His palms were sweating. Actual moisture. On skin. Like some kind of biological system failure.
He wiped them on his khakis and wondered, not for the first time, if this was a spectacularly bad idea. Romance required vulnerability. Vulnerability required trust. And trust, in David’s experience, was a security protocol with more holes than Swiss cheese.
But then he thought of Lena—sharp-tongued, wary-eyed, beautiful in the way a lightning storm was beautiful—and realized he’d already bypassed every firewall he’d ever built around his own heart.
Damn it.
The sound of footsteps squishing through sand snapped his head toward the beach path. Lena appeared, barefoot and gorgeous, holding her heels in one hand and a plastic container in the other which, from the looks of it, once housed takeout lo mein.
David’s brain stuttered.
She wore a simple sundress, pale yellow with tiny white flowers, which should’ve looked casual but flipped his stomach upside down. Her long hair hung loose around her shoulders in silky strands. No makeup. Just Lena, unguarded and real, walking toward him like she hadn’t just powered down his respiratory system.
“You brought Tupperware,” he said stupidly.
“Truffles, mojito-themed.” She arched a brow, lips quirking. “Experimental batch. May cause dizziness, euphoria, or aggressive flirting. We’ll see.”
The moonlight rebounded off her platinum hair as she padded forward, eyeing the setup. Her gaze traveled from thelantern to the candles to the blanket—pausing on the ridiculous number of pillows—and back to his face.
“This looks suspiciously romantic, Jones. What happened? You install a wooing subroutine into your cerebellum?”
David cleared his throat and offered her a seat on the blanket like some half-dignified courtier. “Might have. More likely a glitch in my personality matrix.”
She sat with theatrical ease, tucking her legs under her and setting the Tupperware container aside. “Well, let the android seduction protocols commence.”
“I thought… you like chocolate. And the beach. So, I combined variables.” David stumbled over the words.
“You combined variables.” Her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile and accepted a coconut shell drink from him.
“Is that not how normal humans approach social interaction?”
“David, literally nothing about you screams ‘normal human.’”
“Point.” He grinned as he dropped beside her, hyperaware of every inch between them, and reached for the cooler he’d half-buried to keep everything chilled. “I, uh, wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I brought options.”
“Options,” Lena repeated, watching him with undisguised amusement. “This should be good.”
David pulled out a small bamboo tray and started unpacking. “Okay. So. We have fresh fruit: mango, papaya, pineapple, all locally sourced and cut into geometrically pleasing shapes.”
“Geometrically pleasing.”
“Uniformity improves the eating experience.”
“Does it, though?”
He ignored her and continued. “Cheese and crackers, though I’ll admit the cheese selection on the island is limited, so this is mostly aged cheddar and something Walter promised mewas ‘fancy,’ but is probably regular gouda with delusions of grandeur.”
Lena snorted.
“And—” He pulled out a covered plate with a small flourish. “Marguerite’s jerk chicken sliders, which she made me promise to tell you are ‘a special order’ and not leftovers from the staff meal.”
“Arethey leftovers from the staff meal?”
“Absolutely. But she reheated them with love.”
Lena laughed, bright and unguarded, and a stupid surge of pride welled up. Making Lena Harris laugh was better than cracking military-grade encryption.
“You really did plan this,” she said, something softer threading through her voice.
