“You really think that?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Shannon.” His voice downshifts a gear. “You know my net worth.”

“But the coffee chain must cost so much.”

He quirks an eyebrow.

“And you know that I know how to operate when it comes to finance.”

“Sure, but—”

“And you know my mother’s trust provides an income.”

I start to protest and stop.

“We don’t need to get desperate here. It’s not like we’re about to be thrown out on the street and you have to work the Vegas Strip topless with your breasts painted as Minions.”

I shudder, remembering the incident with my dad and the woman working a footbridge in front of Caesar’s Palace.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, I would pay you a pretty penny for that show. Private audience only.”

“Stop!”

His eyes dart to the window, then move silently, slowly, taking in the jet. “We won’t have a corporate jet. But I’m sure first class commercial is fine.”

“You’ll suffer.” I brush the hair from his brow. “But stay strong.” I offer him a fist bump. He declines.

“Andrew’s letting us acquire the Beanmobile.”

“The what?”

“The car formerly known as Turdmobile. Plus I have my Audi SUV and the Tesla. We’re fine for transportation.” He frowns. “I might have to learn how to pump gas, though.”

I laugh. “Right.” Now he’s taking the joking too far. What grown man who drives doesn’t know how to pump his own gas?

“You’re losing Grace.”

He goes pale. “Ouch. That’s right.”

“And if I quit, we need benefits.”

“Grind It Fresh! has a new human resources team. They’re on it.”

“So I don’t have to worry?”

“You never have to worry about money.”

I punch him in the chest.

“Ow! What’s that for?”

“Calling my salary ‘cute.’”

“It is cute!”

“It’s more than the median income for a family of four in the U.S.”

“Right. Cute.”

Billionaires.

“Let me worry about money. You focus on branding. I’m getting everything set up before—”

The pilot cuts in with landing instructions. We click our seat belts.

“Before?”

“Before we land in Hawaii. If you can tolerate one—one—coffee plantation tour, the rest of our week is devoted to you.”

“Us.”

“You.” He kisses the back of my hand, then bites the skin at my middle knuckle, plucking it like a rose petal between his teeth.

I sigh.

“A week alone with you in an oceanside villa with complete privacy, endless room service, and no clothes is my idea of a honeymoon.”

“Mine, too,” I reply.

“Good.” He wiggles his phone in front of me. “Let me make one more call and—”

I turn away, pretending to nap.

Might as well.

Sounds like the next week will involve lots of time in bed.

But not much sleep.

Chapter 4

“This is going to be great,” Declan says out of the corner of his mouth, hand on the small of my back, sliding to my hip and up my torso, the promise of sex in his touch as he brushes against the bottom curve of my breast. “A week of nothing but sex and time with you.”

“And sex,” I whisper back.

“And time with you.” He kisses my cheek.

And sex.

Finally. Our real honeymoon. One hundred sixty-eight hours of one hundred percent focus on each other.

“Mr. McCormick!” A line of twenty hula dancers in traditional dress are lined up to form an aisle as we descend the stairs from the corporate jet, with two businesswomen in suits flanking them.

“Ms. Landau?” Declan asks. “Good to see you again.” Ms. Landau wears a perfectly-tailored pale cream suit that hugs her curves like a two year old seeing her mommy for the first time in a week. With five-inch heels that show off calves with muscles that curl into an upside-down heart, and a bright, wide smile that acts like a second sun, Ms. Landau intimidates me.

Especially because I have a raging case of sex head, I tore my pantyhose putting them back on, and I think my shirt’s inside out.

“I want to assure you that we’ve taken all appropriate measures to shield you,” she says to Declan, her face filled with that tightness workers get when they’re preemptively cushioning the blow they have to deliver to their boss.

“Aloha,” the other suited woman says, slipping a lei over my head, making it so I can’t hear Declan’s response. These aren’t those cheesy leis you get in bulk at the dollar store. Oh, no. They’re real, made of carnations, orchids, and other flowers I can’t identify, and woven together with an artistry that speaks to expertise. The thoughtfulness and luxury make me feel welcome instantly.

“Shield?” Declan asks, giving her the blank stare he’s practically patented.

Ms. Landau opens her mouth to respond. The other woman smiles at me. As she slips the lei over my head, I hear a buzzing sound in my ear. I falter, one of the flowers caressing my cheek, like silk and butter combined.

Bzzz.

And then her fingernail brushes over my ear and I feel a horrific pinch.

Bzzz.

“Bee!” I scream.

The next ten seconds pass in slow motion, the tick-tock of my mind’s eye like a dented gong being pelted in a hailstorm.

One: I rip the cord of flowers off me.

Two: A bee lands on my ear.

Three: Declan reaches into his breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out an EpiPen.

Four: The bee flies off me, but lands on the lei, which bounces off Ms. Landau and back in my face.

Five: I enter a portal into hell.

Six: The lei ricochets off me, onto Declan’s foot, while the bee dive-bombs me.

Seven: I thought Hawaii didn’t have bees? Mom told me that. I’m going to kill Mom if I survive this. She said volcanic ash was Kryptonite to bees.

Eight: I should have asked Pam for the truth.

Nine: Declan bends down, pulling me with him.