I cannot believe I agreed to Óscar's deal. I've been laying here for hours going over how I could have gotten out of it and I still can't come up with anything.

Which is extremely irritating. He is extremely irritating.

The irritation could be related to the fact that I'm still thinking about how good he smelled. Or the fact that I have no phone and no way to get one. It's definitely the phone part that's stressing me out more.

Definitely.

Okay, fine. But either way I don't think I slept more than four hours last night, and I'm still in my tank top and pyjama pants staring at my ceiling through a curtain of knotted hair when a knock sounds through my room.

"It's not even eight in the morning," I groan, rolling off the bed and hitting the floor with a slight thud I'm sure my uninvited guest could hear. As she should for such a rudely early awakening. I'm not about to tell her I was awake when she arrived.

Finally I make it to the door and throw it open. "I know it's your wedding weekend, but a girl doesn't wake up looking beautiful, B—"

"I don't know. Look pretty beautiful to me," Óscar says, holding out a travel cup that wafts the temptation of coffee up to my nose. It smells so good, but I can't give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

"It's hot," I say, plopping the coffee down on the nearest flat surface. "What do you want?"

His eyes snap up to meet my eyes and his adam's apple bobs with a heavy swallow of his own coffee. I know it must burn his tongue, but he doesn't even flinch.

"I'm here to get started on our day. I have a disadvantage having no time to prepare, but I think I can make it work."

"And what 'it' are we making work here? I do not want you here. I never asked you to be here and I—"

"Don't want to go whining to Bianca and ruin her wedding day so we agreed to a truce. Whoever wins today takes the pot."

"Fine," I concede. "I agreed to your terms and I stand by that as long as you promise we never let Bianca or Enrique know of this little arrangement."

"Agreed."

That was way too easy. "I wasn't finished. You also have to take the morning shift. I like my afternoon plan better."

"This morning? In two hours?" Watching his eyes pop out of his head and his calm, cool demeanour shift into something clammy and nervous might be the highlight of my day.

"Is that going to be a problem? I could always take over for you and plan the whole day."

"Oh, no. That's not how we're going to play this. I could take the afternoon if I wanted." He steps in closer, towering over me and so very close to touching every part of me, stopping just short. I can't breathe.

His breath heats my forehead as I stare directly at his chest. Everything is jittery and my lack of sleep must have turned my legs into jelly because I cannot keep a hold of my breathing.

Finally, he speaks. "Just to show you how amazing I am, I will take the morning. I guarantee I'll still win."

"You're really not one to back away from a challenge, are you?" I will not look up at his slightly stubbled jaw. Nope. I do not like this man. He is rich and rude and entitled and...

"How do you think I got where I am, Lorena? Not wanting to win?"

I should have seen this one coming, but I didn't. Awake Lorena would have had an amazing comeback, but sleep-deprived Lorena just said, "Fine. You take the morning and I'll take the afternoon. At the end of the day everyone in the wedding party gets a vote. Winner gets to plan tomorrow's events. Even though I have no idea why you want to."

"It's a deal. But those aren't the stakes."

How is he still able to keep his head on straight? Maybe I don't smell as good as—Oh, God I probably smell of morning breath. Mercifully he turns to leave, pulling the heat out of me and after him, like a piece of ice to a burn. "I thought I could give it a try," I call as he leaves my room, the door softly closing behind him.

There's absolutely no way he's going to beat me with two hours to prepare. And I still have no phone. So I have more work to catch up on than I know what to do with. The afternoon is planned, and the morning is for watching Óscar fall apart, so I have to get going.

My hair objects as I pull it into a lopsided bun on the top of my head, snagging into all parts of the elastic as I sit down at my computer. Staring at the lock screen, I take the lid off of Óscar's peace offering and breathe in the heavenly caffeinated scent.

Then my email opens and I'm staring down the big, red '72' unread messages.

This is going to take more than two hours.

I have to enter priority mode, meaning I completely ignore the three emails from my mother and start moving things to folders and flagging things for follow up, reading and replying to only the most necessary things about my blog, sponsorship requests, and the job with Mercurio.

That last one stops me and I have to take a walk around the room before I open it. Okay three whole walks around the room and one attempt at squats. Now I can open it.

Sit. Click. Wait for the buffering circle.

TO: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Portfolio Follow-Up

Hello Lorena,

I'm just following up to see what you've come up with so far. We have another candidate who has passed all qualifications, so we're going to have a hard time slowing down corporate decision makers if we don't have something to show them. One article about a famous soccer player isn't going to hold them off for long, no matter how good it is. I'm going to need something topical, with a unique angle, by end of day tomorrow if you want to stay in the running. I think you have potential. Don't let me down, Lorena. Bring us home the article of a lifetime.

Amanda LeMont

On behalf of Sema Zorlu

Senior Editor, Mercurio Travel

An article of a lifetime? With an angle. By tomorrow. How am I supposed to pull that off while I'm out all day without a phone to write on? And if I take my laptop, I'll definitely arouse suspicion from Bianca and Carla. Or they'll make me give up the planning so I can relax and watch me like a hawk the rest of the week. Which would leave no time to talk to locals, conduct interviews, and gain first-hand travel experience.

Maybe the whole thing is useless, and I should just give up.

The sigh that escapes me is heavy, but it does not help lighten the weight settled firmly in my chest. I sip my coffee and it burns my tongue, putting a wonderful cap on this already terrible morning.

I need time to think. I need to figure out how to find an angle that doesn't involve a bunch of interviewing and research. And I need to find a phone.

I leave the coffee open on the table, throwing my laptop safely on the bed, and wander into the bathroom to stare at my messy hair in the mirror and—

Oh no. Is this what I'm wearing?

In the bright light of the Honduran early morning, it's extremely see-through. Transparent, even.

And I greeted the world's most famous fútbol player wearing this. Well, at least it'll make for a good story one day. 'Hey, remember the time I accidentally threw myself at that smoking hot fútbol star who I hated with a fire hotter than the surface of the sun?'

A knock on the door startles me and I grab a towel to cover my see-through outfit, not looking to repeat the experience of accidentally exposing myself. When I finally answer the door, lungs still gasping for air, Óscar once again materializes outside my door, this time with his assistant slash cousin Marcia beside him.

"I'm not dressed," I say, voice scratching my throat.

"I survived the last time," he practically laughs. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll wait in the hallway. I have calls to make."

"You have a phone," I say before I can stop to think.

"He has several," Marcia says, offhand. "We had to buy like ten to get the guy to give us a charger. It's kind of funny, actually—"

"Come in." It's a completely useless thing to say when Marcia is already seated on my little desk chair, flopping open a large clipboard and clicking a pen. "I guess you can come, too." I gesture to Óscar and swing the door as wide as it will go so I can flatten myself into the wall.

It doesn't do anything to stop the pull I feel when he walks past.

Rude.

"So, I have instructions from the team and other instructions from Enrique and Bianca. Which do you want first?"

Her head is on a swivel, looking back and forth between me and Óscar as though there is a 'me and Óscar' in any situation.

"Tell her the team first," Óscar answers. "I think she'll take it better."

"I—" But I don't get to object because Marcia has already launched into a recap of yesterday's events, including some things I didn't know she was aware of.

"Well, as you can imagine, jumping off a dock bar into dangerous ocean waters is not exactly in line with Óscar's contract clause against dangerous activity. I've convinced them there were extenuating life-and-death circumstances, but they are going to need a written statement from you in order to corroborate the events. I can also ask Bianca, but in light of the reason we're all here this week, I thought it might be best to leave her out of it."

She's good. Making me think this deposition would be helping my friend enjoy her wedding week rather than the truth. She's asking me to help my current... not quite enemy, but certainly adversary.

But he did probably save my life. And Marcia's right. Bianca would write the letter. Which would take away time from her wedding adventures. Which is the whole reason we're here.

"I'll do it," I respond. "But I'm going to need access to one of your phones. I can't be expected to write this letter and keep on top of everything else without a computer. And I can hardly take my laptop with me everywhere without raising suspicion."

"Done," Óscar says without thought. "You can have a phone."

"And I need to be able to connect to the internet."

"Done. Anything else?"

"This really is a big deal for you, isn't it?"

He flinches. There's something they aren't telling me. And my journalistic curiosity screams to know the answer. But my wedding-guest self isn't supposed to be here for journalism reasons. I don't want my blog or my little bet made public, so I don't push my luck. "Forget I asked. I'll do it. If you get me the phone."

I don't even get the whole sentence out before Marcia drops a cell phone onto the bed in front of me.

"On to the next matter of business then." She spins to face the little desk against the window, translucent curtains floating around her in the breeze.

A little smirk grows on the corner of Óscar's face. Is he really that excited to hear I'll tell the truth about what happened? It can't be that hard to find people to write letters when you have his kind of money.

"Bianca and Enrique have enlisted me to ensure that whatever bet you two have going doesn't impact the experience of their guests."

It's a good thing I didn't have any coffee in my mouth at that moment, or it would have been all over Óscar's perfectly styled hair and Marcia's angular suit jacket.

"Before you say anything," Marcia lays her hand on my shoulder. "She doesn't know about any bet. I paraphrased. She just wanted me here to make sure you didn't kill each other. Something about guilt and pride. At any rate, I will be your personal mediator for the duration of the week."

Great. Just what I need. Another babysitter.

"I do not need someone making sure I act like an adult." I'm doing a poor job hiding my distaste for the arrangement. "Especially not someone who works for Óscar. I highly doubt you can be objective."

"I have way too much to do to actually pay attention to you two all day. If you can manage to keep out of trouble, you won't even notice me. But one toe out of line and I'm in your business. Because then it's my name and my reputation on the line. So you two keep it together and you can just pretend I'm not even here."

Well, that's actually pretty reasonable. But it still leaves me with the problem of working with Óscar. If I win the bet, I won't have to work with him anymore. So where will Marcia be?

He must figure out what I'm thinking because his breath tickles my neck as he leans in to whisper, "If you win today, which you won't, I'll find something for her to do so you can plan everything on your own. Though I still can't figure out why you would want to."

"Why do you want to?" I challenge.

"I don't want to do it on my own," he responds. "I want to do it with you."