Page 22 of Beauty and the Beach

“I seem to remember telling you,” I say, “that nothing you have appeals to me. Personality was included in there.” I take another step toward her, until only a couple feet separate us.

“I also remember that,” she says, glaring at me. “But you asked meto marry you, Flamingo.”

“Haven’t heard that one before,” I mutter, clenching my jaw.

“And even though you said it would just be a contract marriage,” she goes on as though I haven’t spoken, “people don’t propose to people they don’t like. That’s not something that happens in real life. You only propose when you have feelings for someone.”

I roll my eyes. “Grudgingly asking for your help and having feelings for you are two very different things. Don’t give yourself so much credit.” I let out an exhausted breath. “I don’t like you, Amsterdam. I’m not even attracted to you.” Is she objectively beautiful? Sure. Blonde hair, gorgeous body, dimples I never see because she never smiles in my direction. But her personality usually kills any pull she might have on me, so I don’t feel dishonest right now.

Her cheeks, already pink, darken slightly; that muscle in her jaw jumps. “You need to tell me if you’re lying,” she says, stepping closer.

I scoff, and she goes on.

“Do you think I would be saying this if I were just trying to be annoying? These are embarrassing claims for me to make,” she says, angrier now. “They’re presumptuous and conceited. I know that. But Icannotmarry you if you have feelings for me.”

Unbelievable. I shake my head as a dull pain begins to throb in my temples. Is this what will kill my dreams for Butterfield? Her misplaced, unfounded belief that Ilikeher?

“I don’t have feelings for you!” I burst out, throwing my hands in the air. My mind races, searching, hunting, until it lands on a half-developed solution. “Look,” I say. “Watch.” I close the distance between us, grab her roughly by the cheeks, and kiss her—hard. Two uncomfortable seconds of our mouths slammed together, and then I push her away, mychest heaving with frustration. “I feel nothing right now, Amsterdam,” I say, pointing at my heart. “Nothing. Atall.”

For a second, she just gapes at me; her arms hang motionless at her sides, and even the swishing skirt of her dress seems frozen. I’m frozen, too, because I just did something terrible and horrible and who knows how she’ll react?

I’m not surprised when her wide eyes narrow, or when she lets out a disbelieving laugh. When she steps toward me, though, eliminating the space I just established—that, I’m unprepared for. And when she saunters closer, closer, closer, lifting up onto her tiptoes?

I’m not ready for that, either.

I hold my breath and quiet every fight-or-flight instinct in my body, waiting. She leans slowly toward me, every centimeter excruciating; her nose brushes mine before our mouths ever touch, and her breath is soft on my lips.

I refuse to give her what she wants; I refuse to back away, and I refuse to move nearer.

I refuse to be the one who breaks.

But shelingers. This insufferable woman lingers, and when her lips finally touch mine, I barely feel them; they’re soft, gentle, her hands light on my shoulders as she steadies herself, and my vision is beginning to swim from lack of oxygen?—

She leans back, and I inhale as quickly but discreetly as possible. She doesn’t go back down from her tiptoes; she doesn’t even remove her hands from my shoulders.

“I don’t feel anything,” she says, and the mere sight of her inches from my face is enough to make my blood simmer and my jaw clench. “But you,” she goes on, challenge in her eyes, “your face is red, Hummingbird.”

“Because I’ve been holding my breath so I don’t have to smell you,” I snap, though I know for a fact that she alwayssmells like peppermint and vanilla, somehow sweet and sharp at the same time. “Get over yourself.” In one swift motion I slide my arm around her waist, tangling the other hand in her hair, and then I yank her body to mine. The last expression I see on her face is one of daring and taunting, and I can’t stand it. I can’t standher.

My lips crash down on hers.

I kiss her with every emotion she stirs in me—frustration and exasperation and wild, red-hot anger—except it’s not a kiss; this is a battle. We’re holding onto each other too tightly, breathing too hard, and none of it is romantic. I nip at her bottom lip, and she gasps, her fingers digging painfully into my sides.

“You think you can just?—”

“Watch me,” I snarl against her lips, a surge of triumph rising in my chest as I steal the rest of her words, swallow them. I tangle my hand further in her hair, tilt my head; this is still a fight for dominance, and I’m not going to let her win.

But when she slides her hand into my suit coat, something heats behind my sternum—a tiny, flickering flame that jumps and flares as her touch travels sharply from my waist to my back, fingers curled and grasping.

And when her other hand slides up my chest, finds my tie, andtugs,that flame grows brighter.

No,I tell myself desperately as I’m forced even closer to her. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the sounds of our harsh breathing.You are not enjoying this. You’re proving a point.

She scrapes her teeth against my lip, a bite of pain that heats my blood, and I hate it, Ihateit—I hate that she can have this effect on me. I hate how well she knows me.

In fact, at this very second, I hate everything about her.

I deepen the kiss, taste her, the strokes of my mouth punishing. She gasps and then retaliates; she pushes me, hard, but not away from herself—she stumbles after me, our mouths still slanted together as my back collides with the bookshelf, and I wince. I can feel the shape of her lips as she grins, and she breaks away just enough that I can see that same challenge in her eyes.

---