Emma glanced at her watch. Two hours until the floatplane was scheduled to depart. She’d timed everything perfectly, as always. The walk to the dock would take fifteen minutes. She had time to do one final sweep of the property, to see it whole and functioning, to confirm her work here was complete.
The afternoon shifted toward early evening by the time she made her way down to the dock. The floatplane waited at the same spot where she’d first arrived months ago—God, had it only been months? It felt like longer. Like she lived an entire arc of something here, compressed into an impossible timeframe.
The sea was calm. The sky clear. No storm threat darkened the horizon. The contrast to her first day struck her with unexpected force—how she arrived in the teeth of summer thunderstorm, focused and controlled and unprepared for what was coming.
Not the obvious threats, not Marcus or the security breaches or the operational chaos. But the other thing. The shift had happened so quietly she hadn’t recognized it until she was already changed.
Zach was waiting.
Emma spotted him before he saw her—a rare occurrence. He stood near the dock’s edge, hands in his pockets, gaze on the horizon. Not scanning for hostiles. Not running threat assessments. Just… waiting. The evening light caught the darkchestnut of his hair, the strong lines of his profile. He wore civilian clothes, a simple dark henley and jeans, and somehow looked no less capable than he did in tactical gear.
The sight of him settled something in her chest. A rightness she was still adjusting to, still learning to trust.
He turned as she approached, that sixth sense of his never dormant. His expression didn’t change—Zach’s face rarely did—but something softened in those winter-blue eyes. Recognition. Relief. Something deeper than either.
“Right on time,” he said as she reached him.
“Was there ever any doubt?” Emma stopped close enough to feel his warmth, the solid presence of him.
“No.” His lips curved. He reached for her bag without asking, shouldering it with easy strength. The gesture was pure Zach—taking care of things efficiently, no fuss—but with a tenderness to it that wouldn’t have been there months ago. “How’d it go?”
“Clean handoff. Morgan’s in charge, the staff is solid, and operations are running at ninety-six percent efficiency.”
“Ninety-six?” Zach’s eyebrow lifted fractionally, playing along with her teasing. “What’s the missing four percent?”
Emma smiled. “Room for them to make it their own. Perfect is brittle. Good with flexibility lasts longer.”
“Hm.” He considered that, then nodded. “Smart.”
They stood together for a moment, looking back at the island. From this vantage point, it was postcard perfect—white buildings against lush greenery, the beach a curve of pale sand, everything manicured and pristine. No visible signs of the hurricane, the security breach, the violence that erupted in those terrifying minutes when Marcus made his move.
“You’re not running this one anymore,” Zach said.
Emma glanced at him. “No. Charley and Morgan get to keep it from falling apart.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “I’m okay with that.”
“Are you?” There was genuine curiosity in his voice, and something else—concern, maybe. “You spent months building this.”
“I did.” Emma turned back to the view, considering. “But it was always meant to stand on its own. That’s the whole point—build something good enough it doesn’t need you anymore.” She paused. “I’m proud of what we did here. But I’m not… I don’t need to be here to feel that.”
Zach was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice dropped to the particular register he used when he was being honest, deliberately vulnerable. “What about you?”
The question caught her, even though she’d been expecting something like it. Emma met his gaze, found him watching her with the intense focus he brought to everything he cared about, eyes more blue than gray today.
She was still getting used to that—being something Zach Steele cared about. Being someone worth his attention, his protection, his carefully guarded heart.
“I’m not done yet,” she said softly. The words felt true as she spoke them, settling into place with quiet certainty. “Just… not alone anymore.”
Something flickered across Zach’s expression—relief so profound it bordered on vulnerability. His free hand found hers, fingers brushing over the pulse in her wrist before threading through hers with familiar ease. The calluses on his palm pressed against her skin, rough and warm and real.
“Good.” A beat of silence passed before he spoke again. “Nick wants us back in Mimosa Cay tomorrow. Something about quarterly reviews and strategic planning.”
Emma’s smile widened. “Does he know you’re terrible at strategic planning meetings?”
“I’m excellent at strategic planning. I’m terrible at sitting through presentations about strategic planning.”
“Fair distinction.” She squeezed his hand. “I assume your brothers are doing well?”
“David’s on-site at Ivory Sands driving Lena nuts. Nick’s…” Zach paused, something almost like amusement crossing his features. “Being Nick. Micromanaging everything while pretending he’s delegating.”
