by Katy Ames
“I don’t understand,” she finally said.
“This.” He waved at the table, then her. “Whatever this is, I don’t do it. I eat with Mark and Grace, or I eat alone.”
“You eat alone,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Tristan frowned. “Why?”
“Why do you eat alone? I can’t imagine you lack opportunity.” Was she imagining it, or did his mouth actually quirk at that.
“Opportunity?”
“Look,” Tessa continued matter-of-factly, “you’re a good-looking, successful man who, barring a tendency to take food that doesn’t belong to him, appears to be relatively well-mannered. At least when you aren’t showing up uninvited at people’s houses.”
“I explained that—”
Tessa waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. What I’m saying is that you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who has to work hard to get a date. So, why do you eat alone?”
“It’s better that way.” His answer came so fast he obviously didn’t have to think about it.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?” Nope, she’d definitely been wrong. That wasn’t a smile. Just the start of another frown. This one a little sadder than the ones before.
“Are you finished?” Tristan pointed at her bowl, ignoring her question.
“Uhh.” Tessa blinked. His bowl already in his hand, Tristan stood up and looked at her empty one before taking it with him to the kitchen. Tessa followed, confusion, wine, and exhaustion making it difficult to track what had just happened.
He was already rinsing the dishes when she caught up with him. “I, uh,” she stuttered, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t.”
“You don’t have to leave so soon.” She hadn’t invited him, had never thought she’d want him to stay, but something about his obvious intention to leave bothered her. Something was definitely troubling Tristan, and she suddenly hated that he was dealing with it alone.
“You didn’t even want me here.” His shoulders were straight, his profile as neutral as she’d ever seen it. She hadn’t offended him; he was kicking himself out.
“Tristan. Stop.” This time, when she touched his arm and he jumped, she didn’t pull away. “Whatever you were going to say, whatever you were thinking, you can tell me.”
His jaw was rigid and Tessa watched it flex as he considered. His hands were still buried in the hot water when he turned and bent his head towards her.
Their faces were so close Tessa felt his breath catch the whips of hair that had dried and curled against her temple. That close, Tessa had no hope of avoiding his eyes. Framed by thick black lashes, the color stood out in contrast to the rest of him. His hair, his clothes, it was all black. Even after weeks on the island and what she could only assume was hours in the ocean, Tristan’s skin showed no flush of a tan. He was naturally fair, a complexion she guessed would turn ruddy when too hot or cold, flares of color high on his cheekbones. But the only color she could make out at that second were dark smudges beneath his eyes, like he’d gone months, maybe longer without sleep. And above them, those intense, almost wild eyes.
Tessa had never seen icebergs in real life, but she imagined they were the same color as Tristan’s eyes. A crystalline blue, bright and sharp and ancient, frozen beneath a wash of ice, the surface dulling the vibrancy of what was far beneath. She half expected them to be cold, verging on lifeless. But, as she looked into them from only inches away, Tessa felt an unexpected warmth spread through her.
Nothing about this beautifully, painfully still man was lifeless. It was there, flickering, buried beneath a shield thicker and harder than she’d ever seen.
Years later, Tessa wouldn’t be able to describe it, the certainty that fell over her as they stood in front of that tiny sink in her staff apartment on the outskirts of that luxury hotel, her hand just shy of trembling against the skin of someone who was little more than a stranger. But she didn’t have to understand for it to be true. Tristan Hurst needed someone. A friend. A person to listen to him even when he didn’t speak, to sit with him when all he wanted to do was run. Someone to stand on the shore and make sure he came back.
Tristan Hurst needed someone and in that second the truth slammed into Tessa, almost knocking the wind out of her. She wanted to be that someone. She wanted to be his friend.
If he let her.
“You can tell me,” she repeated, her voice softer, eyes locked on his.
Slowly, like he didn’t want to startle her, Tristan pulled away. “I will not.”
“Why?” she pushed.
“Because you really don’t want to know.”
“But—”
“I have to go.” He was halfway to the door before she could stop him.
“Wait.” She grabbed the remaining bags of food from Jo’s and hurried after him. “At least take the food. You barely ate.”
He didn’t turn around. “I’ll be fine.”
Tessa watched the door swing shut behind him. What the hell just happened? She’d barely wrapped her head around the past forty-five minutes when her phone rang, causing her to jump.
Food forgotten, Tessa looked at the screen. Of course, he would call now. Tessa silenced her phone and ignored the voicemail notification, all of the comfort from Jo’s delicious stew washed away by the stark reminder that she had responsibilities on the island that had nothing to do with her kitchen.
Worn out and weary, Tessa settled into bed. The lost look in Tristan’s eyes haunted her long after she closed her own.
7
He called twice the next morning. If she didn’t answer, he’d never leave her alone.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Tessa. Didn’t think you’d pick up.” He sounded deflated, as usual. Shady deals, the threat of bankruptcy, and a disinterested wife would do that to a guy.
“How are you?”
A heavy breath, then, “Fine.”
He was always fine. Even when he wasn’t.
“How’s Mom?”
“You know. Out.”
She was always out.
Tessa blew wisps of hair off her face. “What’s up, Dad?”
“Nothing much.”
Tessa stopped mixing the batter and leaned her hip against the counter. “Dad. You’ve called three times in the last twelve hours. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to talk last night. Something came up at work. But I’m here now. What’s going on?”
She could practically hear the gears in his head cranking. Plotting, trying to find the best way forward. She was surprised when he just came out and asked, “Have you heard from him?”
Asking “who” was pointless.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Right after I arrived. Again two days ago.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He wanted to make sure I’d arrived, told me to get settled. Let me know he’d be in touch later. When it’s time.”
“Please, Tessa. Do as he asks. Do whatever he asks.”
Tessa clenched her jaw. Of course she was going to do what he told her. And he wouldn’t be asking. That was the deal they’d made. The deal she’d been forced to take, despite the threat it posed to her friendship with Grace and her new life on the island.
Of all of the days to visit her parents, Tessa couldn’t figure out why she’d picked that particular one. Couldn’t figure out how she’d decided to break her rule of never visiting them on the day their glossy lives had thoroughly cracked in half.
She rarely saw her mom and dad. Despite having lived in the same city almost her entire adult life, Tessa had distanced herself from them ever since returning from culinary school. They hadn’t approved of her career choice. Still didn’t, as far as she knew. Jacob, Managing Partner at McMillan & Associates and his beautiful, socialite wife, Beverly, didn’t think that their darling daughter was living up to her potential as
a poorly paid baker. It didn’t matter where she worked or how good she was, Tessa had been a disappointment to them ever since they’d discovered that she’d been skipping piano practice every morning to apprentice at a bakery in Little Italy.
And now their darling, disappointing daughter was the only thing standing between her father and ruin. And her grandmother and something far worse.
“I told him I would. Told you the same thing. I’ll keep my promise, Dad. You don’t have to keep calling.”
“I just wanted…” His sigh was so deep Tessa almost felt sorry for him. But not quite. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’ll be fine. Same as you.” Tessa didn’t try to hide her bitterness.
“If you’re sure.”
Tessa stabbed her spoon into the now-flat batter. “Anything else? I have to get back to work.”
“Uhhhh, have you had a chance to, um, make the transfer?”
Of course. The money. It wouldn’t be a conversation with her father unless they talked about the money. Tessa managed not to throw the spoon across the kitchen.
“It should clear by the end of the week.”
“Oh. Oh, great. Thanks so much.”
His relief only made her angrier. “Look, Dad, I really have to go. Call if you have any problems with the account. Otherwise…” She trailed off, don’t call again hovering on the tip of her tongue.
Her father made it unnecessary. “Gotta get back to work myself. Thanks again. You have a great day.”
He hung up before she could say goodbye.
* * *
Tristan read the message for the third time, his frown deepening after every pass.
You’re right. You are out of practice. Meet me. Kitchen. 7 PM.
Then, minutes later.
P.S. Finger licking prohibited.
He didn’t recognize the phone number, but it didn’t take much to figure out who’d sent the texts.
Grant and the workmen were talking through the complications of a sunken support structure, but Tristan couldn’t stay focused.
The answer to her invite should’ve been easy.
Yes.
A single word he’d typed often enough. With the right women, on the right nights, when casual company was the only thing that would drown out the pounding in his head. Both of them.
A tremor went down Tristan’s spine when he remembered the way she’d looked at him the night before. She been cautious, but curious, her eyes and her questions tempting him to stay when he knew the only right answer was to run.
Tessa was the exact opposite of casual company, which was why Tristan’s response consisted of two letters, not three.
Decision made, Tristan tried to refocus on work. His relief was short-lived.
Just as Grant was explaining how they were going to reinforce the exterior wall of the grotto against the weight of the damp sand, Tristan got another text. One he couldn’t ignore.
* * *
“Peter?” Tristan searched for the head concierge in the restaurant’s main dining room. The man had been a fixture at the resort for decades and knew the place inside and out. He was also the staff member Grace trusted most, which was why, despite it being completely out of his wheelhouse, she’d asked him to keep an eye on the restaurant’s renovation while she was away, with the caveat that he called Tristan if they hit any major snags.
When he found Peter, the older man was staring up at a gaping hole in the ceiling. It looked like a definite snag to Tristan. “Problem?”
“Definitely.”
When Tristan followed Peter’s gaze he was surprised to find a patch of blue sky instead of the underside of the roof. “I’d say.”
“They were trying to hang a light fixture, found the ceiling was soft. So they opened it up and discovered a leak.”
“They discovered that? That’s huge. Someone should’ve noticed that a while ago.”
Peter shook his head. “No, that”—he jabbed his finger skyward—“is new.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A workman got too enthusiastic with a hammer. Hit one of the softer spots behind the tile and….”
“It crumbled.”
“Exactly.”
“Well.” Tristan felt the back of his neck tingle and balled his fists. At the rate this week was going, he’d rub his skin raw. At least, more so than usual.
“I’ll ask Grant to patch it today. We’ll need to figure out if the ceiling is damaged anywhere else before the storm arrives.”
“Agreed.” Peter turned to look out the windows that ran along the back of the restaurant. The ocean beyond was stunning. Calm. “We got an updated report this morning. Category 3, moving faster than expected. Could make landfall in a week or so.”
“That’s not a lot of time, but enough. We need to finish up some things at the spa then shift gears, get windows boarded up. Sandbags down to limit flooding in ground level rooms. Grant and his guys will help.”
“I’ve talked to some nearby residents. If we have spare hands, they could use the help.”
“Done. I’ll figure out a schedule tonight. We can start to get plywood, tarp, and sandbags distributed tomorrow.”
“Good.” Peter looked up again. “This was bad timing.”
“Especially since Grace’s furniture just arrived.” Tristan scanned the dining room, mentally inventorying the new tables and chairs that Grace had hand-picked for the restaurant. Thankfully, everything was still wrapped in a protective plastic covering.
“Bad timing for what?”
Tristan spun to see Tessa. She held one kitchen door open, a large mixing bowl propped on her hip. Her chef’s coat was partially unbuttoned and her decadent, dark hair was braided and fell across one shoulder. There was a smudge of what might have been chocolate across one flushed cheek.
She looked disheveled. And absolutely wonderful. Warm and soft, her mind still half-focused on whatever she was in the middle of making. A divine smell followed her from the kitchen, as if it belonged with her and nowhere else.
The scent threaded through Tristan’s lungs and his stomach hollowed out, giving him a sudden attack of vertigo. Tristan caught himself on the ladder the construction crew had left behind.
Peter was talking, his answer to Tessa’s question dulled by the hum in Tristan’s ears. It took more than a few seconds before Tristan identified the sensation swamping him. How in the hell?! No, that couldn’t be right. Could it? How could she possibly make him feel homesick?
For the first time in almost twenty years, since he’d been sixteen, while staring at a woman he barely knew, Tristan felt a yearning cascade through his body with such subtle power he swore his organs slowed, stilled, and then thrummed back to life at a frequency that was entirely foreign. And wholly fucking disconcerting.
This was insane. He needed to look away. To leave. To do anything to escape the soul-shifting emotion rolling through him.
You can only run so far, you know.
Fuck logic, fuck his brain. But it wouldn’t shut up.
You knew you wouldn’t be able to escape forever. You knew you’d start to sink eventually….
Tristan gave his head a rough shake, dismissing the warning. But not because of this. Not because of her.
“Tristan?” Tessa’s voice cut through the hum. “Peter said the storm is coming?”
“Where did he go?” Peter was gone and Tessa was watching him, her face pale.
“He had to do something.” Tessa’s fingers were white against the bowl. “What’s happening with the storm, Tristan?”
“Category 3 hurricane. Expected to make landfall in a week.”
“Are we going to be okay?”
Tristan was headed towards the exit, anxious to be anywhere she wasn’t, but the fear in Tessa’s voice stopped him. “What?”
Tessa tapped her fingers against the bowl, an erratic tattoo trembling in the large room. “The storm.” Her eyes flicked out the windows. “Are we going to be ok
ay?”
Christ, she was terrified. Even from across the room Tristan could see it. Her complexion was sallow. Her mouth was thin and tight, and her eyes were darting between his in a way that told Tristan she wasn’t seeing a thing.
“Yes.” It was the only answer he could possibly give. Tristan could barely stomach the fear in her eyes. He wasn’t going to do or say anything to make it worse.
“You’re sure? You’ve been through this before, you know what to do?”
He moved closer, her hands easily within reaching distance. But Tristan didn’t touch. You aren’t allowed to touch.
“Not here, no. But I’ve weathered my fair share of storms back home. And Peter and the rest of the staff have been through this more times than they can count. We’ll prepare the buildings to minimize damage as best we can, and we’ll make sure everyone moves up to higher ground, if it becomes necessary.”
Tessa’s gaze was still unfocused and Tristan noticed one foot had joined the tapping action.
“Tessa.” He reached out and stopped just shy of her hand. The motion caught her attention and she straightened, some of the haziness clearing from her face. “We’ll be fine. You,” he clarified, “will be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” Tristan had no clue where the impulse came from, or why he sounded so certain, but his need for her to believe him sprang from deep down. “I’ll make sure you’re safe, Tessa. I promise.”
Tessa looked slightly more relaxed, but her frown lingered. This time, it was aimed directly at him.
“You don’t believe me?”
Tessa tilted her head, the end of her braid sliding over the slope of one breast. The simple motion had a different kind of reaction bolting through him.
“I believe you.”
“Then why the face?”
Tessa gave him one last hard look before returning to the kitchen. “I believe you. I just don’t understand you.”
Tristan followed her to the room’s central island. “What does that mean?”