Lena met her eyes. “Even if I call in the middle of the night from the front desk, whispering that the espresso machine exploded and I’m fleeing into the jungle?”
“Especially then.”
They hugged—tight, lingering, and wordless. Tears pressed against her lids, but she refused to let them fall.
They pulled apart, and Emma smirked at her, arching an eyebrow. “You know, you’ve got other people who’ve got your back now.”
Lena raised a brow. “Walter?”
Emma flashed a wicked grin. “I was thinking of a certain tall, broody tech genius who looks at you like he’d rewrite the code of the universe if you asked.”
“Oh, my god.” Lena groaned and grabbed a pillow, whacking Emma in the shoulder. “You are not spending your last three hours on this island linking me with my boss.”
“Temporary boss,” Emma corrected, eyes sparkling, “and potential future something if you stop being so stubborn.”
Lena gave her a look, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Compliment accepted.”
Emma zipped her suitcase and rolled it off the bed. Lena followed her to the door. She paused at the threshold, one hand resting against the frame, her turquoise eyes unusually shiny.
“Hey, Em?”
“Yeah?”
Lena pointed to the kitchen. “Don’t forget your pink flamingo mug.”
Emma blinked, then burst into laughter. “You keep it.”
“No way. It tastes like betrayal now.”
“Fine. I’ll get you a new one. Something more professional. With a lid and a sippy straw.”
Lena smirked. “Good luck finding a mug that can keep up with me.”
Emma grinned. “You already have everything you need, L.”
Then, she was gone.
Chapter 8
Delightful Mischief
David stared at his monitor,the pulsating blue light flexing in time with the annoyance and frustration that bubbled through his veins like a cauldron of boiling water.Why couldn’t he find this scumbag?This wasn’t a nuisance; it was an affront. Nobody eluded him—not in this realm. He was a freakin’ god online, the undisputed master of the digital landscape.
Okay, not a god, but certainly a tech-mage, conjuring code and commanding computers as if they were mere toys—writing complex scripts with his mind, making machines bend to his will. Yet, here he sat, stymied by one pathetic loser.
He needed to shake off this irritation.
He needed a distraction.
A wicked grin stretched across his face. Chester Dinkley. Just what the doctor ordered. A fine target for his digital wrath. What delightful mischief could he conjure?
Yesterday, he’d set up an email bomb. He rubbed his hands together with glee as he pictured Chester’s frustrated groans as he sifted through the nonsensical subscription to Ferret Fancier Monthly—and that was only the beginning.
Of course, changing his social media status to “loser” took some work, but it had sent a lovely rush of adrenaline coursingthrough him. That one required more talent, tweaking the algorithms to accommodate his mischievous intentions. “Loser” wasn’t a standard choice after all.
Perhaps one last act of playfulness before he escalated his retribution. Geo-fencing ads? No, something more captivating—a password reset loop. It had once driven Nick to distraction, a beautiful tapestry of chaos he’d skillfully unwoven. He’d kept that lovely little piece of script.
