Chapter 8
AVAH
The sand is warm under my feet, but my insides feel like someone packed them in ice.
I’ve been walking for maybe twenty minutes, following the curve of the private beach that stretches past Jeremy’s villa toward the other exclusive properties on this end of the resort.
The sun is high in the clear blue sky, and I have nowhere I need to be, so I should be feeling languid and easy.
Instead, my chest keeps tightening like someone’s slowly cranking a vise.
Because last night was…too good.
After the snorkeling excursion, I took a nap while Jeremy handled some business calls.
Then we ordered room service and watched the original Mission Impossible movie on the villa’s over-the-top entertainment system.
It felt so stupidly normal—the two of us on opposite ends of the couch, trading commentary about Tom Cruise’s hair and whether the mask bit was even plausible.
And then his leg accidentally brushed mine. Which happens when two people share a piece of furniture, right? But the zing of electricity that shot straight up my spine made my breath catch.
My body is still singing with that awareness, even now. What the hell is wrong with me?
I press my palm flat against my sternum in a futile attempt to will my heart to slow down.
The straw hat I grabbed from the villa shades my face, and a coral-hued cover-up hides my body from view, but neither makes me feel less exposed.
It’s like that one inadvertent touch pushed me over the edge of lustful sanity.
Impossible, considering the bruises from my dysfunctional relationship fail haven’t fully faded.
The postcard-perfect sand stretches ahead of me, but I can’t appreciate the pristine beauty when I’m such a mess.
I keep replaying the way every nerve ending in my body suddenly stood at attention, something Jon never managed to do. I’d glanced over at him, certain he’d felt it too, but his eyes were fixed on the screen, his profile illuminated by the glow of Tom Cruise dangling from a ceiling.
Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Because the other option is that I’m so starved for human contact not tinged with a threat that my body has latched onto the first safe man in my orbit.
The thought makes my stomach hurt.
I just ended an engagement with an overbearing douche canoe who hit me. Walked out of a bungalow with blood on my face and nothing but the clothes on my back. And now, a few days later, I’m getting butterflies because Jeremy Winslow’s knee touched mine mid action sequence?
Am I that stupid, or just that broken?
My feet keep moving, but my brain is stuck in an ugly loop. Because the truth is, Jeremy is overbearing, too. He’s controlling and a micromanager, and I know he can be ruthless when it comes to getting what he wants. He’s a man I should be running from, not catching feelings for.
The fact that he’s been careful and kind doesn’t mean anything. Jon was charming, too, at first. I felt safe with him…right up until I didn’t.
Even if every instinct I have about Jeremy’s decency turns out to be right, this isn’t real.
We’re in a tropical bubble, but once I get back to Skylark, everything changes.
He goes back to being Sloane’s asshat brother who shows up when she needs him but treats the rest of us like bit players in the grand drama of his life. I go back to...what, exactly?
My foot catches on the root of a nearby palm tree. The bark is rough against my palm as I stumble into it, the contact grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
I haven’t turned on my phone or checked email since I walked out on Jon. I’ve let myself relax into this suspended reality fever dream where I don’t have to think about what comes next. But I know what’s waiting, and I know where letting my guard down will get me.
It’s clear I’m done working for Jon’s family’s financial firm.
I won’t sit in meetings with his father pretending nothing happened.
Of course, Edward Clark will probably fire me once Jon spins his side of the narrative.
And knowing that dickwad, he’ll paint me as a crazy bitch who walked out on her pre-wedding honeymoon for no reason.
It’s a story that writes itself, and I’m not there to offer a counterargument.
To be honest, I can’t muster the desire to try.
When I leave this cozy little bubble, I go back to a very harsh reality.
I need a new job and a new place to live.
Quite possibly a whole new life. I’m starting over with nothing but a marketing degree, a reputation in tatters, and a group of friends whose couches I’ll probably be crashing on for the foreseeable future.
The vise around my chest cranks tighter.
Then there’s my father. My legs go weak at the thought of how he’s going to react to my change in circumstance. I lower myself to the base of the palm tree, pull my knees up and drop my head between them, gulping in air.
Oh, hell no.
I’m Avah Harris, merciless with a comeback or a lethal one-liner. I don’t panic or lose control. And I never ever let anyone see me sweat.
Sure. Now tell that to the bead of perspiration dripping down my back.
I focus on the sand beneath me, counting my breath the way my mom taught me when we first moved to Skylark in a fruitless attempt to outrun everything we’d left behind in Connecticut. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
My vision slowly clears, and the spots dancing at the edges recede.
My dad is getting out of prison soon. When he does, he’s going to want to be in my life again.
He made that crystal clear in the letter he sent after seeing a post of Jon and me on a Denver society page.
He was proud of me for landing a man with connections, and made it clear that he expects to be part of whatever future I build.
God, he’d love this tropical set up even more. His daughter shacked up with a man who could write checks with more zeros than most people see in a lifetime. He’d see it as a golden opportunity.
My father is a master of finding your vulnerabilities and exploiting a connection to take everything that isn’t nailed down. He did it to those elderly people he defrauded. He did it to my mother. And if I give him half a chance, he’ll do it to me, too.
Of course, I want nothing to do with him. But how do you outrun someone who shares your DNA and knows exactly which buttons to push because he sewed them into the fabric of your being?
“Are you all right?”
The female voice is filled with concern, and my head snaps up so fast it makes me dizzy again.
“This is a private beach.” The words come out biting, which is pure reflex at this point.
The woman standing a few feet away doesn’t flinch. She’s in her fifties, maybe early sixties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a low ponytail and enviable bone structure. Her dark eyes study me with an expression that’s more curious than offended.
“Yes,” she says mildly. “You’re sitting in front of my villa.”
I follow her gaze to the structure behind me. Another private paradise. Slightly smaller than Jeremy’s, but no less impressive. I was so lost in my own spiral, I didn’t even notice it.
“I’m sorry.” I scramble to my feet, brushing sand off my cover-up and tugging it down to cover my ass. My cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking.”
“I gathered that.” She says it without malice, her mouth curving into something that’s understanding if not quite friendly. “Are you staying nearby?”
“With Jeremy. Winslow.” I’m not sure why I add his last name, except it feels important to establish that I’m not some random trespasser having a breakdown on her beachfront. “He’s a family friend.”
She goes brows-up. “Jeremy Winslow has friends?”
The skepticism in her voice makes my spine stiffen. “We met through his sister. I was supposed to be here with—” I stop myself, not wanting to go down that road. “Plans changed, and Jeremy offered me a place to stay.”
“How generous of him.”
I’ll admit I’ve spent the past year cataloguing Jeremy’s many flaws, but something in her tone needles at me.
“He’s been more than generous, actually.
” I can’t help but stick up for my billionaire host. I’m more than willing to take him down a peg or two when the moment calls for it, but this woman hasn’t earned that right.
“He might come across as an asshat, but he’s also considerate and kind.
I know it doesn’t track with his reputation, but—” I catch myself mid-rant and wince.
“Sorry. He doesn’t need me to defend him. ”
She tilts her head. “We all need people who care about us in our corner.”
The denial is right there on my tongue. I don’t care about Jeremy. Our situation is temporary. But the quiet sorrow in this woman’s gaze stops me.
“You remind me of my daughter,” she says softly. “Erin was fierce like you. Said exactly what she thought, even when it got her in trouble.”
Was. The past tense sits heavy in my heart as the pieces click into place.
“You’re Mariel Johnson.”
“I am.”
“Jeremy told me about The NorthStar Way.” I hesitate, unsure how much to say. “He told me about your daughter, too. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Mariel’s expression shutters as her hand lifts briefly to touch the small pendant at her throat—a simple gold star.
“Thank you. Building NorthStar was our way of honoring her memory. We wanted to ensure her life meant something beyond the years she had.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“It helped give us a way through our grief.” Her jaw tics slightly. “We’ve spent twelve years building something special, and we won’t hand it over to a man who sees it as just another acquisition.”
Right. The Johnsons have formed their opinions about Jeremy, just as he suspects. They’ve decided what kind of man he is based on his public reputation and a few conversations where he came across as precisely the distant, calculating tech bro everyone assumes he is.
I think about Jeremy on the boat yesterday, talking about wanting to make a difference.
About the isolation of his childhood cancer treatment, and how he doesn’t want anyone else to feel alone in the same way he did.
How his voice softened when he talked about watching Sloane go through treatment.
It was a side of himself I’m sure he didn’t intend to show me, but I can’t seem to unsee it.
“I don’t know much about your company,” I hear myself saying. “Possibly even less about Jeremy’s plans for a partnership with you. But I do know he went through his own cancer fight as a kid. And when his sister got sick, he dropped everything to be there for her treatment.”
Mariel’s expression doesn’t change, but I can tell she’s listening.
“He’s not great at showing people the side of him that cares. Trust me, before this week, I would have told you he was nothing more than an egotistical jackhole in too-tight boxer briefs, but there’s more to him than people think.”
More than I thought.
Her mouth quirks at one corner, and I remember my words to Jeremy yesterday. “Don’t you owe it to your daughter to get your message to everyone who needs it?”
“You think Jeremy Winslow is the way to do that?”
“Billionaires can do good things when they want to. I don’t have much use for rocket ships or luxury yachts, but...” I shrug. “Jeremy has plenty of faults, but he’s not in this for the ego boost. He wants to make a difference.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mariel says quietly, her gaze on the waves gently lapping at the white-sand shore.
Pretty sure I’ve been dismissed. It’s hard to say whether I’ve helped or hurt his chances, but at least I tried.
“I should get back.” I gesture vaguely toward the direction I came. “Sorry again for trespassing.”
I’ve taken maybe three steps when her voice stops me.
“Wait.”
I turn.
She’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite decipher, but it’s not unkind.
“What’s your name?”
“Avah,” I say, licking my suddenly dry lips. “Avah Harris.”
“Would you and Jeremy like to join us at our villa for dinner tonight, Avah?”
The invitation catches me off guard, and my instinct is to decline. I’m in no mood to be social or make small talk with people I don’t know. I want to go back to Jeremy’s villa and hide behind snark and streaming services until my life makes sense again.
But I also know how frustrated Jeremy feels at his failure to make inroads with the Johnsons.
I hate owing people, and I owe Jeremy more than I can count. Procuring a dinner invitation would be a way to tip the scales back toward balance a little.
“That sounds lovely.” The smile I give her feels genuine, which surprises even me. “What time?”
“Seven. We’ll have drinks on the patio first.”
“We’ll be there.”
Mariel nods, the wariness in her eyes shifting into curiosity. I can work with curiosity.
I turn and walk back toward the villa, my legs steadier now. The tropical sun heats my back, and I realize my hands have stopped shaking.
I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.
Don’t know how to keep my father out of it, or where to start with rebuilding everything that’s crumbled in the past week.
I don’t even know what I’m doing with Jeremy.
Are these feelings real, or just the predictable response of a broken woman clinging to the first person who’s shown her kindness?
But I do know how to bust out the charm to advocate for a man who deserves a chance. At least this is one loose end I can tie up.