Chapter 39 #2
Jeremy points at me. He’s caught me in a trap. “And that is the stupidest excuse I’ve ever heard. Because you do. You talk to him every single day. He knows more about you than half the people in your life. So tell me why you don’t cut all the bullshit?”
I open my mouth to argue. Shut it. Try again. Nothing.
Jeremy smirks knowingly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“It’s complicated,” I grumble, avoiding looking at him.
“It’s only complicated because you’re making it that way,” he counters. “You deserve to be happy, Rorie. And whatever this is, it’s clearly doing something good for you. So put all the stupid complications aside, stop playing games, and just tell him the truth.”
My heart twists at his words, at how damn simple he makes it sound.
But it’s not simple. It’s not just a crush. It’s not just some flirty texting game. It’s a secret. A betrayal. A tangled mess of something that never should’ve started, yet I don’t want to stop.
And Nolan has had enough of those in his life.
Secrets. Lies. People playing games with him like he’s a piece on their board.
“Look, Nolan has been through some things,” I tell Jeremy.
“I don’t know the full extent of what he’s been through, but I know enough to realize that if he ever found out who I really am, if he ever figured out that the person he’s been confiding in—the one he calls Textually Frustrated—is the same woman he’s been trying so damn hard to resist in real life…
and I didn’t tell him outright…He’d never forgive me. ”
That should be my wake-up call. That should be the reason to make me shut this down, to stop this before it blows up in my face.
“And I don’t want to lose the way he makes me feel when we text—with him I’m more than my work, more than my ambition, more than the competitor standing in his way. With Carl, I’m just… Rorie. And I don’t know how to walk away from that.”
“Soooo, tell him outright.”
I stare back at Jeremy. So young yet so wise. “You know, for someone who claims to have no romantic bone in his body, you sure sound like you’re made entirely of them.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve got enough bone to share with the whole island.” He winks. “Now, are you gonna text him back, or do I need to pry that phone out of your emotionally repressed little hands and do it myself?”
“Dinner is served!”
Saved by the bell. Or more accurately, saved by Shelby Davidson.
The evening air is brimming with salt and spice, the scent of grilled seafood mixing with the slow burn of rum in my glass.
The long banquet table is set beneath a canopy of string lights, their glow reflecting off the dark water beyond the cliffs.
It’s elegantly rustic with white linen runners, scattered tropical flowers, and candles flickering in glass lanterns.
Servers weave through the crowd, balancing trays of bright cocktails and plates of food so artfully arranged it feels wrong to eat them.
I slide into a chair between Jeremy and Laurel, trying very hard not to glance at Nolan “Your Real Name Is Carl” Rhodes, who’s chatting with Rishi and Thatcher. He’s been mentally terrorizing me all day.
His laugh carries down the table, low and easy.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
…I look.
Damn it.
Jeremy elbows me under the table, grinning. “Subtle.”
“I wasn’t looking.”
Jeremy snorts into his drink. ““Rorie, babe, you just stared at Nolan so hard, I thought your eyeballs were gonna roll right out of your head and land in his lap then suck him off.”
Laurel, who’s been quietly sipping her wine and pretending not to eavesdrop, lifts a brow. “Should I be concerned that we’re talking about sucking off our direct competition in such… vivid detail?”
Jeremy leans in. “You should be concerned that Rorie already came close.”
I whack him in the arm.
Her eyes narrow at me. “So, I take it you haven’t figured things out yet since our last conversation?”
I suck down an oyster while Laurel stares at me.
“Allow me to fully brief you on The Rorie Adams Saga,” Jeremy says in a deep voice. “Heartbreaks, mystery texters, work nemeses, and the very obvious unresolved sexual tension.”
I groan.
Laurel folds her hands under her chin. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve had a Nolan Rhodes before. Several of them actually.”
Jeremy perks up. “Ohhh, do tell.”
She gives him a pointed look. “One of them was Thatcher.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “Wait—Thatcher? As in that Thatcher?”
“One and the same.”
Jeremy gasps. “I have whiplash. Continue.”
I gape at her. “You dated Thatcher?”
Laurel smirks. “Dated is a strong word. Let’s just say we had a…
complicated arrangement. Back in my thirties.
When I was a whole lot less concerned about the long-term consequences of mixing business with pleasure.
Long story short? Office flings can get messy.
No matter how fun, no matter how inevitable they feel in the moment, they come with risks.
Risks that, if you’re not careful, can cost you a hell of a lot more than you bargained for. ”
“So what do I do?” I ask.
Laurel takes another sip before answering. “Decide what you want.”
I nod slowly, letting that settle in my chest.
Jeremy glances between us, then grins. “So, just to clarify—your advice is don’t do Nolan Rhodes? Or do?”
Laurel hums. “I’m saying… if you do do…Nolan Rhodes–”
“You said do do.” Jeremy laughs. Clearly the alcohol has taken effect.
Laurel’s eyes snap to him. He shuts up immediately.
“Be very sure about what you’re willing to lose,” she finishes. “If anything.”
I’ve downed four oysters, and am now chewing on a cracker, refusing to glance in Nolan’s direction again.
But feel his presence. The cutting edges of my attraction. The pull I keep trying to block out.
Jeremy nudges me. “So, what’s the plan, boss?”
I exhale. “To get through this trip without making a mistake.”
Laurel raises a brow, takes a sip of her wine. “Good luck with that. Mistakes are part of the job description, babe. You just have to be brave enough to correct them when you can and smart enough to learn from the ones you can’t.”
My shoulders slump, head falls.
She watches me for a long moment, then sighs, setting her glass down with a soft clink. “Rorie, I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this, you don’t get anywhere worth going by running your head in circles.”
I blink. “That’s very wise-mentor of you. Unfortunately, I have no idea what it means.”
“It means you’re stuck. Circling Nolan, the pitch, the past, the future, waiting for the perfect moment. The right sign. Like it’s going to hit you over the head with clarity.”
“I’m just being careful,” I say, quieter now. “I’ve worked too hard to screw this up.”
“I get that.” Laurel’s voice softens too. “You’re scared. But if there’s something there, don’t run away from it.”
I shake my head. “I can’t deal with this right now. Winning Asher is the only thing that matters right now.”
“You sure about that?” she asks, not unkindly.
I hesitate. “Yeah. Very.”
She shrugs. “Okay.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying… you’re not moving. So, it’s time to pick a direction and start. I hear North is nice this time of year.” Laurel glances over at Nolan’s table which just happens to be facing north and then winks.
I swallow, something tight and tangled lodging itself in my chest.
North & Anchor. The phrase my parents lived by. The compass that pointed forward when they were lost. The mantra I’d been raised on.
“I don’t know which way North is.”
Laurel leans in and looks me dead in the eyes. “North will find you. Maybe it already has.”
This time, I throw my restraint aside, and my gaze finds Nolan. He’s looking back at me—soft and unguarded, a man staring back at the one person he can’t stop thinking about either.
And for a second, it’s not tension or lust or the remnants of what we were trying to be.
It’s longing.
It’s everything we’re not saying.
And it rips my heart open.
Is Laurel’s right?
Has North already found me? Was I too scared to fight for it?
“Just make sure you’re the one steering, Rorie,” Laurel says. “Not the past. Not the pressure. Not friends.” Her eyes swivel over to Jeremy. He shrugs innocently. “And definitely not a man who looks genetically engineered in a lab for the purpose of making women lose all common sense.”
Jeremy snickers into his drink. “I mean, if he was lab-made, they did a damn fine job.”
Groaning, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can we please stay focused?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Rorie. Focus. But focus on what you actually want, not just what you think you’re supposed to do based on what other people want.”
What I want? That’s the problem. What I want is messy. Complicated. Something that rewrites your insides and never asks permission first.
I’ve spent so long chasing what’s safe—what looks good on paper—that I don’t even know if I’d recognize what I want anymore if it was standing right in front of me.
Which, unfortunately, it is.
With forearms. His signature smirk. And deliciously sweet dimple.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Shelby stands at the head of the table, poised, her sundress catching the light as she lifts her glass.
Next to her, Asher watches with that ever-present amusement, one hand draped lazily over the back of his chair, the other wrapped around a tumbler of something dark. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to—this is his show. His island. His game.
But I wonder if it’s all just for show. If somewhere beneath that tailored charm and half-smile, he’s thinking about Maya. If he feels that hollow ache in his chest the way she does when she talks about him and tries to act like it doesn’t matter.
Is he sitting there, pretending to be untouched by it all, while she’s in her room, choosing not to come out at all?
And if he is—God, what a coward.
And if he isn’t—what a shame.
“We’re thrilled to have you all here for what promises to be an unforgettable week,” Shelby begins, her voice carrying authority that draws attention from everyone in the room.
As she speaks, I catalogue everything. The atmosphere, the ambiance, the careful compilation of exclusivity. This is all part of the game. A test wrapped in five-star hospitality.
And Asher is watching.
“Each day,” Shelby continues, “you’ll take part in challenges designed to immerse you in the experience of White Thorn. Some will be with your own teams. Others won’t.”
Murmurs roll down the table.
“We believe in collaboration,” she adds, her smile practiced, professional. “But true innovation happens when you step outside your comfort zone. We want to watch how you adapt, how you thrive, even when paired with unexpected variables.”
Translation: They want to see who caves under pressure.
“At the end of the week, you’ll pitch your vision for White Thorn. But you’re not just here as competitors, you’re here as guests. Let this island inspire you.”
She lets that settle before flashing a grin. “May the best team win. The rest of you? Well, at least you got a free vacation.”
Laughter ripples through the group. I take another drink, letting the ice clink against the glass as I flick a glance down the table, right as Nolan does the same.
Our eyes meet. It does something to me.
The candlelight catches in his whiskey-brown gaze, something shifts there before he lifts his glass in a silent toast.
I should look away first. I should break whatever the hell this is before it gets any worse. But I don’t. Of course I don’t.
Not until Shelby’s voice cuts back through.
“Tomorrow’s challenge starts at ten a.m. sharp on the beach,” she announces. “Wear something you don’t mind getting dirty.”
Jeremy straightens. “Ooh, I love dirty.”
Shelby’s grin lifts higher. “We’ll be having ourselves a good old-fashioned sand castle building contest.”
The table buzzes with energy.
Tomorrow, the real competition begins.