Even his name fits him in a way that irritates me a little. It’s short, solid, with no extra garnish. A man who stands barefoot in the surf before most of the island is awake, catches fish with a fly rod, and thinks heat, lime, salt, and protein qualify as a meal plan.
Survival isn’t the same as flavor.
I smile again when I think of saying it to him. Maybe because it came out more flirtatious than I intended. Maybe because he smiled as if I’d genuinely amused him. Or maybe because it has been so long since a man looked at me without feeling like he was looking at Kara Stone, brand, business, chef, camera-readypersonality, woman who somehow built an entire life out of sharp knives and hotter kitchens.
Cole looked at me like he was trying to solve something. Not recognize or impress me. He wasn’t asking for a selfie or pitch a restaurant idea. Thank God he didn’t tell me his mother makes better gumbo than I ever could.
Instead, I feel the faintest flare of warmth low in my stomach as I climb the stairs to the cottage, my flip-flops snapping softly against my heels. The shells are still damp in my hand, grit clinging to my skin. The red polish on my nails is chipped on one corner from kicking through wet sand, which seems oddly unfair because I have been on this island less than twenty-four hours and already the beach is trying to humble me.
Inside, the cottage is bright and tranquil. I set the shells on the kitchen island in a little row and stare at them as if I’ve brought back evidence of something. I broke away from my business life, maybe. Or at least proof that I tried.
My laptop sits open on the small desk near the window, exactly where I left it. Even from across the room, I can see the unread emails waiting for me. Cookbook edits. Ingredient notes from Talia. A brand approval request for a sponsored summer grilling segment. Two calendar invites I have already ignored. A message from my publicist with the subject line: Quick question, which is almost never quick and rarely only a question.
Normally, I would be halfway through all of it by now. I would have coffee brewed, hair twisted up, glasses on, and three separate documents open while mentally rewriting a recipe headnote and deciding whether smoked paprika belongs in a citrus marinade. Normally, I would know exactly what I was supposed to be doing, and the act of doing it would make me feel anchored. But this morning, the ocean is louder than my inbox.
It keeps pulling at me through the glass doors, steady and blue and impossible to dismiss. The tide has shifted since Iwalked out earlier. The light is different now too, brighter and more demanding, flashing silver beyond the dune grass. I can hear gulls fussing somewhere overhead and the muffled sound of someone laughing far down the beach.
I came here because I was afraid. That part is true. But standing here in my red swimsuit with sand on my ankles and shells on the counter, I have to admit there might be something else waiting here too. Something that has nothing to do with fear. A rhythm I do not control. And if most of the men on this island look anything like Cole, my productivity is definitely going to take a nosedive.
My phone rings before I can follow that thought into dangerous territory. Vanessa’s face fills the screen.
For one strange second, I almost let it go to voicemail. Not because I don’t want to talk to her, but because I know exactly what she’ll see when I answer. Wind-tangled hair. Sunglasses pushed on top of my head. Swimsuit straps. The guilty expression of a woman who walked on the beach instead of opening her laptop.
Then I answer anyway.
“There she is,” Vanessa says, her face brightening on the screen. “Oh my God. Look at you. You look almost human again.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“It is from me. I’ve seen you three espressos deep at midnight with a whisk in one hand and murder in your eyes.”
“That was one time.”
“That was every cookbook deadline you’ve ever had.”
I carry the phone with me to the kitchen and prop it against the fruit bowl, adjusting the angle so she sees less of my swimsuit and more of my face. Vanessa is in her restaurant office from the look of it, hair swept into a messy knot, gold hoops catching the light. She’s wearing a black apron already tied overa deep green blouse. Behind her, shelves hold binders, wine samples, receipts, and the controlled chaos of a woman running a business that never stops asking for pieces of her.
For a second, guilt presses at me. While I’m here looking at the ocean, she is there doing what I would normally be doing. Working. Solving. Keeping the machine fed.
“You went to the beach,” she says.
“I was instructed not to work.”
“I said that, yes, because I am wise.”
“I found shells.”
“Very vacation of you.”
“I also met a fisherman.”
The words leave my mouth before I think better of them.
Vanessa’s brows rise. “A fisherman?”
“Maybe a fisherman or a philosopher with a fly rod. It was early.”
“Did he have all his teeth?”
