Chapter 2 #4
He laughed. Deep and husky and it slid in under her skin, rumbling there.
Oh no. Don’t do this. The voice in her head was sharp. Don’t get attached. Don’t let him see you.
But the storm was raging outside, and the wine was good, and Dakota was looking at her with those steady eyes, and she was tired, so very tired of performing.
“Can I tell you something strange?” she heard herself say.
“Always.”
“I got lost in Tokyo once. For a day and a half.” She turned the wineglass in her hands. “Missed a connection, ended up in the wrong part of the city with no phone and barely any cash. Couldn’t read the signs. Couldn’t ask for directions.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It was the happiest I’ve ever been.”
Dakota went still. “Why?”
“Because nobody knew who I was supposed to be.” The words came out before she could stop them. “No expectations. No performance. I could just . . . wander. Eat street food. Watch people. Be nobody.” She looked up, caught him watching her with that too-seeing gaze. “That probably sounds crazy.”
“It doesn’t.” His voice was quiet. “It sounds honest.”
Something loosened beneath her ribs. A hairline fracture in the wall she’d spent years building.
“Your turn,” she said, deflecting. “Tell me something honest.”
He was quiet for a moment. The rain hammered the canvas walls. The power flickered again.
“I promised my grandfather I’d take him fishing one more time,” he said finally. “He was sick. Cancer. I was deployed and I kept saying, ‘When I get back, when I get back.’” He looked down at his wine. “He died three weeks before I came home.”
“Dakota.”
“It’s fine. It was years ago.” He took a breath. “But I still have the fishing flies he gave me. Haven’t been able to use them.” A pause. “Haven’t been able to throw them away either.”
The food arrived—grilled mahi-mahi with coconut rice and roasted vegetables. Simple, fresh, surprisingly good. Jayden took a bite and let the flavors settle on her tongue. The fish was perfectly seasoned, the rice fragrant with lime and fresh herbs.
“Eight out of ten,” she said. “Maybe eight and a half.”
Dakota raised an eyebrow. “Professional assessment?”
“Always.” She took another bite. “The presentation could use work—this parsley garnish is purely decorative, no one’s eating that—but the execution is solid. Local ingredients, clearly. Fresh catch. Someone back there actually knows what they’re doing.”
“You really can’t turn it off, can you?”
“The assessing?” She shook her head. “Occupational hazard. I walk into any restaurant, any hotel, any bathroom, and my brain immediately starts cataloging. Cleanliness. Service. Temperature of the food. Whether the staff looks happy or just well-trained.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“Says the man who scanned this entire pavilion for threats the moment we walked in.”
He smiled. “Touché.”
They ate in comfortable silence, the storm raging around them, and Jayden realized she couldn’t remember the last time silence had felt comfortable with another person.
Mostly because this wasn’t a mission. This was two travelers, lost on their way to tomorrow.
She could be lost for a day and not hate it.
The power went out.
The pavilion plunged into darkness, and several people gasped. But the emergency lights kicked in almost immediately, casting everything in a dim golden glow, and then the generator hummed to life and the string lights flickered back on.
“Told you,” Dakota said. “Generator.”
“Show-off.”
His smile in the dim light possessed its own electric power.
They lingered over coffee—rich, dark, served in tiny cups—until the pavilion started to empty and the staff began pointedly stacking chairs.
“I should probably go to bed,” Jayden said, pushing back from the table.
“I’m going to check on the carry-ons.” Dakota stood. “See you in the morning?”
“Thank you,” she said. “For . . . I don’t know . . .”
“I do know.” He smiled at her, something in his eyes. “Thank you too.”
Could he feel it? The charge in the air?
She took a breath. “Good night, Dakota.”
“Good night, Jayden.”
She turned and headed out of the restaurant before she could close the distance between them and . . . what? Kiss him?
Please. She was just tired.
The path to the cabins was gravel and crushed shell, slick with rain but lit by small solar lights that had somehow survived the storm. The air smelled of frangipani and wet earth, rich and tropical. In the darkness, a bird called—the sound exotic and unfamiliar.
The cabins themselves were scattered up the hillside—dark wood and white walls, louvered shutters over the windows, little porches with rattan furniture.
In better weather, they would have been charming.
Even now, battered by wind and rain, there was something appealing about them.
Shelter. Safety. A place to hide from the storm.
Cabin seven was tucked into a grove of palms, black lava rocks lining the stepping-stone path to the door.
The building was modern rustic—dark wooden slats, floor-to-ceiling windows, a small deck with wicker furniture.
Tropical plants crowded the entrance, leaves dripping with rain, their broad fronds brushing the wooden railing.
The key fit smoothly into the lock. She pushed the door open, stepped inside—
The cabin was beautiful. Warm light from a bedside lamp cast golden shadows across polished wood floors.
The windows looked out into the darkness, rain streaming down the glass.
A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead. The room was actually two spaces—a sitting room with a loveseat and a couple wicker chairs, separated by a bamboo screen, and a bedroom, dominated by a king-sized bed, draped in white linen.
And on that bed sat two bags.
She froze.
One, of course, was hers. The black over-the-shoulder satchel.
The other, a black messenger bag, with a tag.
It read Rivers, D.
“What—”
The door was still open behind her. She heard footsteps on the porch. Turned to find Dakota standing in the doorway, his own key in his hand, confusion written across his face.
“I think there’s been a—” He stopped. Looked at the bag on the bed. Looked at her. Looked at the key in his hand.
“Same key,” she said slowly. “They gave us the same key.”
He held his up. The number seven was stamped into the brass.
She pulled hers from her pocket. Seven.
“I’ll go back to the front desk,” he said. “Sort it out.”
“It’s midnight. In a tropical storm. And they said they were full up.”
“Then I’ll sleep on a bench somewhere.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The words came out before she could stop them.
“It’s a big cabin. There’s probably a couch or—” She looked around.
One bed. One very large, very inviting bed.
A small love seat by the window that might fit a child comfortably.
“Okay, there’s not a couch. But we’re adults.
We survived a near-death experience together. We can share a room for one night.”
Dakota’s jaw tightened. “Jayden—”
“I’m not kicking you out into a storm. End of discussion.” She picked up the bag—his bag—and set it on the floor. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the . . .” She looked at the love seat again. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Not happening.”
“Then we’ll flip a coin.”
“Or, like you said, we could both be adults and share the bed.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “It’s big enough. Stay on your side, I’ll stay on mine. We’ve already held hands through a near-crash landing. I think we can manage a mattress.”
Her face went hot. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, shutting out the storm.
Jayden looked at the bed. Looked at Dakota. Imagined the night stretching ahead of them.
This is fine, she told herself. Everything is completely fine.
And so, the lying continued.