“Shit,” she mutters, brushing hair out of her face. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Sorry,” I say.

But I’m not sorry at all.

“Leaving this beach doesn’t change anything,” I add. “We’ll still have to tolerate each other.”

“Great,” she grumbles, kicking at the sand.

Then I spot it.

A distinct glint, followed by the quick flash of a camera lens. My body stiffens. I narrow my gaze until it lands on a figure half-hidden in the rocks, a camera aimed straight at us.

“Bloody hell,” I mutter under my breath.

“What?” Moira asks, following my stare.

“Follow my lead,” I say sharply, grabbing her hand and lacing it with mine.

She tries to pull away, instinctively resisting the contact, but I grip tight, pulling her closer until her shoulder rests firmly against mine.

“We have eyes on us,” I whisper through clenched teeth, and she freezes instantly.

We stride forward, pretending we aren’t constantly at each other’s throats.

Then finally, she says, “Should we... should we kiss?”

“I’m leaving that up to you,” I reply, still staring down the photographer.

“I’m the one who asked,” she says, brushing hair from her cheek.

I sigh, rolling my eyes away from the camera for a split second before turning back to her.

The wind catches a loose strand of her hair, blowing it across her mouth. Without thinking, I reach out and brush it away. My thumb grazes her lower lip, and she goes still beneath my hand.

The world narrows.

The camera. The beach. The fake marriage. The deal.

All of it fades until there is only her, standing in front of me with sunlight in her hair and fear in her eyes, looking at me like she wants me to cross the line she knows we should both stay behind.

I should make this quick. Simple. Clean.

A performance.

I grab her from behind the waist, my hands firm against the small of her back, turning her swiftly toward me, and pull her body flush against mine in one fluid motion.

“What are you—”

I swallow her protest the moment my mouth crashes against hers.

There’s a jolt, a surprise in her response, and then she sinks into me, her hands fisting my shirt, her body molding against mine despite the obvious hatred she holds for our situation, for me. I groan low in my throat, my hands tangling in the loose strands of hair falling from her ponytail, pulling her closer, if that’s even possible.

Her free hand wraps around the back of my neck, her fingers gripping the length of my hair and tugging softly, a silent command. Her mouth opens against mine, deepening the kiss, and I groan.

“You’re awfully good at pretending,” she mutters into my mouth.

I should laugh. I should say something smug, something cruel enough to shove us both back where we belong.

But the taste of her is still on my tongue, and my hand is still shaking against her back.

Before I can bite the words back, I say, “I’m not pretending anymore.”

Moira rips back suddenly and stares up at me, her pupils blown wide, her chest heaving slightly, breathless.

Fuck.

I step back.

Clearing my throat, I force my face into something unreadable. “That should suffice.”

I wrap my fingers back into hers and pull her along with me toward a more secluded part of the beach, away from prying eyes.

In the distance, I spot a narrow, overgrown trail winding up a small hill, leading toward a large, solitary rock perched at the summit.

She sees it too, her eyes following my gaze. She glances at me, a silent question in her eyes, then nods in agreement.

So we hike.