4. The Donation List
Chapter four
The Donation List
Graham
By Wednesday afternoon, three of the millionaire guests were no longer speaking to each other over smoked brisket.
Which, unfortunately, was not even the dumbest crisis on my schedule.
“I’m simply saying,” Boone Ashcroft declared loudly from the pool cabana, “that Texas barbecue represents civilization.”
Across from him, billionaire yacht owner Vincent Moretti scoffed into his sunglasses.
“Civilization does not involve meat sweating.”
“It’s called seasoning.”
“It’s called hypertension.”
A third donor lifted his cocktail.
“I’m vegetarian.”
Nobody acknowledged him.
A fourth millionaire at the end of the cabana slowly raised a hand.
“I’m gluten-free.”
Boone stared at him
“That feels unpatriotic.”
I stood beside the outdoor service station mentally calculating how much tequila Azure Palms had left before sunset.
Not enough.
Definitely not enough.
“Mr. Mercer!”
I turned toward the concierge desk where one of the newer staff members looked alarmed.
“There’s a woman asking if the resort has an emotional-support peacock.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
“Did she bring one?”
“…Possibly.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell her island regulations only allow registered service animals.”
The staff member hesitated.
“What about emotional-support reptiles?”
I stared at him.
“Why would you ask that question unless there’s already a reptile involved?”
“…There’s a lizard in the gift shop wearing a diaper.”
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
Before I could investigate the probable reptile situation, someone slid onto the stool beside me.
Cologne. Expensive watch. Too-white smile.
Brandon Pike.
Tech millionaire. Thirty-two. Had used the phrase “monetizing leisure” at breakfast.
A difficult man to love.
“You’re hard to pin down, Mercer.”
“I move quickly.”
Brandon smirked.
“No seriously. Nobody seems to know anything about you.”
“That’s generally how employee privacy works.”
“You former military?”
“No.”
“Trust fund?”
“No.”
“Divorced?”
I blinked once.
“That escalated unexpectedly.”
Brandon laughed.
“I’m just trying to figure out your angle.”
“My angle?”
“You’re the only guy here not competing.”
Ah.
There it was.
The real issue.
Around us, the donors had unofficially transformed the week into a ridiculous masculine peacock contest.
Boone flew in specialty barbecue sauce from Texas. Vincent arranged a private yacht dinner. Another guest imported live Maine lobster. Someone else hired fire dancers.
Yesterday one of them tried to outbid another for decorative lantern placement.
Decorative lantern placement.
One hedge-fund manager had also attempted to commission a custom resort scent called “Alpha Tide.”
Piper banned it immediately.
Meanwhile I’d spent the morning arranging emergency plumbing repairs in Cabana Nine.
Life was strange.
And getting stranger the closer we got to the end of the summer.
“I don’t need to compete,” I said simply.
Brandon grinned slowly.
“That’s either confidence or hidden wealth.”
“Or exhaustion.”
“That too.”
He leaned closer.
“So off the record…”
“No.”
“I didn’t ask yet.”
“You were about to.”
Brandon laughed again.
“You know, most resorts would capitalize harder on this mystery thing.”
“We’re not most resorts.”
“No kidding. Your women guests actually seem happy.”
That surprised me enough to pause.
He wasn’t wrong.
Every year Azure Palms attracted the same kind of women:
hopeful
tired
curious
burned out
lonely
adventurous
Women who spent most of the year taking care of everyone else.
Women who needed one week where somebody took care of them.
Some came chasing romance fantasies.
Most left with friendships instead.
That was Piper’s doing.
The sisterhood atmosphere. The buddy system. The safety culture. The feeling that women could exhale here.
It mattered.
More than the publicity. More than the donations. More than the billionaire guessing game.
And maybe that was why I protected the resort so fiercely.
Because places where people felt genuinely safe were rarer than they should’ve been.
Brandon studied me carefully.
“You really care about this place.”
Before I could answer, a voice cut across the courtyard.
“Graham!”
Piper hurried toward us carrying a clipboard, two room keys, and what appeared to be sheer determination keeping her upright.
Her messy bun was losing structural integrity. Again.At this point it qualified as a recurring weather event.
One pencil was somehow stuck through it sideways like emergency architecture.
“Please tell me you know how to drive a shuttle bus.”
“I know enough to fear them.”
“Well congratulations because Eddie accidentally backed ours into a decorative fountain.”
I exhaled slowly.
“Of course he did.”
“The fountain fish survived.”
“That’s comforting.”
She pointed her clipboard toward the lobby.
“And one of the influencer girls wants to know whether ‘sunset sadness’ counts as a medical emergency.”
Brandon nearly spit out his drink laughing.
Piper finally noticed him.
“Oh. Sorry. Hi.”
Brandon offered a charming smile.
“Brandon Pike.”
“Piper Bennett.”
“The famous innkeeper.”
She blinked.
“I’m famous?”
“In this place? Absolutely.”
Piper looked deeply suspicious of that statement.
Smart woman.
Brandon gestured toward me.
“We were discussing your mysterious property manager.”
“Oh good,” Piper deadpanned. “My favorite group activity.”
“You don’t think he’s secretly rich?”
She looked at me like the answer was obvious.
“Please. Graham wears the same six polos in rotation.”
“I own more than six,” I muttered.
“You absolutely do not.”
Brandon laughed harder.
“See?” Piper continued. “That man argues with maintenance invoices like they personally insulted his ancestors.”
“I like organized spending.”
“You once lectured a guest about leaving patio lights on.”
“Sea turtles get confused.”
Brandon stared at me.
“…You really did that?”
“They were LED lights,” I defended.
Piper folded her arms triumphantly.
“Secret billionaires do not hold emotional grudges against utility bills.”
“You’d be surprised,” Brandon said.
Piper pointed at him immediately.
“That sounds like something a billionaire would say.”
He looked delighted.
“Am I winning?”
“Currently? No. The cowboy barbecue guy has momentum.”
“Mostly because he called somebody ‘partner’ during a shrimp argument,” she added.
“Excellent.”
She glanced back at me.
“Anyway, I need you at the marina after this. One of the excursion boats smells weird.”
“That is an aggressively vague problem description.”
“It smells haunted.”
Brandon lost composure entirely.
Even the bartender bent over laughing into a blender.
Piper smiled sweetly.
“Welcome to Azure Palms.”
Then she disappeared back toward the inn office in another whirlwind of sunshine and paperwork.
Two guests immediately turned to watch her walk away.
One sighed wistfully.
“She seems emotionally moisturizing.”
I paused.
Brandon blinked.
“…What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know,” the woman admitted. “But I stand by it.”
Brandon watched Piper go.
Then slowly turned back toward me.
“Ohhh.”
I stiffened immediately.
“Oh no what?”
“You’re gone.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“For her.”
I grabbed the donor itinerary stack before I accidentally strangled someone with it.
“You’re imagining things.”
“Buddy.” Brandon lowered his sunglasses. “You looked at her like she invented happiness.”
I began walking toward the concierge office.
“That seems medically impossible.”
Brandon followed.
“So are you ever gonna tell her?”
My grip tightened slightly on the paperwork.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because some people deserved uncomplicated lives.
Because Piper deserved the version of the world she’d built around herself.
Light. Safe. Joyful.
And I wasn’t sure my truth fit inside that world.
Not with the attention associated with my name.
Not with the attention.
Not with the scrutiny.
Not with the pressure.
But before I could answer, movement inside the office caught my attention.
Aunt Vivienne stood beside my desk.
Waiting.
That alone was concerning.
But the expression on her face?
Worse.
Much worse.
“Excuse me,” I told Brandon immediately.
He took one look at Vivienne and backed away like a sensible man.
Smart.
Very smart.
I stepped into the office.
“What happened?”
Vivienne closed the door behind me.
“The donor ledger is missing.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Not because of the ledger itself.
Because of what it connected.
The ledger.
Names. Donations. Contracts. Guest records. Private commitments.
The entire operational backbone of the fundraiser week.
“That’s impossible,” I said quietly.
“I checked twice.”
I moved toward the filing cabinet automatically.
Empty.
Cold realization slid down my spine.
“When did you last see it?”
“This morning.”
“Who’s been in here?”
“Staff. Donors. Delivery teams.” Vivienne’s voice sharpened. “And at least three women pretending to ask about spa reservations.”
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
I opened drawers quickly anyway even though I already knew it was pointless.
Gone.
Vivienne watched me carefully.
“This is not random.”
“No.”
Someone had taken it intentionally.
Which meant:someone was digging.
And if the wrong person connected:
the donor list
the fundraiser structure
the ownership trail
…everything could unravel at once.
The resort. The tradition. Outside the office, laughter drifted from the courtyard.
Music. Ocean breeze. Vacation happiness.
Meanwhile my pulse had turned into controlled thunder.
Vivienne folded her hands over her cane.
“We handle this quietly.”
“Yes.”
“No police yet.”
“That’ll raise suspicion.”
“And panic destroys reputations faster than truth.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I exhaled once.
Thinking.Calculating.Prioritizing.
Then something caught my eye near the baseboard beside the trash can.
Tiny.White.Torn.
I crouched immediately and picked it up.
Paper corner.
Heavy stock.
Recognizable.
Part of the donor ledger.
Vivienne’s face hardened.
“Well,” she said softly.
I stared at the torn fragment in my hand.
Someone hadn’t just stolen the ledger.
They were looking for something specific.
Suddenly this week stopped feeling ridiculous.
For the first time all week, I stopped worrying about billionaire guesses, flamingos, and donor drama.
The wrong person finding the right information felt a lot more dangerous than any vacation game.