Chapter 3
Evening Tide
The wind rattled the shutters as Lena let herself into her bungalow, clutching a half-empty clipboard and her ever-present resort-issued walkie-talkie. It smelled of citrus cleaner and sea salt—comforting, if sterile, but hers. All hers.
She glanced around as she kicked off her shoes at the door, letting her aching feet flatten against the cool tile with a grateful sigh. Her own cottage. That still amazed her, the way her new bosses gave her a promotion rather than firing her. Maybe, just maybe, she had found her place.
She tossed her clipboard onto the coffee table and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since the power went out. It had been a long shift. The kind that left her shoulders knotted and her jaw sore from smiling through gritted teeth.
Minx meowed from her perch on the windowsill, ears laid back as she flicked her tail at the storm-darkened night, the stars and moon hidden behind the angry clouds roiling overhead like something out of a horror novel.
“Don’t give me that look,” Lena said, nudging her heels aside before walking barefoot across the room; the smoothness soothing her tired soles. “I didn’t see you sweet-talking irate guests by candlelight.”
She scratched behind Minx’s ears, enjoying her silky fur and the vibration of a reluctant purr, then paused when she noticed the twitch in her cat’s tail—that telltale flick that meant something had her attention.
“You heard it too, huh?” she whispered, peering out into the darkness.
Thunder boomed in the distance, closer now, making the windows shudder in their frames.
Lena kissed Minx on the head, breathing in the comforting scent of her cat—sunshine and powder—before turning and lighting the large candle on the kitchen counter.
The flame caught and steadied, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
Just in case. “Don’t worry, Minxy, the storm will pass. They always do.”
She padded to the refrigerator, the hum a slight comfort in the flickering candlelight, and poured a glass of wine—cheap Pinot Grigio in an actual glass, thank you very much. Small victories.
She flopped on the sofa and flipped through the pages on her clipboard. Guest complaints, rescheduling notes, a reminder to reorder pool towels. Her eyes skimmed past it all and landed on the note she’d scribbled for herself:
Don’t let today make you forget who you are.
She’d written it during a bathroom break, locked in a stall after an irate guest had screamed at the front desk about the inconvenience of nature itself.
She leaned back into the plush pillows, glass cool in her hand, the wine crisp and tart on her tongue, and closed her eyes. The cushion gave as Minx jumped up next to her, settling against her thigh with a contented rumble.
Once upon a time, she would’ve curled up and cried after a day like this. But not anymore. Not after Chester. Not after rebuilding from scratch. She was still standing. Still fighting. A stressful day at work didn’t compare to what she’d already survived.
She’d come a long way in a few weeks. When Chester fired her—no, when he’d destroyed her—she’d thought she’d lost everything.
And of course she had. He’d taken her job, her savings, her reputation.
The bastard ensured everyone in their industry heard his version of events, painting her as incompetent, unstable, and a liability.
But thanks to Emma, the best friend in the world, she’d landed on her feet. Gotten a job at this fabulous resort. Then got a promotion to Interim Front Desk Manager. She intended to do everything necessary to ensure it was a permanent position. She needed it. She’d earned it. She deserved it.
She wandered to the small table by the window where her seashells sat in a little glass bowl.
Each one collected on a walk after surviving a bad day.
They were a promise, a private ritual. One shell for every time she hadn’t run away.
Larger ones, the ones that didn’t fit in the bowl, marched along the windowsill like tiny soldiers standing guard.
If the storm weren't lingering, she’d be out on the beach now, searching for another.
She cocked her head and studied the large shells, running her fingertips over the ridges of a conch, feeling the smooth spiral inside. She should put them outside on the porch. They’d look great out there, lining the railing, catching the morning light.
A new one—a dusky pink scallop, delicate and perfectly intact—lay drying on a napkin. She’d picked it up this morning, before the sky went eerie, before the storm rolled in and twisted everything sideways.
Lena added it to the bowl, arranging it just so among the others.
“Another day, another shell,” she murmured.
The storm outside raged. Lightning danced through the clouds as thunder rumbled, a growl that reverberated in her very bones. Mother Nature was irritated.
A massive streak of lightning cut across the sky, forking down to the water in jagged brilliance, and for a second, the flash lit up the path that led toward the beach—and she thought she saw a shadow disappear behind the trees.
Her heart skipped, then sped up, her heartbeat loud in her ears.
Probably Groundskeeping. Or David.
David.
She wouldn’t put it past the stubborn genius to be crawling around in the storm trying to fix the generator with chewing gum and a dream, those clever hands working magic on wires and circuits while rain poured down his face.
She sipped her wine, but the image refused to leave her mind.
As she headed to the bathroom to change into sleep shorts and wash off the day, her thoughts lingered on David.
The way he’d been in the lobby earlier—focused, fierce, unshakable.
His shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal unexpectedly sexy forearms corded with lean muscle, a smudge on his jaw that she’d had the wild urge to wipe away.
The intensity in his eyes when he’d looked at her, really looked at her, and asked if she was okay.
For a heartbeat too long, she wondered what his hands would feel like on her skin—those talented fingers that made keyboards sing, that moved with such precision and confidence. Not fixing a power grid, but exploring her curves, tracing the dip of her waist, the slope of her hip…
She caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror and rolled her eyes hard. “Get a grip, Harris. He’s your boss.”
Her reflection stared back at her, flushed from the wine or the thought of David’s hands—she wasn’t sure which. Either way, it didn’t matter. She’d been down this road before. Chester had been her boss, too. Look how that turned out.
No. Absolutely not. David was off-limits. Completely, entirely, permanently off-limits.
Even if he possessed a half-smile that flipped her stomach inside out. Even if his voice, calm during the chaos of the blackout, wrapped safety around her in a way she hadn’t felt in years. Even if—
“Stop it,” she told herself firmly, splashing water on her face.
She wasn’t that person anymore, the one who trusted easily and believed in the goodness of people. She’d learned her lesson. Had it carved into her bones.
Never again.
The storm was leaving, its low grumbles fading into the distance, moving off toward the mainland.
Minx chirped from the bed, curling into a ball, tail draped over her eyes.
Lena climbed in beside her after ensuring her phone and walkie were charging on the nightstand, getting ready for whatever crisis tomorrow might bring.
Her fingers brushed a seashell—another pink scallop—on her nightstand as she clicked the lamp off. The room plunged into a hush broken only by wind and waves, and the patter of rain on leaves, a lullaby from the retreating storm.
She closed her eyes, but David’s face floated behind her eyelids. Those sea-blue eyes. That quiet competence. The way he’d touched her shoulder when passing her in the hallway, a gesture so fleeting she might have imagined it, but the warmth of it lingered for an hour afterward.
“Off-limits,” she whispered into the darkness, like a mantra. “He’s off-limits.”
Minx purred against her side, and Lena focused on that instead—the steady rhythm, the simple comfort of not being alone.
She’d survived Chester. She’d survived losing everything.
She could survive a harmless crush on her boss.
She had to.