I observe how Elle holds herself now—perfectly still, like prey trying not to attract predator attention. There’s tension in her shoulders, a slight pinch between her brows.
Morning is hardest for her. I’ve noticed this at early conferences, at breakfast meetings. Elle Park needs time to warm up, to fully inhabit her professional persona. Mornings catch her vulnerable, before her defenses are fully operational.
She’s beautiful like this. Not in the obvious way Caleb might appreciate, with his preference for flash and drama.
Beautiful in a subtle, complex way that reveals itself slowly. The precise angle of her cheekbones. The intelligence that sharpens her dark eyes. The quiet determination in the set of her mouth.
I shut down that line of thinking immediately. She’s not mine to admire. Not mine to protect. Not mine to want.
She’s Adrian Cole’s executive assistant. A business associate. A temporary housemate in an extraordinary situation.
Nothing more.
“I have calls scheduled starting at nine,” I announce, deliberately redirecting. “I’ll be using the patio if the rain lets up, or my room if not. I’ll maintain the agreed-upon privacy protocols.”
Elle nods, professional gratitude in her eyes. “I’ll coordinate with you all to ensure we’re not overlapping on confidential calls. Perhaps we should create a shared schedule for the common areas.”
“Excellent idea,” Adrian says, too quickly. “Elle, set that up immediately.”
“Already on it,” she replies, fingers flying over her phone screen.
Caleb sighs dramatically. “Schedules and protocols. You corporate types sure know how to suck the joy out of a tropical island getaway.”
“This isn’t a getaway,” Adrian snaps. “It’s a logistical complication we’re managing professionally.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Caleb murmurs, eyes lingering on Elle in a way that makes my fingers tighten around my coffee mug.
I watch the three of them—Adrian with his rigid control, Caleb with his calculated casualness, Elle caught between them, maintaining professional distance while her blockers fight a losing battle against her biology.
All of us orbiting each other in this kitchen, pretending we’re just colleagues managing an inconvenient situation.
The lie grows thinner with each passing hour. With each hint of vanilla and coconut that escapes Elle’s fading blockers. With each territorial gesture from Adrian and predatory smile from Caleb.
I should stay out of it. Keep my distance. Focus on Titan Global’s interests in the upcoming summit and nothing else.
That would be the rational approach. The smart play.
Instead, I find myself making a second cup of coffee exactly how Elle Park likes it, watching her face soften in momentary gratitude, and calculating just how many more days her blocker supply will last based on the faint, intoxicating traces of her scent already breaking through.
I drain my cup and rinse it methodically, setting it in the dish rack with precise movements. “If you’ll excuse me,” I say to no one in particular, “I have preparation work to complete.”
As I leave the kitchen, I feel Elle’s eyes following me. Curious. Suspicious. Perhaps a little grateful for the coffee and the buffer I provided. It doesn’t matter. I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
She’s not mine.
The mantra repeats as I retreat to my room, the echo of it unconvincing even to my own ears.
seven
. . .
Elle
I waketo heat crawling under my skin, a restless ache that has nothing to do with the tropical storm still raging outside my window. My sheets are twisted around my legs, damp with sweat despite the room’s perfect air conditioning. Something’s wrong. I press my face into the pillow, inhaling my own scent—stronger than it should be, sweeter. The blockers are failing faster than I calculated. This isn’t just blocker withdrawal. This is the precursor to something worse. My heat is coming, and it’s coming early.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the empty room, the word harsh and alien on my tongue.
I check the time: 7:36 AM. I’ve slept later than intended. Later than I ever allow myself on work trips. My body feels heavy, limbs weighted with a languid warmth that whispers seductive promises of what’s to come if I don’t get this under control.
