly is this magical repair shop that's going to fix my inherent boyishness?"

“Grab your bag. We’re fixing you.” I didn't wait for her to approach. I take her hand before my brain can stop my body, my fingers closing around the slender fragility of hers. Her skin was warm, radiating a fierce life force, her tiny fingers linking to mine naturally, the unexpected, perfect fit sending a shock wave up my arm. I squeezed once, lightly, before dragging her out of the room.

We exited the hotel elevator and walked through the sun-drenched lobby toward the resort's private vehicle service. I pushed open the glass door leading to the humid outside air.

“This is our ride?” Her pace slowed immediately as she registered the dark, low-slung Italian sports car waiting by the curb. It was matte black, aggressive, and utterly inappropriate for a beach resort, but it was mine. Her eyes were glowing with awe, reflecting the polished metal like twin headlights. She drags her fingers down my car, eyes glowing with awe.

"Close your mouth. You might swallow a fly." The pathetic excuse for a diversion was simply meant to cover the memory of the kiss, the image flashing in my head the moment she parted those lips. I knew I sounded like an overprotective idiot.

“As if.” She rolls her eyes, but a genuine smile tugged at her mouth. Without hesitation, she slides into the passenger seat like she owns it, her long legs folding neatly into the cramped space.

I slid into the driver's side. The engine roars when I turn the key, the sound a deep, throbbing vibration that resonated through the cabin. Her sigh comes right after, a soft, involuntary sound of pure appreciation.

“The things I would do just to ride this car…” she murmured, her gaze tracing the lines of the dashboard, a genuine wonder in her voice.

She’s so innocently sensual it hurts. She wasn't trying to flirt; she was just being honest about her desires.

“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious to see where her imagination would go. Or stupid.

“Secret.” She winks, fast and bright, then settled back against the headrest. My foot hits the brakes, jamming the pedal down with unnecessary force. The car dipped sharply, throwing both of us forward against the seatbelts. My heart slams harder than the car ever could.