When I leave this cozy little bubble, I go back to a very harsh reality. I need a new job and a new place to live. Quite possibly a whole new life. I’m starting over with nothing but a marketing degree, a reputation in tatters, and a group of friends whose couches I’ll probably be crashing on for the foreseeable future.
The vise around my chest cranks tighter.
Then there’s my father. My legs go weak at the thought of how he’s going to react to my change in circumstance. I lower myself to the base of the palm tree, pull my knees up and drop my head between them, gulping in air.
Oh, hell no.
I’m Avah Harris, merciless with a comeback or a lethal one-liner. I don’t panic or lose control. And I never ever let anyone see me sweat.
Sure. Now tell that to the bead of perspiration dripping down my back.
I focus on the sand beneath me, counting my breath the way my mom taught me when we first moved to Skylark in a fruitless attempt to outrun everything we’d left behind in Connecticut. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
My vision slowly clears, and the spots dancing at the edges recede.
My dad is getting out of prison soon. When he does, he’s going to want to be in my life again. He made that crystal clear in the letter he sent after seeing a post of Jon and me on a Denver society page. He was proud of me for landing a man with connections, and made it clear that he expects to be part of whatever future I build.
God, he’d love this tropical set up even more. His daughter shacked up with a man who could write checks with more zeros than most people see in a lifetime. He’d see it as a golden opportunity.
My father is a master of finding your vulnerabilities and exploiting a connection to take everything that isn’t nailed down. He did it to those elderly people he defrauded. He did it to my mother. And if I give him half a chance, he’ll do it to me, too.
Of course, I want nothing to do with him. But how do you outrun someone who shares your DNA and knows exactly which buttons to push because he sewed them into the fabric of your being?
“Are you all right?”
The female voice is filled with concern, and my head snaps up so fast it makes me dizzy again.
“This is a private beach.” The words come out biting, which is pure reflex at this point.
The woman standing a few feet away doesn’t flinch. She’s in her fifties, maybe early sixties, with silver-streaked hair pulledback in a low ponytail and enviable bone structure. Her dark eyes study me with an expression that’s more curious than offended.
“Yes,” she says mildly. “You’re sitting in front of my villa.”
I follow her gaze to the structure behind me. Another private paradise. Slightly smaller than Jeremy’s, but no less impressive. I was so lost in my own spiral, I didn’t even notice it.
“I’m sorry.” I scramble to my feet, brushing sand off my cover-up and tugging it down to cover my ass. My cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking.”
“I gathered that.” She says it without malice, her mouth curving into something that’s understanding if not quite friendly. “Are you staying nearby?”
“With Jeremy. Winslow.” I’m not sure why I add his last name, except it feels important to establish that I’m not some random trespasser having a breakdown on her beachfront. “He’s a family friend.”
She goes brows-up. “Jeremy Winslow has friends?”
The skepticism in her voice makes my spine stiffen. “We met through his sister. I was supposed to be here with—” I stop myself, not wanting to go down that road. “Plans changed, and Jeremy offered me a place to stay.”
“How generous of him.”
I’ll admit I’ve spent the past year cataloguing Jeremy’s many flaws, but something in her tone needles at me.
“He’s been more than generous, actually.” I can’t help but stick up for my billionaire host. I’m more than willing to take him down a peg or two when the moment calls for it, but this woman hasn’t earned that right. “He might come across as an asshat, but he’s also considerate and kind. I know it doesn’t track with his reputation, but—” I catch myself mid-rant and wince. “Sorry. He doesn’t need me to defend him.”
She tilts her head. “We all need people who care about us inour corner.”
The denial is right there on my tongue. I don’t care about Jeremy. Our situation is temporary. But the quiet sorrow in this woman’s gaze stops me.
“You remind me of my daughter,” she says softly. “Erin was fierce like you. Said exactly what she thought, even when it got her in trouble.”
Was. The past tense sits heavy in my heart as the pieces click into place.
