The salty island air hits me immediately. It’s threaded with tropical blooms I’d appreciate more if my stomach wasn’t still threatening a second performance.
The resort is stunning. Smooth lines, whitewashed walls, and open spaces that frame the sparkling ocean making it part of the décor.
Stepping into the lobby, I scan the space, and yep.
There she is.
Rorie stands near the check-in desk with her team. That gorgeous black hair is pulled back in some effortless twist, a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head, and bag casually slung over one arm.
She’s trying not to look at me. But the faintest glance comes my way before she catches herself and then pretends I’m invisible.
But I’m not invisible. Am I, Rorie?
There’s that tiny shift in her posture, the way her jaw tightens just a little. She’s trying her best to ignore me, but the pity’s still there, softening her features, neatly tucked behind her indifference.
I don’t want her pity. Although pity means she’s got a heart.
And a heart I can work with.
A voice cuts through the room. “Welcome to White Thorn Island!”
We all turn as Asher Cross strides into the lobby with his broad shoulders, perfect hair, his presence filling the space, showing us he was born to own it. Dressed in a linen shirt and pants, he looks like he walked straight out of one of his movies.
Beside him, Shelby Davidson stands sun-kissed and airbrushed down to the molecular level. That silk dress she’s wearing probably took three fittings and a brand sponsorship. Every strand of her honey-blonde hair is in its place, her nails are painted anexpensive neutral, and her expression is a perfect blend of boredom and mild amusement, asthough she’s watching a reality show where she already knows the winner.
Asher flashes his signature million dollar smile that could sell out an entire theater, one that’s both warm and devastating.
“Welcome to paradise.” His voice is smooth as the ocean breeze slipping in through the open-air lobby. “We’re thrilled to have you here. Our staff will assist you with check-in. Inside your welcome packets, you’ll find everything you need, including your room assignments.”
His gaze sweeps over the group, lingering on each of us to make it feel personal. But when his eyes land on Maya, they hold a beat too long. Not obvious. Not overt. But enough that I wonder who else notices. Because, isn’t he dating Celeste Monroe?
Not that people are monogamous.
Hence, Chloe.
“Dinner is at eight,” he continues, voice cracking. “Island casual for dress. We’ll go over event details then, but until that, take the day to explore, rest, or just soak it all in. You’ve earned it.”
I glance at Rorie again. She’s nodding politely, her arms crossed. I bet she’s already running through how to use every spare minute between now and dinner to get an edge.
Squaring my shoulders, I head for the check-in desk, my gaze catching hers for a split second.
I smirk.
Yeah, I puked my guts out. But I’m still coming for you. Because I may have lost my lunch. But I’m not losing this account.
Or you.
The walk to our private cottages is a slow march to purgatory—if purgatory came with handcrafted bamboo railings, lush jungle landscaping, and ocean views that would bankrupt a poet.
Each cottage is its own secluded, stilted duplex perched off the sand, complete with a shaded porch, swaying hammock, and anoutdoor salt water pool designed for sin. Or soaking up the rays. Whichever one prefers.
I prefer sin.
Rorie sticks close to her team, who are flanking her. Personal bodyguards.
Laurel’s got the bulldog stride. Maya radiates cool, calm energy—silent assassin chic. And Jeremy is clearly there for comedic flair and dramatic commentary.
They’re mid-conversation, and Jeremy’s arms are flailing dramatically as though he’s giving an infomercial on the perils of airport fashion or the superiority of mini toiletries.
