When the doctor’s office called me directly after Michael's appointment, I knew something was wrong.
"Make sure he follows these orders," the doctor had said. "His heart can't take the stress he's putting it under." The worry in his voice had sent a chill through me. The thought of anything happening to Michael...
I shake my head, banishing the thought. That's why we're here. To prevent anything from happening. But is that really all this is? A professional obligation? The way my heart races when he looks at me suggests otherwise.
Michael stirs, his eyes fluttering open. "We're landing," I say, my voice sounding too high to my own ears.
He straightens, immediately reaching for his phone. "Any messages?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Vacation, remember? Doctor's orders."
"We haven't technically started the vacation yet," he argues, that familiar stubborn set returning to his jaw.
"Nice try." I hold out my hand. "Phone, please."
"Elena—"
"Michael." I match his tone exactly. "Your phone. Now."
We stare at each other, a silent battle of wills that feels like it contains so much more than just an argument about a phone. Finally, something shifts in his eyes, frustration and what might almost be respect, and he hands it over.
"Thank you." I tuck it into my bag alongside his laptop, which I'd confiscated before we even boarded. "I'll keep them safe."
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he asks.
I smile innocently. "I don't know what you mean."
The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Having power over the big bad boss?"
"Maybe a little," I admit. "It's for your own good."
"That's what my mother used to say when she made me eat vegetables."
It's such a rare personal detail that I'm momentarily speechless. He never talks about his family, except for occasional mentions of his brothers. I want to ask more, to dig deeper into the mystery that is Michael Morrison, but the plane touches down with a gentle bump, and the moment vanishes.
The air is thick with humidity and the scent of tropical flowers, so different from the crisp air conditioning of our New York offices. Michael removes his suit jacket immediately, and I try not to stare at how his white shirt clings to his broad shoulders.
A sleek black car waits for us on the tarmac, and the driver greets us with a warm smile.
"Welcome to Saint Lucia, Mr. Morrison, Miss Carter. I'll be taking you to your villa."
Villa. Not hotel rooms. I shoot Michael a questioning look.
"It was all they had available," he says, not meeting my eyes. "Don't worry, it has multiple bedrooms."
The driver loads our luggage while Michael holds the car door open for me. Such a simple gesture, but it makes my cheeks warm in a way that has nothing to do with the Caribbean heat.
As we drive along winding coastal roads, I try to focus on the breathtaking scenery rather than Michael's proximity. The island is lush and green, with mountains rising dramatically from the sea. Every turn reveals another postcard-worthy view of turquoise water against verdant hills.
"It's beautiful," I murmur, almost to myself.
"Yes," Michael agrees, and when I turn, I find him looking not at the scenery but at me.
I quickly avert my gaze, my heart pounding. This is exactly what I was afraid of. The office provides structure, boundaries. Here, with the romantic setting and distance from our normal roles, those boundaries feel increasingly fragile.
The villa, when we arrive, takes my breath away. Perched on a cliff overlooking the Caribbean Sea, it's a masterpiece of modern design blended with tropical aesthetics. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the spectacular view, while a private infinity pool seems to merge with the ocean beyond.
"This is..." I struggle to find words.
