Charlie had a strategy: avoid Sloan. Avoid him at all costs.
The rooftop moment? A mistake. A heat-of-the-moment lapse in judgment. She could already hear Asuncion's voice in her head: "You're playing with fire, iha." And she was. But she wasn't about to get burned.
So, she did what any reasonable, responsible woman would do—she ran. Well, not literally. That would be too obvious. But she changed her schedule, suddenly had too many reports to review, and somehow always ended up on the other side of the resort whenever Sloan was around.
Unfortunately, Sloan was too damn observant.
Charlie avoided Sloan like the plague. The moment they'd stepped off that rooftop, she had decided—no, sworn—that whatever weird, heart-thudding, air-suffocating moment they had was a fluke. A lapse in judgment. A heatstroke-induced fever dream.
And worse? He was enjoying this.
Sloan wasn't letting it go.
The problem wasn't that he said anything—it was that he didn't. Not a single word about that night. Instead, he lingered. Near her. Around her. Watching. Smirking. Finding little ways to be close. A casual lean against the bar when she was counting receipts. A knowing look when she took the long way around the resort to avoid passing by his room. A deep, lazy chuckle when he accidentally caught her staring at him across the lobby.
And the worst part? She was waiting for him to bring it up.
It was infuriating.
It was terrifying.
It was him.
The first incident happened at breakfast.
Charlie had made the fatal mistake of entering the dining area too early. Asuncion, ever the traitor, had called her over for coffee. She had barely taken her first sip when he walked in.
Fresh out of a morning swim.
Towel draped over his neck.
Hair damp, curling at the ends.
He spotted her immediately, grinning like he knew she was trapped.
Charlie sipped her coffee aggressively.
"Morning, sunshine," Sloan greeted, far too amused.
She said nothing. Just stared into the depths of her mug like it contained the meaning of life.
Sloan didn't take the hint. Of course, he didn't. He slid into the seat across from her, stretching out like he had all the time in the world.
"Sleep well?" he asked, voice deceptively casual.
Charlie clenched her jaw. "Fine."
"Really?" he mused. "No tossing and turning? No sleepless nights, thinking about something?"
Her fingers tightened around her mug. She could feel his eyes on her—sharp, teasing.
She lifted her mug higher, blocking his face from view.
Sloan chuckled. "You're cute when you sulk, you know that?"
Charlie set her mug down with a thud. "I do not sulk."
"Sure," Sloan agreed easily, then leaned in. "You just do that thing where you pretend I don't exist while gripping your coffee like you're plotting my murder."
Charlie huffed, snatching her mug back up. "Sounds like a reasonable reaction."
Sloan grinned. "Reasonable? No. Adorable? Absolutely."
Then, another instance when Charlie stepped into the lobby, scanning for an escape route the moment she spotted him leaning against the front desk, chatting with Mon.
Too late.
"Ah, there she is," Sloan drawled, turning with a lazy smirk that sent her stomach plummeting. "Our local escape artist."
Mon snickered. "What's that about?"
Charlie shot him a glare. "Nothing."
Sloan tsked, stepping closer. "No, no, it's something. One minute we're having a very interesting conversation on a rooftop, and the next? Poof." He snapped his fingers. "She vanishes."
Charlie crossed her arms. "I've been busy."
"Too busy to even look at me?"
Damn him. The way he said it—like she was the one playing games.
"I—"
"Charlie!"
Charlie nearly sagged in l toward her. The kid barreled into her legs, hugging her tight. "Mom's weird today," he said with all the bluntness of a five-year-old.
Sloan raised a brow. "Oh?"
Charlie ignored him, crouching beside George. "Weird how, honey?"
George tilted his head. "She was staring at Unca Mon like this." He scrunched up his face, trying to mimic his mother.
Charlie glanced at Mon, who looked far too amused. "Oh?"
Mon sighed dramatically. "Yeah, Charlie. Oh?"
"Okay…." Charlie stood, ushering George back toward the restaurant. "Why don't you go, find and tickle your mom to make hee smile some more , hon."
George grinned. "Okay! Bye, Unca Sloan!"
Sloan gave him a two-finger salute. "Later, buddy"
As soon as George was out of earshot, Mon chuckled. "Hmmm…. You know, for someone who claims not to be jealous, Amy sure does spend a lot of time glaring at Sicily."
Charlie smirked. "Ah. So you did notice."
Mon's smirk faded. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean… it's not like that."
Sloan snorted. "You sure? Because from where I'm standing, Amy's looking at you the way Charlie looks at me when she thinks I'm not paying attention."
Charlie gasped. "I do not—"
"Oh, you so do," Sloan cut in smoothly, stepping closer. Mon just shrugged with their interaction and went towards the beach area to clean up.
Charlie took a step back. "This conversation is over."
She turned on her heel and was about to march toward the restaurant.
Sloan called after her. "You can run, Charlie, but I love a good chase!"
Charlie didn't stop. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
But damn it, she could feel his smirk against her skin the entire way.
Before she could strangle him, Amy appeared.
Amy, for once, wasn't paying attention to Charlie and Sloan's usual banter.
She had bigger problems.
Like the fact that she'd woken up annoyed.
Which made no sense because she had no reason to be.
Except—she did have a reason.
A Mon-related reason.
And she hated it.
Last night, she had walked past the beach bar and seen him. Not just Mon—but Mon and Sicily. Talking.
Nothing suspicious.
Nothing dramatic.
And yet, Amy was still annoyed.
Which was ridiculous because Mon could talk to whoever he wanted. Especially someone like Sicily, who was, statistically speaking, his type.
Glamorous. Confident. Experienced.
Unlike her.
Amy didn't care.
She didn't.
But when she took her seat beside Charlie, the irritation was still simmering under her skin.
Charlie shot her a questioning look. "You okay?"
"Fine," Amy muttered.
Charlie blinked. "You sure? You look—"
"Fine," Amy cut her off, shoving a piece of toast in her mouth to prevent further interrogation. George sat too and started to eat.
That was when George made everything worse.
"Mommy?"
Amy turned, forcing a smile. "Yeah, baby?"
George, holding a spoonful of cereal, blinked up at her innocently. "Do you like Unca Mon?"
Amy choked on her toast.
Charlie nearly spit out her coffee.
Sloan—because he was a menace—howled with laughter.
Amy spluttered. "W-what? George, w-where did that come from?"
George shrugged. "I dunno. You always look at him funny."
Sloan was laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach.
Amy's face burned. "I do not!"
"You do," George insisted, completely serious.
Charlie was staring, delighted. "Oh, this is gold."
Amy turned desperate. "Charlie, please—"
But Charlie, the traitor, just grinned into her coffee. "Sorry, can't help you. This is too good."
Sloan, wiping away tears, patted Amy's shoulder. "I always knew the kid was smart."
Amy groaned. George beamed.
Across the resort, Mon was having his own problems.
Namely, Sicily.
He had been avoiding Sicily. For days. For weeks, even.
But the problem with women like Sicily? They didn't like being ignored.
So, naturally, she had found him.
"You're hard to find these days," she mused, swirling a drink in her hand.
Mon, sitting at the bar, sighed internally. "Been busy."
Sicily raised an eyebrow. "Busy? Or avoiding me?"
He gave her a bland look. "Why would I avoid you?"
She smirked, stepping closer. "Maybe because you know I can still get under your skin."
Mon was ready to brush her off—ready to laugh it away like he always did.
But then, just beyond Sicily's shoulder, he saw Amy.
Sitting at a nearby table.
Watching.
The moment she realized he caught her looking, she quickly turned away, pretending to focus on her drink.
Mon hesitated.
Just for a second.
Long enough for Sicily to notice.
Her smirk deepened. "See? You paused."
Mon exhaled slowly, looking back at her. "Maybe I just enjoy keeping you guessing."
Sicily laughed. "Oh, I like that."
But Mon wasn't looking at her anymore.
His gaze flickered back toward Amy—just for a moment.
She wasn't looking anymore.
But Mon?
He was.
Later that night, Charlie found Amy at the beach, sitting on a lounge chair and aggressively poking at the sand with a stick.
Charlie plopped down beside her. "Rough day?"
Amy sighed. "I hate him."
Charlie blinked. "Sloan?"
"No. Mon."
Charlie tried not to laugh. "Uh-huh."
Amy groaned, flopping back. "He was talking to her again."
"Sicily?"
Amy flailed an arm. "Yes! And she was all... laughing and touching his arm. And he let her."
Charlie hummed. "And why does that bother you?"
Amy shot her a look. "You know why."
Charlie smirked. "I do, but do you?"
Amy groaned again. "I don't like him."
Charlie snorted. "Okay."
Amy sat up, looking betrayed. "That's it?"
Charlie shrugged. "If you don't like him, then it's no big deal."
Amy narrowed her eyes. "You are the worst."
Charlie grinned. "So I've been told."
Amy scowled, muttering, "Stupid Mon."
Charlie leaned back, watching the waves. "Tell me about it."
Because if Amy thought her problem was bad? She should try avoiding a six-foot-something, cocky, insufferable man-child with a smug smile and too much patience.
Yeah.
Charlie was doomed.
That same night, Charlie escaped to the rooftop.
She needed space. A moment to breathe.
She had barely settled on the lounge chair when—
"You keep running, sweetheart."
She jerked at the voice, spinning. Sloan.
Standing in the doorway.
Charlie's heart pounded. "I'm not running. "You're not supposed to be here!"
Sloan stepped closer. "No?" Ignoring the other topic Charlie tried to push again.
She stood her ground. "No."
Sloan tilted his head, his voice softer. "Then why won't you talk about it?"
Charlie swallowed. "Because there's nothing to talk about."
A beat of silence.
Then—Sloan smirked.
"Lie."
Charlie glared. "I hate you."
Sloan grinned. "No, you don't."
Charlie opened her mouth to argue, but—he was already walking away.
"Night, sunshine," he called over his shoulder.
Charlie stared after him.
Frustrated.
Confused.
And, for the first time in a long time…
Maybe a little bit thrilled.