Chapter 4
Noah
I watch Bea storm off the balcony, her red dress whipping in the stormy wind like a war flag.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word disappearing into the darkness below.
I pull my phone from my pocket—a text from more than twenty-four hours ago still unread. Ezra’s name glows on the screen above the preview:
“I’ll go ahead with this marriage. Can’t wait any longer…”
I slam the phone face-down on the stone ledge, And the screen cracks—another thing I’ve broken.
The old scar on my lip throbs, a phantom pain from when I took a punch meant for my brother.
He still has the crooked finger from when our father caught him covering for me. Bea was right, we do share trauma.
I don’t know how long I stand there and let the ocean spray and rain hit my face, but I smell her the whole time—coconut sunscreen mixed with something uniquely her. I run my tongue over my bottom lip, imagining her taste.
Three inches. That’s all that separated us. The warmth of her breath still ghosts across my mouth.
I push away from the railing on unsteady legs and head down the stairs, not planning on returning to that torture chamber with the Wrongs.
The resort’s hallways are a blur of teak and torchlight.
An occasional chicken running across the pathway makes me question the quiet of the place.
Those little bastards will probably start yapping with the first rays of sunshine.
My suite is at the end of the “Lovers’ Wing.” Ironic considering there will be no love happening inside the walls of my room.
I detour through the lounge, my throat burning for whiskey to wash away the taste of almost having her. The bartender nods at me across the empty space, his rag making lazy circles on the polished wood.
Then I spot her. Bea. Despite her brightness, she’s hard to notice hidden in the shadow nearly behind the corner.
The red fabric of her dress has inched up her thigh as she perches on the barstool, one heel hooked on the rung.
My fingers twitch, remembering how close they’d been to that exact spot on her body on the balcony.
She doesn’t look up when I enter. Just stares into her glass, twirling what looks like not her first drink judging by the flush creeping up her neck.
Her lipstick has worn off in the center, leaving just a crimson outline.
A strand of hair falls across her face as she takes another sip, and she tries to fight it by pushing it back, but the lock keeps falling down.
Eventually, she gets frustrated and gives up the battle, letting the silky blond lock cover nearly half her face.
The bartender catches my eye, tilts his head toward Bea with raised eyebrows, and smiles. He probably caught me staring at her.
Earlier, the lounge had been packed with resort staff and guests who would have made it possible for me to not fixate on her.
But now, it’s just her, alone, in that goddamn red dress that’s been burning in my peripheral vision all night.
I didn’t like the color red before today.
And now I hate it. It represents something I can’t have.
My jaw clenches as I watch her shoulders slump over her drink. The image of her father’s sneer flashes behind my eyes, the way her mother’s fingers had tightened around her wine glass when Beatrice spoke. The same way my own hands had tightened on the balcony railing minutes ago.
I turn toward the hallway to go to my room, keys already in hand. But my gaze drifts back to her red dress, to the loose strand of hair falling across her face, and to the downward-pointing corners of her lips.
My feet pivot. One step. Two.
The barstool scrapes against the floor as I slide onto it. Amber liquid catches the dim light while she swirls it in the glass.
“What the hell do you want?” Her words slur together. She doesn’t acknowledge me with her eyes as they are fixed on her drink.
I catch the bartender’s attention with a raised finger. “Water,” I mouth, then add aloud, “And nothing else for her.”
Her head whips up, eyes blazing. “Excuse me? You’re not my keeper, caveman.”
I lean in and say in a low voice, “No. But I’m not leaving you here by yourself to be taken advantage of. I need to keep you safe. For Ezra,” I add in an emotionless voice. “You’re not bad looking, and if you’re drunk, someone might notice and pounce.”
She blinks, surprise flickering before the fury returns. “Oh god, ‘not bad looking.’ Save the flattery,” she snorts loudly. “You made it clear what you think.”
The guilt in my gut twists its sharp knife. I pulled back because of Ezra, lashed out to keep distance. But now, seeing her like this, hiding her vulnerability under anger, it’s awkward as hell.
Why care? I shouldn’t. Yet leaving her alone feels wrong.
I drag my eyes away from the loose strand of hair falling across her flushed cheek and grab the water glass, ice cubes clinking against the sides, and slide it across the polished wood. “Drink this.”
“Make me.”
“I’m not playing,” I growl, shoving the water glass across the bar closer to her. “Drink. Or I’ll pour it down your throat myself.”
She snatches the glass, avoiding any contact with my hand.
“Touch me, and I’ll bite,” she hisses, but her voice catches on the last word. Her gaze drops to my mouth for a heartbeat.
The ceiling fan barely stirs the thick air between us. Sweat prickles at my hairline. I lean in, close enough to see the constellation of freckles across her nose.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, little mouse?”
Her pupils dilate, the black completely swallowing the blue. She sways forward—just an inch—then freezes. My brother’s face flashes in front of my eyes. His crooked finger. His trust. His dream to keep this company together because I couldn’t care less.
She shoves the glass back. Water sloshes over her knuckles, dripping onto the bar. “Screw you, Noah. You’re just like them with your controlling issues.”
My fingers lock around her wrist, and my hand swallows her arm. So small. So easy to break.
“I’m nothing like them.” The words scrape my throat.
Her erratic pulse hammers under my thumb, matching the thud in my chest. She’s close enough that I catch the heat of her body.
The bartender clinks glasses somewhere behind my back while the empty lounge stretches dark and quiet.
Bea’s eyes lower to my mouth as her pupils remain wide and dark.
Her tongue peeks out to wet her lower lip.
I drop her wrist like she just burned me and step back, knocking over the barstool. “Get your shit together, princess. You’re not my problem.”
Her face crumples for half a second—eyebrows pulling together, lips pressing white—before her jaw sets hard.
“Then leave me alone,” she hisses, sliding off the stool. Her ankle twists, body tilting sideways. My hand shoots out, gripping her elbow before she falls.
“Let go,” she snarls, but her voice cracks, and she doesn’t pull away immediately.
“Not until you’re in my room—your room,” I fix my mishap quickly, hoping she won’t notice. “You have to go to your room.”
I could just fulfill her request and let her be, but leaving her here, gorgeous and drunk, with creeps potentially lurking? Not happening.
Glaring at me, she yanks her arm free. “You’re not my knight, caveman. Did you forget?”
“Trust me, I haven’t.” My jaw clenches tight. “But I’m not leaving.”
Because we’re standing so close, I can see the flutter of her pulse at the hollow of her throat. Her eyes flick to my mouth, then away. The space between us shrinks, half an inch, then another. I give in to the pull that we are both feeling—
My phone vibrates against my thigh. Martin’s name lights up the screen. I press it to my ear, not stepping back. “What?”
“Ezra’s not—” Martin’s voice crackles through static. “—logs show the ferry—storm—no sign of—or—Wrong.”
My stomach drops, and the phone nearly slips from my sweating palm. Even with his half-coherent speech, I realize that there’s no good news.
“Call me when you find something out.” I hang up, shoving the phone deep in my pocket. When I look up, Beatrice’s eyes have lost their fire, replaced with something softer around the edges.
“Ezra?” The whiskey slur has vanished from her voice.
“Delayed.” The lie tastes metallic, and I clear my throat to remove its aftertaste. “Your room. Now.”
She rolls her eyes but falls in step beside me, our arms brushing occasionally when she staggers from her stride. The pathway made of carved stone is deserted, no guests—just us and our ever-present tension.
At her door, the key card trembles between her fingers as she holds it up like a shield.
“Mission accomplished, caveman.” Her lips quirk up at one corner. “You can go report to your brother now.”
I lean against the frame, too close again. Seems I can’t help myself around her. “You sure? Don’t want you tripping over your own ego.”
She laughs, bitter. “Better than falling for yours.” Her eyes drop to my lips for the umpteenth time today, and the air charges, that pull yanking us closer once again. But she’s drunk and can’t think clearly. While I can.
“Stay out of trouble, little mouse,” I say cooly, turning away before I do something stupid.
“Fuck you, caveman,” she calls after me, slamming the door.
Oh, I’d like that very much, little mouse.
I stalk to my suite in the damned Lovers’ Wing and slam the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. My lips still tingle where hers almost touched. Three strides to the window, three back. Again.
My fist connects with the wall before I can stop myself, leaving a dent in the plaster. Something I’ve been wanting to do the whole damn day. The pain from the impact is familiar and welcome. I check my phone: no messages.
Outside, palm trees bend with a gust of wind, the same wind that’s keeping my brother somewhere out there on dark waters.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, breath fogging the surface.
The scent of her perfume clings to my shirt collar where she leaned close.
I rip it off, toss it across the room, but can still smell her on my skin.
Ezra, where are you?