"The truth is," he continues, his voice lower, "I've spent so long being 'Michael Morrison, CEO' that sometimes I'm not sure where that ends and I begin. It's easier to stay behind those walls than to figure out who I might be without them."
The admission costs him. I can see it in the tension around his mouth, the way his fingers grip the coconut too tightly. Michael doesn't do vulnerability, doesn't expose weaknesses. Yet here he is, offering me exactly that.
"Thank you for telling me," I whisper. "For what it's worth, I like the glimpses I get of the man behind the walls."
"I'm not good at this," he admits. "Vacations. Relaxation. Personal conversations."
"You're doing fine," I assure him. "Better than fine."
The moment is interrupted by the arrival of a small group of musicians who set up near our table. They begin to play traditional island music—upbeat and joyful, with rhythms that seem to capture the essence of this place. Other patrons begin to clap along, and a few even get up to dance in the small space between tables.
"We should head back soon," Michael says, checking his watch. "It'll be dark before long."
"Just a few more minutes," I plead, caught up in the festive atmosphere. "This is wonderful."
He relents with a small smile, and we watch as the impromptu party grows, more people joining in the dancing. A kind-looking older local man approaches our table and extends his hand to me with a gallant bow.
"Dance, miss?" he asks, his smile revealing a gold tooth.
I hesitate, glancing at Michael, who nods encouragingly. "Go ahead," he says. "When in Rome, right?"
With a laugh, I take the man's hand and let him lead me into the swirl of dancers. The music is infectious, impossible not to move to. My dance partner is surprisingly spry, twirling me aroundwith ease. I catch glimpses of Michael watching from our table, smiling like I've never seen him do before.
After one song, I thank my partner and return to the table, breathless and laughing. "That was fun! You should try it."
Michael shakes his head firmly. "I don't dance."
"Ever?"
"Not if I can avoid it," he says with a grimace. "Another thing I'm not good at."
"I find that hard to believe," I tease. "The great Michael Morrison, admitting there's something he can't master with sheer determination?"
He chuckles, "Even I have limitations, Ms. Carter."
The use of my last name is playful rather than formal. It feels like we've found our footing again, that delicate balance between professional and personal.
As the sun begins to set, we reluctantly leave the lively café and make our way back to the Jeep. The sky performs a spectacular color show as we drive, oranges and pinks deepening to purples and indigos.
"Today was..." Michael begins, then pauses.
"Yes?" I prompt.
"Good," he finishes simply. "Really good."
Coming from a man who typically describes business deals as "adequate" or "satisfactory," it feels like high praise. I smile into the gathering darkness. "It was."
When we reach the villa, there's a moment of awkwardness as we stand in the driveway, neither quite ready to return to our separate wings.
"Dinner in an hour?" Michael suggests.
I nod. "Perfect."
As I head to my room, I find myself thinking about the sea glass necklace in my purse. Like those pieces of broken glass, transformed by time and tide into something new, something is changing between Michael and me. What started as sharp edges, boss and employee, billionaire and assistant, is being worn smooth by this unexpected time together.
I just hope we don't cut ourselves on the edges that remain.
Chapter 7 - Michael
