Page 41 of Billionaire's Coastal Haven

“I meet with everyone at The Bright Spot every morning. They’ll know something’s wrong if I’m not there.”

I gesture toward the front door. “And how do you expect to get there? My car doesn’t have wings.”

“The cliff.”

“The cliff?” I climb to my feet. “What about the cliff? Do you have base-jumping suits I’m unaware of? Parachutes?”

She exhales like I’m the most annoying person in the world. “There are stairs from the top of the cliff down to the beach. That’s how I normally get up here when I don’t want people to know.”

“And you didn’t share this information last night because…?”

“Because they’re not that safe. At least, not in the middle of a thunderstorm. They should be fine today.” She shrugs. “Fine-ish.”

“Fine-ish?”

“They’re old. Rusty. But we should be able to climb down. I think.” She hugs the blankets to her chest and marches for the front door.

“Planning to carry the blankets down with you?”

She stares at the wad in her arms like she just realized what she’s doing. “Old habit, I guess.” She tosses them to the side and continues down the hallway. My jacket swings around her thighs, and the cuffs of my sweatpants swish across the old hardwood floors. I doubt she remembers she’s wearing my clothing. Do I tell her? I don’t know what she did with her dress, but it’s unlikely she wants to meet her friends in my sweatpants.

She swings the front door open, catching it before it slams into the wall. I loop my duffel bag over my shoulder with my briefcase inside. “Zoe, your shoes.”

She freezes on the front stoop, and her gaze drops to her feet. Her hands ball into fists, and she presses them into her eye sockets. She whispersdamn itunder her breath, so I pretend I didn’t hear her.

She spins on her toe. “I’ll be right back.” Ten minutes later, she’s dressed in yesterday’s clothes with her hair in a messy bun on the top of her head. Her neck is a temptation I didn’t anticipate. She loved when I nibbled on her earlobe, pressing her chest into mine and pulling me closer. I want to feel her against me. I want to ignite her passion and free her from the strict rules other people set for her.

I dig my nails into my palms again.Get yourself together, man. You can’t think like that. Friends only. That’s enough of a challenge. Don’t make building that relationship harder than it needs to be.

She presses my clothes into my hands and passes without another word. We walk down the cascading terraces toward her favorite overlook, but before she reaches the last step she turns left and weaves her way into the forest. About a hundred yards in, a metal post sticks up from the edge of the cliff.

She walks to the edge and hops off. My heart seizes in the split second before a clang reverberates. I jog to the edge. The platform at the top of the stairs is about four feet below the edge and hidden behind a clump of bushes. The steps zigzag across the cliff face, down to a secluded curve of Driftwood Cove Beach, the town’s public swimming area.

No way would I have found this on my own.

I hesitantly lower myself and follow her as she descends. She doesn’t seem concerned about the integrity of the steps. These will need to be inspected and solidified, if we keep them at all. While it is handy to have the stairs today, I don’t want an extra access point thatsecurity will need to inspect if my guests are not willing to climb the 400-foot elevation in their flipflops and board shorts.

Realistically, how often will they want to go to the beach? The water is likely only swimmable in August, so we’re talking walks on the beach more than days in the sun.

Zoe has barely broken a sweat when we reach the pebbled beach.

The silence between us is too loud. I need to hear her voice. “How did you know about the stairs? Part of the Reeves rumor mill?”

She pulls my jacket from her shoulders and hands it to me. “I swim.”

“What?” No way did I hear her right. Did I mention my guests not visiting the beach out loud? I don’t think so.

She flicks her fingers toward the rolling waves in the distance. “Every morning, I swim. I saw them one day, so I climbed to the top.”

“Not your mom?”

“Would you tell your four-year-old daughter about stairs like those?”

“Well, no.” Joy bubbles in my chest. I can picture Zoe, wet from a swim, wandering to the base of the stairs, curiosity driving her to climb to the top.

“That sounds like you.”

She bites her bottom lip but doesn’t ask me to elaborate like I hoped she would. She knows she’s adventurous at heart, right?