Chapter 6
Chapter Six
ETHAN
ISLAND HEAT
T he private island comes into view as our speedboat cuts through azure waters. Grand Peak Island—named for the small mountain at its center—is the crown jewel of The Rendezvous’ offerings. Most passengers visit for the pristine beaches and luxury amenities, unaware of the ecological research happening on the island’s protected eastern shore.
“We’re approaching, sir,” the captain calls over the engine’s purr.
Next to me, Harper leans forward, her attention fixed on the lush coastline. She’s dressed practically today—khaki shorts, a light blue button-down tied at the waist, sturdy hiking boots. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her face is free of the heavy makeup from last night’s interview. She looks more like herself, and I prefer her this way.
“How much of the island is developed?” she asks, still scanning the shoreline.
“About thirty percent. The western beaches and cove area have the restaurants, spa, and beach facilities. The eastern half is a protected conservation zone.”
She turns to me, skeptical. “A genuine conservation zone or a ‘we put up a sign and call it conservation’ zone?”
“See for yourself.” I nod toward the dock. “We’ll visit the research station first.”
I’ve been looking forward to this moment—showing Harper that my environmental commitments aren’t just PR stunts. After our conversation last night, something shifted between us. She seemed to consider that my intentions might be more complex than she’d assumed.
Then there was that moment under the moonlight, when I’d almost?—
“Why are there so many boats docked already?” Harper interrupts my thoughts, pointing to the marina where at least a dozen vessels are moored.
“Staff boats, research vessels, supply deliveries.” I check my watch. “Most day visitors have left by now. The island closes to regular passengers at sunset, except for special events.”
“Like our ‘romantic dinner,’” she says, making air quotes around the words.
“Exactly. Though I seem to recall we won the dinner fairly.”
“Through coerced participation.”
“Still bitter about that?”
She tries to maintain her stern expression, but I catch the slight quirk of her lips. “Yes.”
The boat slows as we approach the dock. I stand and offer my hand to help her up, half-expecting her to ignore it. To my surprise, she accepts, her fingers warm against mine as she rises.
“Thanks,” she says, then releases my hand.
A small progress, but I’ll take it.
We disembark onto a wooden dock extending from a pristine white sand beach. Unlike the main tourist area on the other side of the island, this beach is undeveloped except for the small marina and a path leading into the forest.
“This way,” I say, gesturing toward the path. “The research station is about a quarter mile in.”
Harper falls into step beside me, her eyes constantly moving, assessing our surroundings. “The vegetation looks healthy. Native species?”
“Mostly. There was an invasive plant removal program five years ago.”
“Your doing?”
“My funding, local experts’ doing.” I duck under a low-hanging branch. “I know my limitations.”
She studies me for a moment. “That’s very self-aware.”
“I have many talents, remember? Pulling weeds is not one of them.”
The path winds through dense forest until we reach a clearing where several connected structures form the research compound. Solar panels glint on the rooftops, and collection tanks gather rainwater at each corner.
A woman in her fifties emerges from the main building, her weathered face breaking into a grin when she spots us. “Ethan Cole, as I live and breathe! About time you visited again.”
“Dr. Marquez.” I return her smile. “Sorry it’s been so long.”
She waves off my apology and turns her attention to Harper. “And you must be Dr. Bennett. I’ve read your work on coral reef rehabilitation. Brilliant.”
Harper looks pleased at the recognition. “Thank you. And you’re Dr. Isabella Marquez? Your research on sea turtle navigation is groundbreaking.”
“I’m surprised you’ve heard of me. I’m not exactly a household name.”
“Your paper on magnetic imprinting in loggerheads changed how we understand migration patterns.”
The two women beam at each other in mutual academic appreciation, and I feel an irrational twinge of jealousy that Dr. Marquez has earned Harper’s respect so easily.
“Come in, come in.” Dr. Marquez gestures toward the main building. “I’ve prepared everything you asked for, Ethan.”
Inside, the research station is a blend of rustic and high-tech. Simple wooden furniture and exposed beams contrast with state-of-the-art monitoring equipment and computer stations. Maps and charts cover the walls, along with underwater photographs of marine life.
“This is... impressive,” Harper admits, examining a 3D model of the island’s underwater topography.
“Mr. Cole has been very generous with his funding,” Dr. Marquez says. “We’ve been able to expand our research over the past five years.”
Harper glances at me, her expression changing from surprise to thoughtful reassessment.
Dr. Marquez pulls out a tablet and brings up a series of charts. “Here’s the data you requested for Dr. Bennett—five years of monitoring reports for the nesting sites, water quality analyses, population statistics for local marine species.”
Harper takes the tablet almost reverently. “This is comprehensive.”
“I told you I keep my promises,” I say quietly.
She looks up, meeting my eyes. “Yes, you did.”
“The nesting sites are active right now,” Dr. Marquez continues, mercifully unaware of whatever just transpired. “If you’d like to visit, I can take you there before your dinner.”
“We’d love to,” I say, not looking away from Harper.
“Perfect. Let me grab some equipment.”
Dr. Marquez disappears into a side room, leaving us alone. Harper scrolls through the data, she looks impressed.
“This is better than I expected,” she admits.
“I’m sensing a trend in your expectations of me.”
“if I set the bar low, I can’t be disappointed.” She glances up. “Maybe I’ve been unfair.”
“Maybe I haven’t given you much reason to be fair.”
Before she can respond, Dr. Marquez returns with a backpack and two pairs of night-vision goggles. “These will let us observe without disturbing the turtles. We need to be quiet at the nesting site.”
We follow her through a rough section of forest, the path narrower and less maintained than the main trail. The sun has set, casting golden light through the canopy. Beside me, Harper moves with the confidence of someone accustomed to fieldwork, navigating the uneven terrain.
“You seem at home in the wild,” I observe.
“More than in evening gowns and makeup, that’s for sure.” She steps over a fallen log. “I spent most of my PhD research on remote islands much less hospitable than this one.”
“And now you mostly write and lecture?”
She nods. “The platform lets me reach more people. But I miss the fieldwork.”
“Hence your enthusiasm for checking turtle nesting sites on what’s supposed to be a romantic dinner date.”
She shoots me a look. “This is far more appealing than champagne and sweet talk.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dr. Marquez signals for us to stop and lowers her voice to a whisper. “We’re approaching the beach. From here, absolute silence. Follow my lead.”
We creep forward, emerging from the forest onto a sheltered cove. The beach here is different from the resort side—darker sand, untouched by landscaping or development. In the fading light, I can just make out several dark shapes moving slowly across the sand.
Dr. Marquez hands us each a pair of night-vision goggles. Once I adjust mine, the scene transforms. At least a dozen sea turtles lumber across the beach, some digging nests in the sand, others already laying eggs.
Beside me, Harper’s breath catches. Even through the green tint of the goggles, I can see the wonder on her face as she watches the ancient ritual unfolding before us.
Dr. Marquez gestures toward three flat rocks positioned a safe distance from the nearest turtles. We sit quietly, observing as more turtles emerge from the surf. Harper is transfixed, her earlier skepticism replaced by undisguised awe.
For an hour, we sit in silence, watching the endangered creatures. Occasionally, Dr. Marquez makes notes on a waterproof tablet. As the sky darkens, the first mother finishes laying her eggs and begins the laborious process of covering her nest.
Dr. Marquez gestures that it’s time to go. We follow her back along the path, not speaking until we’re well away from the nesting site.
“That was incredible,” Harper says, her voice hushed with lingering reverence. “How many nesting females are you tracking?”
“Forty-two this season,” Dr. Marquez replies. “Up from twenty-nine last year.”
“The conservation efforts are working,” I add.
Harper nods, impressed. “Clearly. What measures have been most effective?”
As we walk back to the research station, Dr. Marquez and Harper fall into intense scientific discussion about conservation strategies, hatchling survival rates, and habitat protection. I listen, content to let Harper get the information she needs, enjoying her enthusiasm.
Back at the station, Dr. Marquez transfers the complete dataset to Harper’s phone. “This includes everything we’ve collected over five years. Feel free to use it in your assessment.”
“Thank you.” Harper’s gratitude is sincere. “This will strengthen my report.”
“Speaking of which,” I interject, checking the time, “we should head to dinner if we want to make our reservation.”
Harper looks reluctant to leave the research station, which I find endearing. “Dr. Bennett, I promise you can return to talk science another day. But I’ve arranged a rather special meal that’s time sensitive.”
“Fine,” she sighs, then turns to Dr. Marquez. “Thank you for everything. Your work here is remarkable.”
“Come back anytime,” Dr. Marquez replies, then gives me a knowing look. “Enjoy your dinner.”
We follow a different path from the research station, this one heading toward the island’s southern tip. The forest gives way to coastal vegetation as we approach a small, secluded bay.
“Where are we going?” Harper asks.
“You’ll see.”
The path opens onto a small, crescent-shaped beach, private and sheltered from view. At the center of the beach stands a single table set for two, surrounded by lanterns that give off a soft, amber glow. Behind it, a temporary pavilion houses a private chef station.
Harper stops. “This is... excessive.”
“It’s dinner.”
“On a private beach with mood lighting and a personal chef. That’s not just dinner, Ethan.”
I shrug, feeling defensive. “I won that obstacle course fair and square. This is the prize.”
“This feels like?—”
“A date?” I finish for her. “Maybe it is. Would that be so terrible?”
She stares at me, clearly caught off guard. “We’re not actually dating.”
“No, but we did just spend an hour watching sea turtles together, which you appeared to enjoy more than most actual dates I’ve been on.”
That gets a reluctant smile from her. “The turtles were amazing.”
“And now we eat.” I gesture toward the table. “Unless you’d prefer to swim back to the ship? We can call it shark research.”
“You’re impossible.” But she walks toward the table, the tension in her shoulders easing.
The chef greets us as we approach, outlining a menu focusing on sustainable local seafood and island-grown produce. Harper listens as he explains the sourcing for each ingredient.
“Everything within fifty miles of the island,” he concludes. “Mr. Cole insisted on zero carbon footprint for tonight’s meal.”
Harper looks at me with raised eyebrows. “You arranged this?”
“I know what matters to you.”
“Sustainable food matters to everyone. The planet?—”
“Harper,” I interrupt, “can we just enjoy dinner without turning it into a debate? You’ve confirmed I’m not evil, I’ve provided the research data I promised. Let’s call it a win for both sides.”
She considers this, then nods. “Alright. Temporary truce.”
“I’ll take it.”
We sit across from each other at the candlelit table. The setting is undeniably romantic—waves lapping at the shore, stars emerging in the darkening sky, lanterns casting a warm glow over the sand. Under different circumstances, with a different woman, I might have orchestrated this exact scene as a seduction.
But with Harper, I am focusing less on the romantic potential and more on her genuine reactions. The way her eyes light up when the first course arrives—locally caught ceviche with island herbs. How she asks the chef detailed questions about his sourcing. The small sounds of appreciation she makes with each bite.
“This is incredible,” she admits after tasting the main course, a grilled fish with coconut-lime sauce.
“Better than the ship’s buffet?”
“Marginally.” She smiles. “Thank you for arranging this. And for the research access. I... misjudged your intentions.”
“Only partially. I did want positive PR.”
“But you care about the conservation work.”
I nod, taking a sip of wine. “My family built its fortune on industries that damaged the oceans. I can’t undo that history, but I can try to change our legacy in the future.”
“That’s... admirable.”
“Now you’re just being nice.”
“Don’t get used to it.” She says. I doubt she will ever let anyone off easily.
As we finish our meal, the chef serves dessert—a passion fruit tart with honey from hives kept on the island—then retreats to the far end of the beach, giving us privacy.
The night is dark now, the stars brilliant above us, the only sounds the gentle crash of waves and distant island insects. Harper leans back in her chair, looking relaxed.
“This was supposed to be our romantic grand finale for the guests watching at home,” I observe. “But there’s no audience here.”
She considers this. “No cameras, no performance.”
“Just us.”
Our eyes meet across the table, and something shifts in the air between us. Without the pretense of our fake relationship, without the antagonism of our professional positions, we’re just a man and a woman on a beautiful beach under the stars.
“Walk with me?” I ask, standing and offering my hand.
She hesitates only briefly before taking it. “Okay.”
We leave our shoes at the table and walk barefoot down the beach. I don’t let go of her hand, and she doesn’t pull away. The sand is still warm from the day’s sun, the water cool as it rushes over our feet.
“I didn’t expect this,” Harper says after we’ve walked in comfortable silence for a while.
“The dinner?”
“Any of it. When I boarded the ship, I was prepared to document environmental violations and write a scathing expose. Instead...”
“Instead, you’re holding hands with the enemy on a moonlit beach?”
She laughs, the sound light and genuine. “Precisely that.”
We reach the end of the small bay, where a natural rock formation creates a secluded alcove. Without discussion, we sit side by side on a smooth boulder, watching the moonlight dance across the water.
“What happens when we get back to the real world?” Harper asks. “When the cruise ends, and we return to our respective corners?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I know I’m not the villain you thought I was.”
“And I’m not just the angry environmentalist you assumed me to be.”
“You’re definitely angry,” I tease. “But it’s one of the things I like about you.”
She turns to face me, her expression curious. “What else do you like about me?”
The question hangs between us, more intimate than she perhaps intended. In the moonlight, her eyes reflect the stars, her skin glowing silver blue. My gaze drops to her lips before I can stop myself.
“Your integrity,” I answer. “Your passion. The way you don’t back down, even when it would be easier.”
She looks surprised by my sincerity. “I thought you’d say something flippant.”
“I can do flippant if you prefer.”
“No, I... I like the honesty.”
We’re sitting close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body, see the pulse at the base of her throat. The air between us feels charged, almost electric with possibility.
“Harper,” I say, my voice lower than intended.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s alright.”
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t move away. “This isn’t part of our agreement.”
“No, it’s not. This would be off-script.”
She swallows. “Why?”
“Because I want to. No cameras, no audience. Just because I’ve wanted to since you threw champagne in my face.”
A small laugh escapes her. “That’s a strange trigger for attraction.”
“What can I say? I admire women who stand up to me.”
She studies my face, searching for deception. Finding none, she nods. “Okay.”
I lean forward, giving her every opportunity to change her mind. Her eyes flutter closed just before our lips meet, and then—finally—I’m kissing Harper Bennett.
Her lips are soft, hesitant at first, then responding with increasing warmth. My hand comes up to cradle her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone as I deepen the kiss. She tastes like passion fruit and wine, her scent a mix of salt air and something her own.
What begins as a tentative kiss quickly changes. Harper’s hand finds my shoulder, then slides into my hair, pulling me closer. I respond in kind, my arm circling her waist, eliminating the space between us. The kiss turns hungry, months of tension and antagonism channeling into something else entirely.
A soft sound escapes her throat as I gently bite her lower lip, and it nearly undoes me. I pull her onto my lap, her legs straddling mine as we continue kissing with increasing urgency. Her body is warm against mine, her hands now exploring my chest, my shoulders, my back.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers against my lips, even as she presses closer.
“Terrible,” I agree, trailing kisses down her neck. “We should stop immediately.”
“Absolutely.” Her head tilts back, giving me better access to the sensitive skin below her ear.
“Any second now.” My hands slip under her shirt, finding the warm skin of her lower back.
“Mmhmm.” She gasps as I nip at her collarbone.
Our mouths find each other again, the kiss deep and consuming. Her hips shift against mine, and I groan at the friction, my body responding. The thin material of her shorts and my linen pants does little to disguise my arousal, and Harper’s eyes widen as she feels it against her.
Instead of pulling away, she rocks deliberately against me, her pupils dilated, lips swollen from our kisses.
“Harper,” I manage, my voice rough. “If we don’t stop now...”
“Do you want to stop?” she asks, her breathing uneven.
“God, no.” My hands tighten on her waist. “But I don’t want you to regret this.”
She stills, reality crashing back. For a moment, I think she’ll pull away. Instead, she cups my face between her hands, her expression serious.
“I’ve spent two years criticizing you. I threw champagne in your face three days ago. This is irrational.”
“Completely,” I agree.
“No one can know about this.”
“Not a soul.”
She takes a deep breath, then kisses me again. “Just for tonight.”
Words fail me as she kisses a path down my neck, her hands working the buttons of my shirt. I surrender to the sensation for a moment before reclaiming control, lifting her and laying her on the soft sand beside the rock.
I hover above her, taking in her flushed face and tousled hair. “Are you sure about this?”
In answer, she pulls me down for another kiss, her body arching up to meet mine. My hand slides along her thigh, up under her shorts, finding the lace edge of her underwear. She gasps against my mouth as my fingers explore higher, discovering the heat of her.
“Ethan,” she breathes, her head falling back as I stroke her through the thin fabric.
I’ve never heard her say my name like that—like a plea, like she is begging. I want to hear it again. I push the material aside and touch her wetness, watching her face as pleasure overtakes her. Her skin glows in the moonlight as she moves against my hand, seeking more pleasure.
Her fingers fumble with my belt, her usual precision abandoned in urgency. I help her, then groan as her hand wraps around me, stroking slowly at first, then faster.
“Harper,” I warn as her touch threatens my control.
She smiles, a flash of the competitive woman I first met. “Problem?”
“Only that I want this to last.”
I reclaim her mouth, my fingers continuing their exploration, finding the rhythm that makes her breath hitch. She’s gorgeous like this—uninhibited, responsive, her defenses abandoned.
“I need—” she starts, then breaks off with a gasp as I circle her sensitive clit.
“What do you need?” I murmur against her ear.
“You,” she admits. “Now.”
I pull back just enough to look in her eyes, needing absolute certainty. “Harper?—”
“Please, Ethan.” Her voice is urgent. “I want this.”
That’s all I need to hear. Harper watches me with heavy-lidded eyes as I grab a condom from my pants pocket, then welcomes me back into her arms.
When I finally thrust inside her, we both gasp at the overwhelming sensation.
“Okay?” I ask, holding still.
She nods, her hands pulling me closer. “More than okay.”
I begin to move in a rhythm that has her meeting me thrust for thrust. Her legs wrap around my waist, changing the angle, drawing me in deeper. The only sounds are our mingled breaths, the waves crashing nearby, and the occasional gasped direction—”there," “harder,” “don’t stop.”
It’s better than I imagined—and I’ve imagined this more than I should have. Harper is passionate, uninhibited, present in the moment. She pays attention to what makes me groan, what makes my rhythm falter, then uses that knowledge mercilessly.
When I feel her begin to tighten around me, I don’t hold back, I want to watch her come undone. Her eyes lock with mine as her orgasm takes over, her body arching, my name on her lips as she shatters. The sight of her—brilliant, beautiful Harper—lost in pleasure because of me is enough to send me over the edge right after her.
For a long time afterward, we lie tangled together, catching our breath, neither speaking. Her head rests on my chest, my arm around her shoulders, her leg thrown over mine. I trace lazy patterns on her back, unwilling to break the spell of what just happened.
Finally, she stirs. “We should get back. The boat?—”
“It will wait for us.” I tighten my arm around her. “I own the ship, remember?”
She laughs softly. “How could I forget?”
I kiss the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. “Regrets?”
She’s quiet for a moment, and my heart beats faster in the silence. Then she presses a kiss to my chest, just over my heart.
“The sand up my ass.”
It’s not the answer I wanted, but it’s honest. And with Harper, I’m learning that honesty is worth more than comforting fictions.
“Fair enough.”
We help each other dress, pausing for kisses that threaten to reignite the desire we’re both trying to keep under control. Eventually, we make ourselves presentable enough to return to the dinner table, where the chef has packed everything away, leaving only a small lantern to guide us.
The walk back to the dock is quiet, our hands occasionally brushing but not quite holding. Whatever just happened between us we are not ready to say anything about it yet.
On the boat ride back to the ship, Harper sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. When a cool spray from the waves makes her shiver, I put my arm around her without asking. She leans into me, and it feels like a victory.
As The Rendezvous comes into view, lights glittering against the night sky, I feel Harper tense beside me.
“Back to reality,” she murmurs.
“Not quite yet.” I squeeze her shoulder. “We’ve still got several days of fake dating ahead of us.”
She laughs, the sound lighter than I’ve ever heard from her. “God help me.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Will you?”
I turn to look at her, finding her watching me. “If that’s what you want.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for something. Whatever she finds makes her smile.
“Ask me tomorrow,” she says.