“You good this morning?” he asked, tone reserved, gaze penetrating.
Lena hesitated.
She should say something—something benign—to relieve the knot tightening under her ribs. But rising heat and a well-practiced aversion to vulnerability caught the words in her throat.
“Fine,” she said with a breezy shrug. “Just preparing myself for the Great Crab Uprising of Cottage Twelve. The guest claims a crab stole her silk hair bonnet with malicious intent.”
David lifted a brow. “I do want to support her delusion, but even hackers have boundaries.”
Before she thought up a response involving crustacean-themed crime syndicates, Megan leaned back in to update them.
“By the way, Lena,” she said, flicking through notifications on her phone. “Facilities guy saw one of the golf carts parked super close to your porch around sunrise. Probably a rogue janitor again.”
“Or stealth yoga Karen,” Lena muttered.
“Could’ve been,” Megan shrugged. “Just weird. Thought I’d mention it.”
David tilted his head toward Lena, eyeing her a little more carefully now—but she plastered on a practiced smile.
“Weird is part of the charm,” she said. “Wouldn’t be resort life without the occasional unmarked surveillance cart.”
He accepted the reply, sort of, but she knew his brain had catalogued the crumbs. He had that subtle stillness—the kind that meant he was running ten silent protocols and one emotional diagnostic beneath the surface.
She knew—later, much later—he’d bring it up again. Probably when it counted.
For now, she reached for a brightly colored resort map, handed it to an arriving guest who didn’t need it, and said, “Welcome to Ivory Sands. Nothing here is haunted. Probably.”
By two-fifteen,Lena had negotiated a truce between two honeymooning couples assigned adjacent rooms (because apparently hearing someone else happily in love while you’re also happily in love is a war crime,) rescheduled three paddle board sessions because of a spontaneously aggressive windfront, and dealt with a guest who claimed the fruit platter in her suite radiated hostile energy.
She was eating a luscious shrimp salad in the break room, balancing it carefully on one thigh because the only open chair squeaked ominously every time she shifted her weight. Walter sat across from her, nursing something that could legally be called coffee only in countries without strong regulations. Mateo, poor thing, studied an emergency evacuation manual like it held the secrets to eternal youth.
Lisa wandered in with a new batch of her infamous Key Lime cookies and passed one to Lena, who took a bite and promptly forgot stress existed. She moaned in ecstasy.
“I don’t know how you do this,” Lena mumbled with her mouth full. “Have you made a pact with a baking deity?”
“To be fair, it was butter and spite,” Lisa said. “The secret’s out.”
Lena grinned and reached for another cookie when her phone vibrated on the table beside her half-empty iced tea. UNKNOWN CALLER, the screen declared.
She frowned. Doubtless spam. Or her old cable provider rising from the grave.
She picked up. She didn’t have all the staff numbers programmed in yet, and she was on the clock. “This is Lena.”
Silence.
Not complete—she heard an ambient, crackling hum that her mind instantly categorized as poor reception static. Maybe air conditioning somewhere, or wind. Then breathing. Slow, deliberate breathing.
“Lena…” a voice breathed out. Just her name.
Instant chill. The skin tightened on her arms, the way it did when she stood too close to the back door freezer in the resort kitchen or read a Reddit thread about haunted cruise ships too late at night.
She didn’t recognize the voice—it was too soft for that—but instinct screamed male. Personal. Wrong.
Click.The call cut off before her brain caught up.
She stared at the screen, frowning so hard it might leave a permanent wrinkle.
“Something wrong?” Walter asked. His voice sounded casual enough, but his eyes were locked on her like a hawk stalking a lost mouse.
