Chapter 5
AVAH
I’m curled up on the cream sofa later that afternoon, staring out toward the pool, when the villa door slams. It’s more controlled than an overly dramatic, throw-it-off-the-hinges rattle, but Jeremy’s back, and he’s not happy about something.
It’s hard for me to register any sort of problem here in paradise when I’m still a little floaty from the masseuse who showed up at the door two hours ago.
Her hands could coax knots out of granite, and her soothing voice made me want to confess all variety of secrets.
I didn’t, obviously, but I thought about it.
It was difficult to believe Jeremy took the time to set it up for me, but also right in line with this confounding version of the man I thought I had pegged from my limited interactions with him in Skylark.
He rounds the corner into the main living area, his mouth a thin line and his shoulders rucked up to his ears.
He gives me a single nod, like we’re strangers in an elevator, and a prickly sensation blooms in my chest. What happened to the man who steadily stood sentry while I gathered my belongings from the bungalow this morning, making lame jokes in an obvious attempt to distract me from what a mess my life had turned into?
“You didn’t need to do that.” My plan had been to thank him, but Jeremy Winslow raises my hackles like no one else, and that’s saying something.
One dark brow lifts. “Do what?”
“Arrange a private massage.” I straighten my shoulders. “I’m not a sequestered charity case here.”
“Did you like it?” He’s standing near the kitchen island, one hand braced against the marble countertop like he needs the anchor.
I want to lie, but the massage was absurdly good, and my body feels fully relaxed for the first time in two years. Longer, maybe. “Kids like cupcakes,” I answer. “Doesn’t mean they need them delivered on a silver platter.”
“There’s nothing wrong with cupcake delivery,” he says, like that settles the matter, and starts to turn away.
“Thank you.” The words come out reluctantly, but they need to be said. “I happen to love cupcakes.”
Okay, I didn’t need to add that last bit.
He pauses mid-step, and I watch the words ripple through him. There’s a visible shift in the set of his spine, and for a second, I think he’s going to join me on the couch. Maybe share what has his briefs in a bunch.
But he just inclines his head toward the outdoor kitchen visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “We have a chef coming to make dinner tonight, unless you’d rather eat at one of the resort restaurants.”
I don’t need to stay hidden with Jon gone, but the idea of leaving this unexpected sanctuary makes my stomach clench. “Here’s good.”
“If you don’t want to eat with me, that’s fine, too.” It sounds like he’s offering me an escape hatch and trying not to care if I jump.
“Since you’re footing the bill, I’ll allow it,” I answer tartly, going for humor but wondering if I just sound like an ungrateful bitch.
He laughs softly and scrubs a hand over his face. Are nerdy tech geniuses supposed to have chiseled jawlines? “A familiar sentiment, although most people just think it. At least you’ve got the balls to say it out loud.”
“Is it possible you’re hanging around the wrong people?”
I regret the question immediately. It’s too personal. The kind of thing you ask someone you actually care about, not your friend’s rigid billionaire brother who happened to find you bleeding on a beach last night.
His laugh is harsher this time. “It’s a universally acknowledged truth that I’m the problem.
” He looks out the door toward the pool and beyond to the turquoise water of the lagoon, and I notice for the first time what he’s wearing.
Tan linen pants and a navy polo shirt that’s probably supposed to read as resort cool, but comes across like business casual’s uptight cousin.
The shirt is tucked in, naturally, making him look like a man trying to relax and failing spectacularly at it.
“I’m going to shower before dinner.”
He’s moving toward his bedroom, making me feel like I’ve been dismissed.
I hate being dismissed as much as I love cupcakes.
Reminds me of the way my dad did it when I was a girl.
When his attention was on me, it felt like basking in sunlight.
But the shadows came too often. A shiver runs through me at the memory.
“Let the chef know your food preferences,” he calls over his shoulder.
The click of his door closing is a reminder I definitely need.
Jeremy and I aren’t friends, or anything more.
He’s doing this because of Sloane, and because leaving me on that beach would have been a little too asshole-y, even for a soulless tech bro.
And maybe because some deeply buried part of him that isn’t a total robot can’t help giving a shit about people in crisis.
None of that makes us buddies. It doesn’t change the fact that, before last night, the longest conversation we’d ever had involved me telling him his micromanagement of Sloane’s doctors’ appointments was giving off control-freak vibes, and him staring at me like I was an annoying mosquito he couldn’t swat.
A different version of me would be pissed enough about his hot-and-cold routine to pack up all her recovered belongings—passport, phone, and scraps of dignity included—and walk right out that door.
But current Avah, the one who’s not broken but definitely bent, isn’t willing to give up his care so easily.
Even if one day I’ll hate myself, and him, for seeing me like this.
I’m still sitting here, mentally cataloguing all the ways this situation is fucked up, when there’s a polite knock at the open slider that leads to the pool and outdoor kitchen.
I glance up to see a man wearing chef whites on top, paired with olive-colored cargo shorts.
He’s in his late twenties, dark hair pulled back in a man bun and an easy smile.
“Hey there.” He gestures toward two staff members unloading a cart of ingredients onto the outdoor kitchen’s granite countertop. “I’m Michael.”
“Avah.” I unfold myself from the couch and follow him past the pool toward the kitchen. “Thanks for making dinner tonight.”
“Are you kidding? A private villa gig beats the resort kitchen any day.” As I take a seat on one of the high stools, he pulls out a pineapple and starts prepping with the practiced movements that come from years of professional cooking. “You from the States?”
“Colorado. You?”
“Chicago, originally.”
“No way. I went to Northwestern.”
His face lights up. “Small world.” The rhythm of his chopping is hypnotic. “You miss it?” His gaze lingers on my bruised cheek, but I refuse to look away.
“Sometimes.” I place my elbows on the counter and lean forward, content to watch him work. “I miss deep dish and the lakefront. Not the winters. At least we have year-round sun in Colorado.”
“Same. That’s how I ended up here.” His grin is unabashedly boyish. “Well, that and a series of questionable life choices that seemed brilliant at twenty-five.”
“The best kind.”
He laughs, and I grin in response. Michael has the kind of energy that makes you want to laugh at your own drama.
The vibe between us isn’t flirty, but it reminds me that I’m more than the wounded bird who doesn’t have the strength to leave the nest—or in this case, the five-figure-a-night villa. I’m going to fly again eventually.
“So what brings you to paradise?” he asks, then immediately winces. “Sorry. Strict staff rules. We aren’t allowed to ask guests about their personal lives.”
“It’s okay.” I take a deep breath. This is the opportunity I didn’t know I needed.
The chance to lessen the stigma I feel over what happened by owning it.
“I was supposed to be on my honeymoon, except I called things off before we got to the marriage part. So it’s more of a tropical vacation with a side of life implosion. ”
“Damn.” He pauses mid-chop. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Best decision I’ve made in years.”
“Then congratulations on your freedom.” He pulls a cocktail shaker from one of the cabinets below the countertop. “Can I fix you a celebratory drink?”
“Only if you make it a mocktail.” I shrug and try to look casual. “I’m focused on avoiding questionable life choices at the moment.”
“Done,” he says with a wink and slides a tall glass across the counter a minute later. It’s bright pink, garnished with a sprig of mint and a slice of fresh pineapple. I take a sip, and a perfect mix of sweet and tart hits my tongue.
“This is amazing. What’s in it?”
“Fresh pineapple, strawberry, lime, a little coconut water, and a secret ingredient I’m not at liberty to reveal.” He waggles his brows. “How do you feel about an ahi tuna appetizer with mango, avocado, and a citrus vinaigrette?”
“I feel like you’re my new favorite human.”
“I have my moments.”
The door to the primary bedroom slides open, and Jeremy emerges wearing a dark gray T-shirt that could be the same one he had on when we went to the bungalow, or might be one of fifteen identical shirts he rotates through like some kind of Steve Jobs-inspired uniform.
His hair is damp from the shower, and he looks slightly less murderous than when he walked in, which I’m counting as progress.
Michael, without missing a beat, stops his food prep to pour two fingers of bourbon over a single giant ice cube in a crystal glass. He slides it over when Jeremy reaches my side.
I stare at my host. “You didn’t order that.”
He picks up the glass, swirls it once, then takes a sip. “No.”
“How does he know what you drink?” I turn to Michael, who’s very deliberately focused on julienning a mango. “Have you cooked for him before?”
“I’ve ordered room service before tonight,” Jeremy says.
“So how does Chef Michael know your preferred poison?”