Chapter 38
THE DOOR BETWEEN US
NOLAN
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, gripping the edge of the bronze sink.
Right now, it’s the only thing holding me upright.
My face is ghostly pale, my hair damp around the edges from the water I’ve splashed to cool myself down, and there’s a faint, humiliating pink flush crawling up my neck that screams: “Hey, remember that time you puked in front of literally everyone?”
I thought I hit rock bottom before this. But apparently, rock bottom has a new name, and it’s Projectile Vomiting Over the Side of a Luxury Boat While Your Ex, and Her New Boyfriend Watch.
And I saw it. The moment. That fleeting second when Chloe moved forward, as though some residual reflex of caretaking kicked in. Like she cared. But Jackson’s hand shot out fast, fingers snapping around her wrist, pulling her back as though I was some charity case he didn’t want her pitying.
Which is hilarious, because if she had come over, I probably would’ve thrown her overboard right after my dignity.
Oh, and let’s not forget the pièce de résistance—Rorie, front row to witness my tragic downfall.
She saw me in all my glory, kneeling like a Renaissance painting gone horribly wrong, clutching my stomach, heaving dramatically while everyone else pretended not to notice. Real damsel in digestive distress energy.
Except her.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pretend not to notice. She watched.
And now, I have to face her.
Fantastic.
Taking one last deep breath, I wipe my face with a paper towel, square my shoulders, and open the door. Fuck it.
The salty island air hits me immediately. It’s threaded with tropical blooms I’d appreciate more if my stomach wasn’t still threatening a second performance.
The resort is stunning. Smooth lines, whitewashed walls, and open spaces that frame the sparkling ocean making it part of the décor.
Stepping into the lobby, I scan the space, and yep.
There she is.
Rorie stands near the check-in desk with her team. That gorgeous black hair is pulled back in some effortless twist, a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head, and bag casually slung over one arm.
She’s trying not to look at me. But the faintest glance comes my way before she catches herself and then pretends I’m invisible.
But I’m not invisible. Am I, Rorie?
There’s that tiny shift in her posture, the way her jaw tightens just a little. She’s trying her best to ignore me, but the pity’s still there, softening her features, neatly tucked behind her indifference.
I don’t want her pity. Although pity means she’s got a heart.
And a heart I can work with.
A voice cuts through the room. “Welcome to White Thorn Island!”
We all turn as Asher Cross strides into the lobby with his broad shoulders, perfect hair, his presence filling the space, showing us he was born to own it. Dressed in a linen shirt and pants, he looks like he walked straight out of one of his movies.
Beside him, Shelby Davidson stands sun-kissed and airbrushed down to the molecular level.
That silk dress she’s wearing probably took three fittings and a brand sponsorship.
Every strand of her honey-blonde hair is in its place, her nails are painted an expensive neutral, and her expression is a perfect blend of boredom and mild amusement, as though she’s watching a reality show where she already knows the winner.
Asher flashes his signature million dollar smile that could sell out an entire theater, one that’s both warm and devastating.
“Welcome to paradise.” His voice is smooth as the ocean breeze slipping in through the open-air lobby. “We’re thrilled to have you here. Our staff will assist you with check-in. Inside your welcome packets, you’ll find everything you need, including your room assignments.”
His gaze sweeps over the group, lingering on each of us to make it feel personal. But when his eyes land on Maya, they hold a beat too long. Not obvious. Not overt. But enough that I wonder who else notices. Because, isn’t he dating Celeste Monroe?
Not that people are monogamous.
Hence, Chloe.
“Dinner is at eight,” he continues, voice cracking. “Island casual for dress. We’ll go over event details then, but until that, take the day to explore, rest, or just soak it all in. You’ve earned it.”
I glance at Rorie again. She’s nodding politely, her arms crossed. I bet she’s already running through how to use every spare minute between now and dinner to get an edge.
Squaring my shoulders, I head for the check-in desk, my gaze catching hers for a split second.
I smirk.
Yeah, I puked my guts out. But I’m still coming for you. Because I may have lost my lunch. But I’m not losing this account.
Or you.
The walk to our private cottages is a slow march to purgatory—if purgatory came with handcrafted bamboo railings, lush jungle landscaping, and ocean views that would bankrupt a poet.
Each cottage is its own secluded, stilted duplex perched off the sand, complete with a shaded porch, swaying hammock, and an outdoor salt water pool designed for sin. Or soaking up the rays. Whichever one prefers.
I prefer sin.
Rorie sticks close to her team, who are flanking her. Personal bodyguards.
Laurel’s got the bulldog stride. Maya radiates cool, calm energy—silent assassin chic. And Jeremy is clearly there for comedic flair and dramatic commentary.
They’re mid-conversation, and Jeremy’s arms are flailing dramatically as though he’s giving an infomercial on the perils of airport fashion or the superiority of mini toiletries.
Maya rolls her eyes but doesn’t bother hiding her smirk. Rorie cracks a grin before glancing away.
My team hangs back, trailing a few steps behind. They’re on full vacation mode, ready for happy hour instead of a corporate blood battle.
Jackson’s busy whispering into Chloe’s ear, his hand grazing her lower back. Thatcher’s scrolling through his phone, already bored with the entire trip. Rishi’s flirting with one of the resort staff, teeth and charm. The man has no shame.
Tammy trudges beside him in five-inch wedges and a look that says I hate sand, people, and this entire damn island.
The phantom of that boat ride still curdles in the pit of my stomach—a ghost of nausea—but I ignore it. I’ve got bigger things to focus on.
Such as Rorie’s shoulders stiffening every time she knows I’m near.
I like that reaction from her. A little tension.
A little heat. Tells me I still get under her skin and not in the polite, pass-the-salt way.
In the way that makes her breath hitch and heart rate spike. I can feel it. It makes my dick pulse.
I move my carry-on bag in front of me, silently ordering him to stand down as we weave through a series of palm-lined pathways, the island buzzing and the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance.
One by one, people start veering off as they find their cottages. Key cards beep. Doors click shut.
But not us.
Rorie and I keep walking.
Eventually, it’s just the two of us left, the silence between us thicker than the humidity.
We reach the end of the pathway where the last cottage stands with two doors side by side. Room twelve and Room thirteen.
I stare at the numbers for a beat, then glance over at her.
She’s already looking at the door, key card in hand, doing her absolute best to pretend I don’t exist.
I can’t help myself.
“We’re neighbors,” I say. “Guess fate’s got a sense of humor.”
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even flinch. Just slides her key card through the reader, the door beeping as it unlocks. She disappears inside without a word, the door clicking shut behind her like punctuation.
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. Cold.
But somehow, it makes me grin.
I unlock my own door–lucky number thirteen–and step inside, greeted by a rush of cool air-conditioned perfection.
The room is… well, really nice.
High vaulted ceilings with exposed wooden beams, modern décor mixed with tropical touches that aren’t tacky. Light linen fabrics, rich wooden accents, and a massive king-sized bed that could swallow me whole.
A welcome basket sits on the dresser filled with fresh fruit, champagne, and what I assume are hand-rolled chocolates that probably cost more than my first car.
The bathroom’s even better. A rainfall shower with glass walls, stone tiles straight from an architectural magazine, and—because apparently luxury has no limits—a small shelf labeled “Pillow Menu.”
But it’s the second shower head that catches my attention. Detachable, mounted just right, an indulgence most people wouldn’t think twice about.
But I do.
My mind goes straight to Rorie on the other side of that wall, alone in her own suite, probably as restless as I am.
Will she use it?
Would she tilt her head back and let the hot water glide over her clit?
Will she think about that night? About the way she rode my fingers, desperate and wanting, her body completely unguarded for once?
My cock’s already halfway to mutiny.
Hell, if she doesn’t use that shower head, I might have to.
Equal opportunity, right?
On the counter, is a list of sleep gummies.
I’ll definitely be taking advantage of those later.
I make a mental note to subtly bring all this up during our pitch.
People eat this shit up—customizable comfort, personalized experiences.
I can weave it into our presentation, sell the idea that Asher isn’t just offering stays… he’s offering lifestyles.
I wander back toward the main room, still taking it all in, when I notice a door.
Not the front door. Not the bathroom door.
A connecting door.
I stare at it, tilting my head slightly—
and grin.
Clearly, the universe has decided to throw me a bone. Or the gods are drunk and in a good mood.
Either way, I’m not wasting this blessing.
Stepping closer, I press my palm against it, then lean in until my ear is flat against the cool wood.
I can hear her.
Soft rustling, the faint shuffle of clothes, the muted thud of a suitcase being set down. She’s moving around on the other side, completely unaware that I’m eavesdropping like some creep.
What’s she doing?
Better yet—what will she be doing…tonight? Alone. In that big bed. After her shower. In the shower.
No, man. I shake the thought off, and step back before I get blue balls again, or take matters into my own hands.
Needing air, I head toward the sliding glass doors leading out to the private patio. The sun’s casting a glow and painting everything in gold-dusted heat. A hot tub bubbles in the corner, steam curling lazily into the thick, tropical air.
Just beyond it, a long, crystal blue saltwater pool reaches to the edge of the deck. The glassy surface reflects the sky, tinted orange and violet by the dying light. It’s private. Serene. Too calm for the storm building under my skin.
I slide the door open, stepping out just as—
Rorie does the same.
She freezes for half a second, clearly just as surprised as I am. The layout’s design is meant for families who want the option to drift between spaces. A small partition separates the patios, but there’s an opening—a shared gate of sorts—that leads between both hot tubs.
“Our patios are connected,” I say. I’m an idiot. Of course they are. She can see that. Clearly.
Her eyes meet mine, assessing. She’s deciding whether to acknowledge me or pretend she’s gone temporarily blind.
I lean casually against the frame of my door.
“Well,” I say, my voice smooth and a little too pleased, “Guess fate’s got two senses of humor.”
She doesn’t dignify me with a response. Instead, she spins on her heel, storms back inside, and slides the door shut with enough force to rattle the glass.
Can’t say I blame her. If our roles were reversed, I’d have slammed the damn thing twice.
Winning her back won’t be easy. But she’s worth every slammed door. And I’m not going anywhere.