“More compliments.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“I might not be able to fit through the villa doorat this point.”
“Use the slider,” she says with an eye roll. We’re both grinning.
The boat rocks gently as Rai steers us back toward the resort. The sun is high and hot, and once lunch is cleared, Avah lies back on the cushions, her eyes closed and a small smile playing at her lips.
I think about all the places I’ve been and things I’ve done, from private islands to experiences most people only dream about. None of them made me want to stay in the moment rather than rushing to the next item on an endless list like today has.
Sloane has been telling me for years that I need to enjoy the journey instead of obsessing over the destination. I always dismissed it as what people say when they haven’t built something from nothing. When they don’t know the rush of completing the next big thing.
But maybe my little sister was onto something.
I’m not naive enough to think everything is going to work out. The Johnsons might never come around, and Avah will go back to Colorado at the end of this trip and rebuild her life without me in it. This extraordinary pocket of peace is temporary.
But for the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m not three moves ahead, calculating how to corner the market or crush whoever’s in my way. I’m just here in paradise with a woman who’s also more than what people believe about her. She makes me want to be less of an asshat, and now I’m wondering if that’s possible.
8
AVAH
The sand iswarm under my feet, but my insides feel like someone packed them in ice. I’ve been walking for maybe twenty minutes, following the curve of the private beach that stretches past Jeremy’s villa toward the other exclusive properties on this end of the resort. The sun is high in the clear blue sky, and I have nowhere I need to be, so I should be feeling languid and easy. Instead, my chest keeps tightening like someone’s slowly cranking a vise.
Because last night was…too good.
After the snorkeling excursion, I took a nap while Jeremy handled some business calls. Then we ordered room service and watched the originalMission Impossiblemovie on the villa’s over-the-top entertainment system. It felt so stupidly normal—the two of us on opposite ends of the couch, trading commentary about Tom Cruise’s hair and whether the mask bit was even plausible.
And then his leg accidentally brushed mine. Which happens when two people share a piece of furniture, right? But the zing of electricity that shot straight up my spine made my breath catch.
My body is still singing with that awareness, even now. What the hell is wrong with me?
I press my palm flat against my sternum in a futile attempt to will my heart to slow down. The straw hat I grabbed from the villa shades my face, and a coral-hued cover-up hides my body from view, but neither makes me feel less exposed. It’s like that one inadvertent touch pushed me over the edge of lustful sanity. Impossible, considering the bruises from my dysfunctional relationship fail haven’t fully faded.
The postcard-perfect sand stretches ahead of me, but I can’t appreciate the pristine beauty when I’m such a mess.
I keep replaying the way every nerve ending in my body suddenly stood at attention, something Jon never managed to do. I’d glanced over at him, certain he’d felt it too, but his eyes were fixed on the screen, his profile illuminated by the glow of Tom Cruise dangling from a ceiling.
Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Because the other option is that I’m so starved for human contact not tinged with a threat that my body has latched onto the first safe man in my orbit.
The thought makes my stomach hurt.
I just ended an engagement with an overbearing douche canoe who hit me. Walked out of a bungalow with blood on my face and nothing but the clothes on my back. And now, a few days later, I’m getting butterflies because Jeremy Winslow’s knee touched mine mid action sequence?
Am I that stupid, or just that broken?
My feet keep moving, but my brain is stuck in an ugly loop. Because the truth is, Jeremy is overbearing, too. He’s controlling and a micromanager, and I know he can be ruthless when it comes to getting what he wants. He’s a man I should be running from, not catching feelings for.
The fact that he’s been careful and kind doesn’t mean anything. Jon was charming, too, at first. I felt safe with him…right up until I didn’t.
Even if every instinct I have about Jeremy’s decency turns out to be right, this isn’t real. We’re in a tropical bubble, but once I getback to Skylark, everything changes. He goes back to being Sloane’s asshat brother who shows up when she needs him but treats the rest of us like bit players in the grand drama of his life. I go back to...what, exactly?
My foot catches on the root of a nearby palm tree. The bark is rough against my palm as I stumble into it, the contact grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
I haven’t turned on my phone or checked email since I walked out on Jon. I’ve let myself relax into this suspended reality fever dream where I don’t have to think about what comes next. But I know what’s waiting, and I know where letting my guard down will get me.
It’s clear I’m done working for Jon’s family’s financial firm. I won’t sit in meetings with his father pretending nothing happened. Of course, Edward Clark will probably fire me once Jon spins his side of the narrative. And knowing that dickwad, he’ll paint me as a crazy bitch who walked out on her pre-wedding honeymoon for no reason. It’s a story that writes itself, and I’m not there to offer a counterargument. To be honest, I can’t muster the desire to try.
