He’d looked like hell this morning. Gray-tinged and hollow-eyed, like he’d been awake for a thousand years. She’d run into him in the business center at dawn, surrounded by empty coffee cups and crumpled printouts, his tablet casting a sickly blue glow across his face. He hadn’t glanced up when she came in.
“Did you sleep at all?” she’d asked.
“Define sleep,” he’d muttered, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Guilt had twisted in her gut then. Still twisted now. He was doing this for her—burning himself down to ash and fumes because someone was trying to hurt her, and she didn’t know who or why. She wanted to tell him to stop. To rest. To let someone else carry this weight.
But she also wanted him to find whoever was behind this and gut them with a dull spoon.
The contradiction sat uneasily in her mind.
She rounded the corner of the tennis court shed and barely stopped short of hitting a wall of flesh and towels. Marcus laughed as he juggled the stack of rolled beach towels in his arms.
“Whoa, hey! You okay, boss? Didn’t mean to run you over!”
“Sorry, yes. My fault. I was just—thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.” He grinned, but there was genuine concern in his eyes. Marcus was good people. Mid-thirties,perpetually sunburned, with a natural charm that made guests love him and staff trust him. “I was actually coming to find you. The beach cabanas are running low on towels. Mrs. Chen decided she needed seven. For one lounge chair.”
Lena snorted. “Of course she did.”
“I was about to run a fresh batch down there—” His radio crackled to life, a burst of static followed by an urgent voice. “Marcus, we need you at the marina. Now. We’ve got a situation with the sunset cruise boat.”
He grimaced, thumb hovering over the radio. “Copy that. On my way.” Then to Lena: “I’m so sorry. Can you?—”
“Go.” She waved him off. “I’ve got it.”
“You sure? I can get someone else?—”
“Marcus. Go save the sunset cruise. I’ll handle the towels.”
Relief flooded his face. “You’re the best. My cart’s right there—already loaded up.”
Lena shook her head, gesturing to her own golf cart parked near his. The one with her name on a little placard zip-tied to the frame—a gag gift from Emma before she left.Lena Harris: Fixer of All Things.
“Let’s move them to mine,” she said. “You might need yours at the marina.”
Together, they transferred the stack of fluffy white towels from his cart to hers, Marcus moving with hurried efficiency while his radio continued to squawk. He thanked her three more times as he jogged backward toward his cart, before disappearing down the path in a cloud of dust and urgency.
Still smiling, Lena hopped in and headed in the opposite direction, toward the beach. She flexed her fingers on the steering wheel, loosening the residual soreness from training. Maybe tomorrow she’d be less useless. She snorted a laugh. Right.
Her thoughts drifted back to David. Again.
She’d hurt him by pulling back. Of course she had. He hadn’t called her out on it—wouldn’t call her out on it. He was too much of a gentleman. But her withdrawal must have confused him, and he probably blamed himself for bungling human interactions. He still checked on her, but not as often, burying himself more and more in his systems.
The golf cart whipped along the winding path, steering smooth under her hand. Humid wind teased her ponytail, lifting strands and dancing across her cheeks. Her new linen blouse clung to her back, and the salty tang of the sea brushed her lips. She hummed to herself—something silly but catchy from a vacation commercial—pushing back the emotional upheaval that thoughts of David always brought and focused on the glorious day around her.
She was only heading to the beach cabanas. A ten-minute check-in, tops. No drama. No ghosts of angry guests past. Just sun, cabanas, and fresh towels. A fabulous opportunity to recharge.
She turned the corner, and the path dropped sharply away, angling down to the beach.
Automatically, she pressed the brake with the sole of her sandal—but the pedal sank to the floor with a horrific, fluttering ease.
Nothing. No give. No bite. No resistance.
Lena’s smile died on her face. Her heart flipped. “What the hell?” she slammed her foot down on the brake again, praying for any friction, anything—but the cart only surged forward, picking up speed on the steep descent. Heat soaked into her limbs, adrenaline slamming into her bloodstream like a shockwave. The wind whistled in her ears.
“Stop—come on, stop,” she begged whoever was listening, panic tightening across her chest.
