Page 191 of Banter & Blushes

Reid’s voice comes through the phone, teasing and perfectly calm. “Just pack it all, Bri. You always do this.”

“I’m notalwaysindecisive,” I protest, grabbing a swimsuit and holding it up like it might give me answers.

“You literally texted me three different times today asking which sunscreen brand to bring.”

“That’s important! I burn in, like, seven minutes.”

“Well, in that case,” he says, laughter in his voice, “bring them all. Or just borrow mine. I bought three.”

“You’re packing three bottles of sunscreen?”

“I’m also packing six Hawaiian shirts.”

I laugh. “Six?”

“I couldn’t choose. One has pineapples. One has turtles. One has little surfboards and coconuts . . . It’s a vibe.”

“Oh no,” I say, grinning. “We’re going to look like total tourists.”

“Correction.You’regoing to look cute in your seventeen dresses. I’m going to look like a human beach towel.”

“You’ll still be the most charming guy at the luau.”

There’s a pause on the line. Not a long one. But enough that my stomach does a weird little flip.

He clears his throat. “So. Excited?”

I flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “Honestly? Yeah. I know it’s only five days, but I think it’s going to be exactly what I need.”

“Same,” he says softly. “We’ve both been overdue for a break.”

My heart squeezes. The past year’s been exhausting—long shifts at the hospital, barely any time off, and not nearly enough fun. Having something to look forward to feels like breathing again.

“Also,” I say, sitting up, “I meant to ask—did the resort confirm the room situation? I don’t want to get there and find out we’re awkwardly sharing a bed.”

“Oh. Yeah, I asked.” His voice is casual, breezy. “They’re putting us in a room with two queens. Separate beds. No surprises.”

“Perfect,” I say quickly. “I mean . . . yeah. That’s good.”

Because the idea of sleeping next to Reid in a tropical paradise?

Dangerous. Tempting. Confusing.

We go over our plans one more time—poolside the first day, volcano hike, scuba diving, the luau, dolphins, beach time, market browsing, sunset dinners.

It all sounds perfect.

Too perfect.

Which is probably why, after we hang up and I’m back to staring at my suitcase, I feel that same flutter of uncertainty beneath the excitement.

Because if somethingdoeshappen—if we cross a line we can’t uncross—I don’t know what that means for us.

But if nothing happens?

I’m starting to think that might hurt even more.

And I’m not sure I packed anything to protect me from that kind of burn.

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