Chapter 6
“Waves are peaking wrong,” Ryder murmured, voice almost lost to the wind.
Ivy bent to lace the heavy boots they’d been issued for the tour.
“Storm’s moving in faster than forecast,” Wyatt agreed.
The weather had shifted since they’d landed. Clouds scudded too fast across the sky, riding low, as if the horizon itself were dragging them under. The sea had that restless pitch Ivy remembered from childhood that warned you to respect its mood.
As a child, she’d counted seconds between lightning and thunder, thinking she could predict disaster if she listened hard enough. Now she knew better. Storms didn’t care how ready you were. They just came.
Ryder stilled, scanning the horizon. Shoulders squared. Jaw tight. Stillness born of instinct, not thought. There was something anchored about him. A man tuned to nature’s rhythm.
He hadn’t said more than a handful of words to her since landing. And now, up close, she noticed more. The wind catching the ends of his hair, tugging them into a curl. The rough shadow of stubble along his jaw. Lean hips, stacked shoulders. Not just muscle—substance.
Unshakeable. Capable. A man built for storms, not small talk.
Her pulse lurched. She blinked hard and looked away, heart thudding as if she’d leaned too far over the rail.
“Shall we begin?” Sinclair gestured toward the stairs leading down to the main deck. His smile gleamed—polished and insincere, like gloss paint hiding tarnish.
“That would be great.” Her voice came too fast. She was absurdly grateful for the distraction—for anything to cool her skin and lower her pulse.
The tour unfolded with the same corporate choreography as a hundred others—Sinclair flanking George, spouting stats and safety records with rehearsed ease.
Ivy hung back. She always did. It gave her the opportunity to notice anything they hoped she wouldn’t.
Fresh paint where there should’ve been months of salt-weathered wear. Safety signs that looked like they’d been bolted in yesterday. Work zones hidden behind ‘Maintenance in Progress’ tarps, angled just so to block sight-lines.
A show?
If this investment was supposed to protect her people—not just shuffle money around while problems rotted underneath—she needed truth, not performance.
Her steps slowed at a junction where pipelines converged, the connection points showing subtle signs of stress.
Boots scraped behind her. Someone else had noticed too.
Ryder had fallen back, matching her pace. Not hovering, not crowding—just there. Silent.
She finally snapped. “What, I need a chaperone now?”
He drew level with her, hands in his pockets, eyes on the same joint she was studying. “No. You don’t.” His head dipped. “Most inspectors would’ve missed that stress seam.”
The compliment landed like a sucker punch. When she turned, he was watching her with respect. Genuine respect. Heat climbed the back of her neck.
“What—didn’t expect me to hold my own?”
His mouth tipped at one corner, making him far too handsome. “Honestly? Figured you’d bail after the first whiff of crude. But then you started quoting displacement loads like a drill sergeant who actually did the math.”
Her lips betrayed her with a hint of a smile. There was something dangerously appealing about his directness. No polite deflection. No corporate varnish. Just blunt assessment with a dry edge.
His expression shifted, eyes narrowing. “You gripped that tablet pretty hard when you said seventy-five families. Like if someone called bullshit, you’d throw the whole rig at them.”
The observation cut straight through. She prided herself on control, on never letting anyone see what it cost to hold the line. But his words landed too close, too sharp. Raw, as if the air itself scraped against her bare skin. She crossed her arms to cover the ache, exhaling hard.
Vulnerability had never been safe. Not when so many people depended on her to have answers. God, what she wouldn’t give for that bath—door locked. Alone.
“Those families aren’t numbers on a slide.” She kept her voice low. “They’re Mrs. Dove, who’s worked on the estate for forty years. Tom Caldwell, who just had his second child. The Pritchards, farming our land since before I was born. If this deal goes south, they’re the ones who pay the price.”
Ryder’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eyes—understanding, perhaps. “That’s why you’re here instead of some hired consultant.”
It wasn’t a question. Still, she nodded. “George has the title, but I have the engineering degree. And I’m the one who’s kept everything afloat since our parents died.”
She wasn’t sure why she’d told him that—wasn’t sure why his opinion suddenly mattered when she’d spent the afternoon trying to prove he was wrong about her.
The group ahead had moved deeper into the platform’s industrial heart, Sinclair waving them forward toward a narrow catwalk stretched between two processing units. Barely wide enough for one person at a time.
Ryder stepped aside, gesturing. “After you. Unless you think I’ll shove you overboard.”
The deadpan delivery cracked a laugh out of her before she could stop it. “If you meant to kill me, you wouldn’t have given me a life jacket.”
She brushed past, hyperaware of him in the confined space. Her hip grazed his thigh—just the barest touch—and a shock blasted up her spine.
Her step faltered.
Ryder’s hand shot out, steadying her arm. “Easy.”
She didn’t dare meet his eyes. “I’m fine. Jet lag.”
He released her slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe her. Heat prickled under her hard hat, and her pulse stuttered.
“Didn’t figure a rich girl would hold up.” His tone was mild. “Guess I pegged you wrong.”
She rose to the bait. “Careful. You’re starting to sound almost pleasant.”
His laugh rumbled low, genuine, and the sound did dangerous things to her equilibrium. God help her if she liked the sound of his laugh.
“Great. More land people,” a voice muttered from behind a bank of equipment.
A woman emerged—silver braid, welding boots, coveralls smudged with grease, tool belt slung around her hips. She looked like she belonged here, not like the suits giving the carefully orchestrated tour.
“Came on the helo? Most normal folks just come on the supply boat.” The woman narrowed her eyes, sizing Ivy up. “You the Duchess-in-Waiting?”
“More like the one they send when the real duchess is busy,” Ivy replied.
“Ha. Figures. The real ones never come near the grime.” The woman grunted, offering a hand streaked with oil. “Jack. Jack Barnes. I keep this rust bucket from sinking.”
Ivy shook, feeling the calluses. “Ivy. Trying to decide if this rust bucket’s worth investing in. If it’ll actually do what it needs to.”
Jack’s brows rose. “Smart question. Most visitors just want a photo op with the machinery.” She jerked a wrench toward a greasy door. “Safety station’s through there. Just swapped the fail-safe valve. Third time this quarter.”
Ivy straightened. “Third—”
“Ivy?” Sinclair’s voice carried from across the platform. “We should keep moving. Lots more to see.”
George waved her on. “She’ll catch up.”
Jack rolled her eyes. “Better not keep the brass waiting.” She turned back, eyes narrowing. “Son of a—watch the—”
Metal clanged underfoot.
Ivy’s heel skidded. The world tilted.
She fell backward, air smashed from her lungs as she landed. Her head snapped back—skull cracking metal with a sickening thud.
Stars flared white, then darkness bled in at the edges.
Noises around her were muffled as if underwater. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, and she tasted copper and the bitter edge of industrial chemicals. Freezing metal pressed against her cheek.
Voices tangled above her.
“—happened so fast—”
“—liability—”
“Ivy?” George’s voice, sharp but oddly distant. “Is she all right?”
Not are you all right? Just is she. As if she weren’t in the room. As if she were already gone.
Fury tried to rise, smothered by nausea. Her head was too heavy.
Then someone dropped beside her, blocking the harsh light. A voice, low and reassuring, cut through the chaos.
“Don’t move, Ivy. I’ve got you.”
Ryder.