CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2
Carter
Of all the people to run into in my hotel room, it had to be her. The stubborn woman from the airport—the one who nearly started a full-blown incident over a suitcase that wasn’t even hers. And now, she’s standing in front of me, gripping a decorative starfish like it’s a deadly weapon, her mouth slightly open in disbelief.
She’s beautiful, not in an obvious, trying-too-hard kind of way, but in a way that sneaks up on you if you’re paying attention. And damn it, now that she’s in my space, I am paying attention.
She’s got this wild, honey-brown hair, half-pulled up like she started fixing it and got distracted. A few strands have escaped, framing her face, which only makes the deep golden tone of her skin more noticeable. Full lips—currently parted in shock—big, expressive brown eyes that flicker between outrage and disbelief.
She’s wearing this oversized T-shirt that slides off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin, and a pair of denim shorts that should be illegal. Her legs go on forever, toned but soft in all the right places. She looks like she threw on the first thing in her suitcase without thinking twice about it. Like she has no idea how effortlessly attractive she is. And that, somehow, makes it worse. Because if she did know? If she tried even a little? She’d be absolutely dangerous.
Not that it matters. Because right now, all that beauty is wrapped up in pure, unfiltered annoyance. And honestly, I get her aggravation. Why the hell are we both in this room right now? I’m supposed to be relaxing this week. I’m supposed to be escaping the storm back home. The one brewing at my company, the one that feels like it’s about to swallow me whole.
I’ve been running one of the largest real estate firms in the country for years. Corporate decisions, multi-million-dollar contracts, endless meetings, constant fires to put out. I’m used to the pressure—it comes with the territory. But lately? It’s been worse.. Like the walls are closing in, and every call is another fuse waiting to blow. So when my assistant booked this quiet little retreat, I thought, “Finally. A few days of peace.”
But here I am, not in a quiet retreat—nope. I’m standing here in this room with a woman who’s about to set my nerves on fire. The whole point of this trip was to get away from the chaos. Away from the constant phone calls, the last-minute decisions, and the firestorms that seem to pop up at every turn.
I’ve been weathering a hostile takeover brewing beneath the surface, with competitors circling like vultures—each one hungry for a piece of my empire. It’s like they know something’s about to blow, and they’re clawing for position. Even the board’s gone quiet—tight-lipped, jittery. Whatever’s coming, they’re keeping it buried. But I feel it rising.. And I’m right in the middle of it. All I wanted was to sit by the ocean, clear my head, maybe drink some whiskey, and pretend my life isn’t being held together by a thin thread of frantic emails and last-minute compromises. This woman… she’s the last thing I need right now.
I take in her disheveled beauty, her quick temper, and her complete refusal to back down, and I can’t help but feel a stir of something deeper than frustration. The stubborn part of her? It’s grating, but I can’t deny how it grabs me. Maybe I’m not as much of a control freak as I thought.
Maybe I can’t help but want to argue with her, challenge her. Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t know who I am, so she doesn’t give a damn about my money, my success, or my reputation. That’s what my ex used to tell me. That I never had time for anything but work. And here I am, stuck in a small bungalow with this woman. And damn if it doesn’t feel like a tornado of its own.
But I can’t afford distractions. Not now.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she finally breathes.
I take a slow sip of my beer, waiting for it to sink in. She blinks rapidly like she can’t quite process what’s happening. Then she squares her shoulders, tilting her chin up.
“What the hell are you doing in my bungalow?”
“Your bungalow?” I arch a brow, lazily leaning against the doorframe. “Pretty sure it’s mine.”
She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Nope. I booked this weeks ago. You must be in the wrong place.”
I just shrug and take another sip of my beer. “Pretty sure I know where I’m staying.”
Her lips press together as she yanks her phone from her bag, scrolling through her emails with frantic determination. The whole time, she’s muttering under her breath, her fingers tapping aggressively against the screen. I wait. Then—
“No. No way.”
Her brows pull together, her lips parting slightly. She scrolls again, her breathing picking up. “Double-booked,” she finally grits out, like the words physically pain her.
I suppress a chuckle. “Tough break.”
Her head snaps up, fire in her eyes. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” I admit.
She makes an exasperated noise and spins toward the door. “I’ll just have them fix it.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
While she’s angrily tapping at her screen, I pull out my own phone, opening the last message from my assistant.
Carter, the resort confirmed everything. Private bungalow, storm provisions stocked, no interruptions. Enjoy.
I smirk. No interruptions, huh? Turning the screen toward her, I say, “Everything was confirmed. My assistant booked it.”
She barely spares my phone a glance before rolling her eyes. “Of course you have an assistant.”
I lift a brow. “What’s wrong with having an assistant?”
She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. It just seems very… millionaire of you.”
I tilt my head, studying her. “That supposed to be an insult?”
She waves a hand. “Not the point. The point is, you have to leave.”
I let out a low chuckle. “I don’t think so.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
She scoffs, throwing up her hands. “Oh my God. The ego on you.”
I just smirk. “It’s not ego, sweetheart. It’s logic.”
She crosses her arms. “Oh, logic, is it?”
“Yeah. I was here first. That means you should be the one to leave.”
Her nostrils flare. “That is not how this works!”
I take another slow sip of my beer. “Seems like it is.”
She mutters something under her breath that I’m pretty sure isn’t polite, then turns on her heel. “Fine. I’m going to the front desk. But when I come back, you’d better not be here.”
I chuckle as she storms out, her footsteps sharp against the wood floors. Somehow, I get the feeling she’ll be back.
The second she walks out, silence falls over the bungalow—just the distant roar of waves and the soft hum of impending chaos outside. The wind rattles the windows. Thunder rolls closer.
I barely take a sip of my beer when there’s a knock at the door.
I frown. That was fast.
When I open it, I’m greeted by a woman in a crisp, too-tight Coral Bay Resort uniform. She’s tall, tanned, with a smile that says this visit isn’t just about hospitality.
“Mr. Volcor?” she asks, voice honeyed and smooth. “I’m Regina, the guest services manager here at Coral Bay Resort. I just wanted to personally welcome you to paradise.” She lifts a silver tray stacked with cookies and a chilled bottle of wine. “Thought you might enjoy a little something sweet to help you settle in. Mind if I step inside?”
I gesture her in, already knowing exactly what this is.
She sets the tray down on the kitchen island, then turns, letting her fingers trail along the edge as she faces me. Her blouse shifts just enough to reveal a freckle-strewn neckline, and her smile curves with practiced precision.
“We pride ourselves on… personalized attention here at Coral Bay,” she says, her voice dropping a few octaves. “Anything you need—day or night—I’m just a call away.”
She steps closer.
Very close.
I’ve been on the receiving end of this kind of attention more times than I can count. And under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t think twice about enjoying it—bend her over the counter, lose myself in a few hours of easy pleasure.
But I’ve got a little storm coming back any minute now. A sharp-tongued, wild-eyed tornado who already takes up more space in my head than she should.
So tonight? I let this one go.
Regina stands in front of me now, making sure I see every inch she’s offering.
She’s about to open her mouth again when the door bursts open.
“Seriously?!”
The woman from the airport storms in, soaked from the rain, hair clinging to her face like she just ran through a monsoon—and somehow still managing to look infuriatingly hot. Her gaze locks on Regina, then flicks to me. She freezes. Her jaw tightens.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she snaps. “I’ve been gone for ten minutes, dude!”
Regina straightens, cheeks pink. “I was just delivering complimentary refreshments—”
The woman from the airport holds up a hand. “Yeah, I’m gonna stop you right there. I don’t care what you two were doing; it’s none of my business. But not in my room.”
“Actually, it’s my room,” I remind her.
Regina blinks, then murmurs something about resort protocol and a “very sorry, sir” before practically tripping over her heels on the way out.
The door slams behind her.
And my unhappy roommate?
She’s glaring at me like she’s ready to throw the wine bottle at my head.
I take a long sip of my beer and lean against the counter, utterly unbothered.
“What?” I say, lips twitching. “She brought cookies.”