One:Jane got under my skin faster than anyone since Caroline.
Two:That either means she's exactly what I need, or I'm repeating the same mistake with a different face.
Three:I won't survive being wrong again.
Four:But I'm not sure I'll survive walking away either.
I hit the shower—cold water, because apparently I'm a glutton for punishment—and try to formulate a plan.
Option A: Double down on professional boundaries. No more lessons. No more touching.
My chest tightens at the thought.
Option B:Admit this is already way past professional and figure out if it's real.
My chest tightens worse.
Option C:Run. Fake a family emergency. Leave the island.
I actually consider it for thirty seconds before my protective instincts kick in and reject the entire concept. Loudly.
Because whatever else is happening—whatever confusion or complication or impending disaster I'm walking into—one thing is absolutely clear:
I can't leave her alone with Blake.
Not after the way he looked at her at the pool. Not after the "private beach" invitation. Not after years of watching him treat women like acquisitions he forgot to close.
So that's decided.
I'm staying. I'm protecting her.
Even if it destroys me.
Even if she's playing me.
Even if I'm too broken to tell the difference anymore.
I finish the shower, get dressed, and check my phone. 7:23 AM.
Two hours since I fled the casita like it was on fire.
Time to face the music.
When I let myself back in, the bedroom door is open and Jane's gone.
The bed looks like a crime scene—every blanket in the casita piled in the middle where the burrito used to be.
A coffee mug in the sink. Still warm. I'm going to need to leave housekeeping a bigger tip.
Relief and disappointment hit simultaneously.
No text. No note.
Is she avoiding me? Did she bolt?
The possibility makes me want to break things.
I force myself to breathe. She's probably at breakfast.
