He’s still undoing his tie and gives me a puzzled look. “What’s that?”

“Workout clothes! Remember?” I grab my sports bra and put it on.

He looks at my chest. “Your bra is on backwards.”

I look down. The elastic racerback jersey runs between my breasts, which poke out on either side like headlights.

I wriggle back out of it and turn it around.

“Better?” I ask.

“No.”

“C’mon!” My purple Lycra shirt’s on in seconds. “Let’s go!”

“Shannon.” He’s not even out of his business shirt.

“What?”

“You’re going to crash soon.”

“Crash? Fuck no!”

He startles.

“What? I can say that word.”

“You never say it.”

“Fuck.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Never say never.”

“Honey, the doctor said the adrenaline surge you’re going through will end shortly. You didn’t get stung, so the EpiPen affects you differently. You’ll get the shakes and need rest. We can’t—”

I sprint for the beach, his voice in the background, shouting my name.

I become the wind.

“Your mints are here!” he calls out.

I halt.

I reverse course.

Mints? Screw the wind.

Yum.

I get back to the open wall and find him standing there, in shirtsleeves and suit pants, holding a basket filled with mints, wearing a look of evaluative contemplation that makes me feel like a lab specimen.

I open five at once and mumble “thank you.”

“Is there anything else, Mr. McCormick?” The hotel staff person looks at us with bright, cheery eyes. His name tag says Frank.

“Yes! A latte,” I chirp.

“Decaf,” Declan whispers to the guy.

“Decaf? No!” I squeal. “What a waste! Drinking decaf coffee is like going to a sex toy shop and the only item you buy is a copy of People Magazine!”

Mr. Frank Bright Eyes looks panicked.

Declan waves the guy off and pulls me into his arms. My mouth is sticky and my hands are full of multiple mints in various states of unwrapping.

“You’re squishing my mints,” I mutter into his chest. He’s undone enough buttons that my lips press against the dark hair that’s sprinkled across his pecs.

“That’s a new euphemism for breasts.”

“No, really. The chocolate is melting in my hands, which are pressed against your belly button.”

“You can lick it off later.”

“That’s a waste of really, really good chocolate.”

His abs tighten. He takes a deep breath.

“Shannon. Shannon,” he stresses, his arms caging me, bands of steel that don’t care if the mints melt everywhere. I’m a live wire and he’s grounding me. “You just went through a huge shock. I’ve told hotel staff to clear the area of blossoms. They’re preparing an interior room for us to avoid any more bee incidents.”

“No! I want to be on the beach! I researched this! The chance of a bee on the beach is super slim. No, Declan! I didn’t get stung. I want the outdoor room! I don’t want my damn allergy to ruin everything!” My hands turn viscous and sticky. I start to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he says, soothing me with a hand that strokes my hair.

“It’s not fair,” I sob.

“I know. That bee came damn close.”

“I’m not upset about the bee.”

“Then what?”

“All this great chocolate just melted into your belt buckle.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh.

And then I begin to shake.

“Here it comes,” he says in a resigned tone, pulling back. He looks down at his waistline.

“It looks like a honeymoon Rorschach test,” he notes.

I just cry. All my energy, all the zing, has turned against me. The adrenaline has become a traitor, now making me feel anxious, tired and wired, like I need to crawl out of my skin, power wash it, and put it back on. His hands go to his hips and I put my sticky, chocolate-coated palms on my cheeks and sob.

“Shannon?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go to bed.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m sticky and the mints are gone and I’m a mess and you’re stuck with me and you married a freak and the bee almost stung me and what am I going to—”

And just like that, every ounce of energy disappears from me, like common sense fleeing my mother at a rummage sale in a wealthy Wellesley neighborhood church.

I stumble to the bed, stretch out—

And the world disappears.

Chapter 5

My face is stuck to the pillow. The room smells like a salty Altoid mint. I feel curiously spicy. My hands are pressed between my knees and every muscle is tense and liquid at the same time.

And someone is pulling my hair in the least erotic way ever.

I sit bolt upright. The pillow tries to come with me.

“Dec?” I croak out. A huge breeze lifts the billowing curtains on the side of the room that’s open and facing the ocean.

“Shannon?” His voice is soft with concern. I hear a shh shh sound as he walks across the room, and then a green bottle, slick with condensation, is thrust into my hand.

“Drink some water. The doctor said you need to hydrate and eat protein.”

I dutifully sip. It’s sparkling water, and the bubbles swell at the back of my throat, but I gag it down.

“What happened?”

“The Epipen adrenaline got to you. You crashed.”

“How long was I asleep?” I look outside. It’s dark.

“Five hours.”

“Five hours?”

“You’re jet-lagged, too.”

I noticed a blue glow in the distance behind him. “Have you been working?”

He doesn’t even look embarrassed. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wasn’t tired.” He brushes his fingertips along my jaw line, pressing hard, then pulling back. He pops his index finger into his mouth and smiles. “You taste good.”

I reach up. My face is a wall of goo.