“Oh, God,” I groan. “I must look awful.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re just saying that because you have no choice. You married me.” I look at my left hand. My fingers are filthy with chocolate around my wedding ring. “You’re stuck with me, so you make the best of it.”

He moves closer, his body heat preceding him. The air is full and warm, like a lover’s embrace. And then he pulls me in for a sweet kiss.

No. Really. A very, very sweet kiss.

I laugh in the middle of it.

His tongue parts my lips, sweeping along the bottom. We taste like cocoa and peppermint, like salt and sleep, and soon I stop laughing, drawn to the divine between us, his hands under my shirt, mine pulling on the thick hair at the nape of his neck, and he’s moving me onto my back, the pillow finding its place as we warm together, melting.

Literally melting the sticky confection that covers me.

And now him.

“You’re not only stuck with me, you’re stuck to me,” I whisper-giggle.

He answers with a kiss.

“We need a shower,” I say suggestively, heat pooling between my legs, the exhaustion of moments ago dissipating.

“I’ll lick you clean.” His voice is rough and low, filled with a promise that’s almost a threat.

I shiver as he dips his head down, biting my shirt, suckling. The sound drives me crazy, the feather-light flick of his tongue across my aching nipple forging anticipation in every inch of my tingling skin. He has all of me, rapt with attention, the Pacific breeze accompanying him.

Tap tap tap.

I jolt.

He doesn’t stop, his maddening tongue playing favorites, hand sliding my shirt up to reveal my navel, his mouth covering it, tongue teasing the soft center.

Tap tap tap.

“Is someone at the door?” I whisper.

“Ignore it.”

Knock knock knock. “Mr. McCormick?”

With a frustrated sigh that borders on a growl, Declan grudgingly gets off me, walking to the door, flinging it open. I scurry to cover myself. Looking down, I see there’s no way to make myself presentable, so fleeing to hide in the bathroom is my only option.

“We are so deeply gratified that you’ve chosen our resort for your honeymoon. Our staff has been instructed to give you and Mrs. McCormick the absolute best possible service,” says an obsequious voice, a man with a slight accent. I can’t quite pinpoint it, but I suspect if I peeked, he’d be Japanese.

“Thank you.” Dec has an accent, too. It’s called Frustrated Hard-on.

“We begin with an assortment of tropical fruits from our own organic farm here on the island,” he says. I hear the squeak of a room service cart, then a massive cloud of ripe fruit and coconut fills the air, my nostrils widening with interest. My mouth starts to water.

“We appreciate it, Mr....” Declan’s being polite. Barely.

“Miyadori.”

See? I was right.

“Mr. Miyadori, the attention to detail is most impressive.”

“We are gratified to serve, Mr. McCormick.”

“But.”

I can hear the guy’s face fall.

“My wife and I would like privacy above all.”

“Of course! I assure you that you will not be interrupted by the press.”

“The press? Did you say the press?” Declan’s voice goes low with tension.

“Yes, sir. The paparazzi have been stalking the resort since they learned of your plans to honeymoon here.”

I go numb.

“How did they learn—oh, God,” Dec groans. “Shannon!”

I poke my head out the door. “Yes?”

Mr. Miyadori spots me and bows grandly.

Do I curtsy? Not sure what to do here. I bow, but stumble, and end up face down on the tile floor, my hands leaving a thick brown swoosh on the clean tile.

Mr. Miyadori rushes to my aid, Dec on his heels.

“Oh, my goodness, Mrs. McCormick!” Mr. Miyadori is about two inches shorter than me, and I probably outweigh him by eighty...er, fifty pounds. He is elegant and slim, wrinkled and well-preserved, and he has the instant charm of a man who puts people at ease for a living. “May I help you? Have you had an...accident?” He looks at all the places on my body where chocolate lives.

I look down.

Both of my nipples are soaking wet from chocolate and Declan’s attention moments ago.

I cross my arms over the obvious.

“I’m fine. Just fell asleep with pillow mints.”

His eyebrows go up, the only sign of judgment in him. “They are our special secret. I will have a case delivered to your home in Boston.”

I smile. “You’re my new best friend, Mr. Miyadori.”

He bows.

Declan scowls.

“The press? Shannon, did your mom tip them off?”

“Why would you assume that? It’s more likely to be your dad! He thinks all the free PR from the wedding fiasco is great. And by the way, he asked me the other day how I felt about having a camera crew at our first child’s birth.”

“Funny,” Dec says, his eyes disturbed. “Your mom asked me the same thing.”

My uterus ducks for cover.

“I do not know, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick, who told the press about you. I assure you that none of my staff would ever breach security. But they do indeed know. We’ve placed you in your oceanside villa under an assumed name.”

“Which is?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Raleigh!”

I start gasping. Dec gives me a frown, and then his face slowly turns red.

“What?” I cry out. “Why that name?” My ex-boyfriend Steve’s last name is Raleigh.

“One of the managers suggested we pick a bland, neutral name and happens to have a son who attends a university in North Carolina.” He tilts his head, trying to understand our distress. “Is there a problem?”

“Pick a different name,” Declan orders through clenched teeth.

“Would you like to choose? I will make an immediate order and inform the staff.”

“Can’t be Jacoby,” I muse. “And certainly not Coffin.”

“Tapas,” Declan announces.

“Mr. and Mrs. Tapas?” I gasp.

“Make it so,” he dictates to Mr. Miyadori, who nods and leaves, departing with apologies and assurances that all form a blur in our minds.