Aria woke up warm.
Which was her first clue something was wrong.
The second clue was the faint, steady rhythm of breathing against the back of her neck.
Oh no.
She cracked one eye open and immediately froze.
Ethan's arm was still around her waist. His face, far too peaceful for a man she constantly threatened bodily harm, was nestled against her shoulder. His leg was tangled with hers like it lived there.
And worst of all — she was… comfy.
"I hate everything," Aria muttered to herself.
She tried to wriggle free, but his grip tightened.
"Mm, five more minutes," Ethan mumbled, burying his face against her hair.
Aria's heart did an embarrassing little flip.
"Nope, time's up," she hissed, elbowing him in the ribs.
He groaned, pulling away with a bleary grin. "Morning, sunshine."
"Boundaries, Cole," she snapped, sitting up and shoving a pillow between them. "You broke the treaty."
"Technically, you invaded my side," he smirked, running a hand through his messy hair. "Not my fault you're a blanket thief."
"You're impossible."
"Yet here you are. Still in my bed."
"By force of bad luck and HR errors."
Ethan chuckled and rolled out of bed. "Better get moving. Breakfast with the investors in thirty."
"I swear, if anyone makes a comment, I'm faking a family emergency."
---
Thirty minutes later, Aria followed Ethan into the resort's swanky dining room, looking effortlessly polished in a sundress she was pretty sure she hadn't packed herself. (Gwen. It had Gwen's meddling all over it.)
Ethan, in a casual button-down and jeans, looked like he belonged on the cover of Rich Men Who Should Be Illegal Monthly.
Several investors were already seated, sipping coffee and making polite conversation.
And then came her.
Lena Whitmore.
Early thirties, flawless, dangerous. The kind of woman who always seemed like she was deciding whether to seduce you, fire you, or both.
She'd made it painfully clear on more than one occasion she was interested in Ethan — in a very non-professional, HR-violation sort of way.
And today, she was eyeing Aria like she was a stain on her designer handbag.
"Ethan," Lena purred as he greeted the table. "Didn't know you'd be bringing… company."
Aria smiled tightly. "Hi. Assistant. Not company."
"Hmm," Lena hummed, looking at her like she doubted it. "You look… cozy this morning."
Ethan didn't miss a beat. "Long drive."
"Must've been," Lena murmured.
Aria seriously considered stabbing her with a butter knife.
The meal went on like that — Lena tossing thinly veiled jabs, Ethan acting like he didn't notice, and Aria silently plotting ways to drown her in the mimosa pitcher.
At one point, Ethan casually reached under the table and squeezed her knee.
She nearly jumped out of her chair.
"Relax," he murmured, leaning close. "You're winning."
"Winning what?" she hissed.
"The game."
"I'm not playing."
"You always are, Lane."
God help her, she smiled.
---
After breakfast, Ethan pulled her aside outside the dining room.
"Hey," he said, a rare note of seriousness in his voice. "Ignore Lena. She's a snake."
"Wasn't worried about her," Aria shrugged, though she totally was.
Ethan grinned. "You're a terrible liar, Lane."
"I've had practice. Working for you."
He laughed, leaning against the wall. "We've got the investor boat thing at noon. You in?"
"Depends. Is Lena 'fall overboard and disappear forever' in?"
Ethan grinned. "If not, I'll handle it."
And for the first time in forever, Aria didn't mind the idea of sticking around for the show....