Right. Because I look like an extra from a horror movie, if the horror movie had a really good costume budget.
“I don’t have to stay here,” I say, but the words come out wobbly.
“You’re not going back to him.”
“One thing we agree on.” I force some steel into my voice.
“You can figure out your next move in the morning,” he says simply, like it’s not a big deal. Like this might not be his first damsel-rescuing rodeo.
I want to refuse, to march out of this villa and find my own way. Show him I don’t need anyone, especially not some overbearing billionaire who no doubt thinks I’m pathetic.
But I’m tired. My head hurts. And tomorrow I’ll have to face Jon to get my passport, phone, and whatever dignity I have left andfind a way to pick up the thread of my life. Right now, I want to close my eyes somewhere safe. I might hate that Jeremy Winslow is that safe place, but I won’t deny it. At least to myself.
“Fine,” I say. “But I meant it when I said I don’t want anyone to know. You have to promise not to tell Sloane.”
Our gazes meet and hold. In the warm light of the villa, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair still mussed, he looks less like a robot and more like someone who might understand what this means to me.
“I promise,” he says.
“How do I know you’ll keep it?”
“Because I will.”
I wait for more, but he just continues to study me across the room. Okay then. A man of few words, but they feel more honest than anything Jon said in two years.
I nod, not trusting my voice. A ripple of awareness passes between us. It’s not attraction exactly, more an unexpected recognition. He sees me, I realize. Not the mask I wear with everyone else. Just...me. It’s terrifying and comforting at the same time.
Jeremy points toward one of the bedroom doors. “There are toiletries in the bathroom. Help yourself to whatever you need.”
“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate, but they’re all I have. “For everything.”
He nods, back to business. “I’ll see you in the morning, Avah.”
It’s the first time he’s said my name tonight, and those two syllables skate across my skin like a caress.
I gather the pajamas and make my way to the bedroom on unsteady legs. This room is also nicer than my bungalow, because of course it is. Crisp white linens and another view of that mesmerizing turquoise pool. I should shower, wash the blood out of my hair and the mascara off my face. Try to salvage a bit of pride.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my hand.
The engagement ring winks up at me in the lamplight. Two carats, princess cut, a ring that was supposed to represent the future I convinced myself I wanted. Jon picked it out without bothering to ask my style preference. At the time, I told myself that was romantic. Now I see it for what it was: another choice he made for me, another way of hoarding the power in our relationship.
I tug it off my finger and set it on the nightstand. After changing into the silk pajamas, I slide under the cool sheets and lie back against the pillow. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what to do with the ring and everything else. Tonight, I just need to breathe.
4
JEREMY
I’mawake for most of the night, which isn’t out of the ordinary. I’m used to operating on four hours of sleep and too much coffee. But it’s highly unusual to spend those sleepless hours pacing my villa like a caged animal, checking on a woman I barely know.
Probably isn’t a guarantee when it comes to concussions, and I’ve built a career on eliminating variables. So every two hours, I find myself standing in Avah’s doorway, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the dim light from the bathroom door she left cracked open.
Asleep, she looks nothing like the sharp-tongued woman who calls me a bossy asshole at every opportunity. Her blonde hair is spread across the pillow, her face soft and vulnerable. The cut on her temple is a stark reminder of why she’s here with me instead of in an overwater bungalow with the piece of shit who hurt her.
Even bruised and exhausted, she possesses the kind of ethereal beauty that makes men lose their minds. Her delicate features belong on a magazine cover or carved out of marble by some ancient master. In the silk pajamas Damon procured—because of course the resort’s resourceful butler thought about emergency sleepwear—she looks fragile in a way that makes my chest tight.
Fragile is not a word I’d associate with Avah Harris in her waking hours. She’s the kind of woman who could filet you with a glance and convince you to thank her for it. But asleep, with her defenses down, I see the girl underneath the armor. It melts my own defenses like I’m flying too close to the sun.
Of course, I won’t tell Sloane what happened. My sister—who’s six years younger than me and approximately seven thousand times the human being I am—would lose her mind if she knew one of her book club friends had been hit. In truth, Sloane has the sting of a butterfly. She’s filled with a genuine goodness that makes you want to believe the world might not be completely fucked.
