Tristan didn’t fight the current.

He’d taught himself long ago to enjoy the feel of it pulling him farther and farther from shore. It was a rebellious sort of freedom, giving in to something he had no power to control.

There, in the ocean, Tristan wasn’t himself. At least, not the man people had come to know, the Tristan he was forced to be when his feet were cemented to dry earth, sculpted and hardened by expectation and his family name and a pain that was still so sharp, so palpable he couldn’t understand why, all these years later, he had yet to bleed out.

Tristan stared up at the clear Caribbean sky and wondered, like he so often did, when the wound would finally turn fatal. He spread his fingers wide across the soft, salty surface and didn’t wince when his brain idly answered that this would be as good a place as any. Better, perhaps. Here it would be peaceful. Here, he’d just sink below that beautiful sea, the warmth of the sun dimming, the light around him fading, his limbs moving without purpose. His heart finally too broken to keep beating.

Not that he sought it out. Nor did he enjoy the idea that the day would, in fact, come. But Tristan was aware of its inevitability. He couldn’t expect to keep living as he did. As he had for twenty years. It was impossible. He was constructed of tender flesh and malleable muscle, same as everyone else. No matter how hard and well-polished his facade, he knew the vulnerability of his own body. His own soul.

No person, woman or man, could spend so long forcing themselves to feel so little and possibly survive. Tristan knew one day it would come crashing down. The past, the pain. The truth he couldn’t yet force himself to find. It would break against him and drag him under, drowning him for sure. A tsunami he’d be helpless to fight.

That was one of the reasons he enjoyed the ocean so much. He was an infinitesimal speck on the oldest, most powerful thing on earth. Floating up and down, relinquishing his body to the water, the threat growing inside of him, day by day, nothing compared to the strength of the sea.

His cousin sensed it in him, the storm swelling to dangerous proportions. Mark had been adamant about Tristan coming to the island. Best friends their entire childhood, Mark knew Tristan better than anyone. At least he had until that awful night, the night that had driven Tristan away. But the distance of years hadn’t broken the cousins’ connection completely, and Mark had seen how life at Hurst Corporation had drained him.

Each day working for his father had been another step closer to Tristan disappearing completely. Not in body, but in mind. In heart. In his ability to live. So Mark had dreamed up a way to save him. He’d created a home for Tristan on the island.

Tristan wasn’t the only reason Mark had started his hotel venture, nor was he the reason his cousin had purchased that specific resort. Mark was waging his own war with Maxwell Hurst, and the new company was only one volley in an ongoing battle. But neither man was sure which infuriated the family patriarch more: the fact that Mark had gone rogue, independent of any input or permission from the Hursts; or that he’d provided Tristan a haven away from his father in the process.

Tristan closed his eyes and tipped his head back, enjoying the feel of the water breaking across his face. He was far enough from the beach that the surface was calm, just a long stretch of blue between him and the next island. It was still early. A few boats were anchored farther out, fisherman hauling up lobster crates filled with the night’s dinner. If he looked back to shore, Tristan knew he’d see some runners on the sand.

He’d swim back soon.

This was his ritual, the start to every day. He’d escape on the water, drift away, his mind and body free for the space of an hour.

It was his refuge. His peace.

Then Tristan would turn, eyes shut, his face submerged beneath the surface, and he’d fight, propelling himself back to land. Legs kicking in tandem, arms reaching, muscles screaming, lungs burning, he’d measure his breaths for efficiency and speed and allow himself only enough air to stay afloat.

That’s when the water became his punishment. It was the trade he’d made, the payment his body required for all the things he refused to let himself feel.

And his return to the island? That was an act of survival, which, as Tristan knew better than most, was not the same as living.

* * *

Tessa watched from shore as the black-haired man broke through the final wave and stood up, sheets of water pouring off him as he walked onto the sand. The bright morning sun was dazzling on his wet skin. From her spot farther down the beach, Tessa stared in wide-eyed appreciation as the light tripped across the long lines of his torso, water funneling between his hard pecs and down over the ridges of his abdomen to where his swim trunks hung low on his waist.

If watching him eat was distracting, watching him emerge from the ocean, muscles still tight from exertion, was sinful.

She’d discovered his habit three days ago. Tessa was always up before dawn, an unavoidable part of life as a pastry chef. She was the first one in the kitchen, prepping dough and getting fresh loaves of bread into the oven. She was used to it and relished the solitude. And the magic of the early morning peace was stronger on the island. Even in summer, the breeze off the ocean was brisk, the air flavored with the salty tang the sun hadn’t yet baked away.

Almost at the end of her first week, Tessa had a routine. She woke up at four-thirty, brewed a cup of coffee in the small but well-appointed kitchen in her staff apartment, pulled on comfortable work clothes, and headed to the restaurant’s kitchen. Once the dough for the croissants was rolled one last time, cut, and shaped, she’d leave it for a final rest while the bread went into the ovens to bake.

When the first major tasks were done, Tessa had an hour all to herself. It had quickly become the favorite part of her day.

With a steaming cup of fresh coffee, Tessa would make her way across the elevated terrace that spanned the rear of the hotel’s main building, where her kitchen and restaurant were housed, and head down through the lower-level pools and out to a small stretch of unoccupied beach. She figured the reason it was always empty was because the new spa construction was underway just a few feet behind, the gaping hole in the back of the building not nearly as attractive as other parts of the property. But it was the view in the opposite direction she loved.

St. Kitts was visible far off to the right. But other than that short series of green peaks, Tessa could look out at mile after mile of open blue water. If she drew a straight line between her point on the sand and the next piece of land directly in front of her, it would be more than 1700 miles long, only coming to an end on the eastern shore of Belize.

Tessa had grown up surrounded by the concrete and high rises of Manhattan, a place that excelled at hiding the sun from the sidewalk. She loved it there, could still feel the energy deep in her bones. But not even the relative spaciousness of Central Park could compete with the wide-open expanse of the Caribbean Sea. Or the moment each morning when the sun lifted from behind Nevis Peak and broke across the water. It was like nothing she’d ever seen. One moment the sea and sky in front of her would be muted by the fading shades of night, only the farthest edges tinted pink with a hint of dawn. Then, in a blink, the sunlight would hit the water and everything would flare to life.

The sky would flush a clear blue, the ocean’s edge darker where the two met in the distance. Any clouds in the sky would form a perfect reflection in the still-smooth water, only to disappear as the sun rose higher and the morning light came closer and closer to land, sparks kissing every ripple of water along the way.

The resort was famous for its view of the sunset. But Tessa loved that minute of morning more. It was everything she’d ever hoped for when she’d left New York: brilliant, awe-inspiring, and just a touch terrifying in its magnificence. It was freedom. It was a new life.

And it was a moment she hadn’t known she was sharing until she’d seen him step out of the water three days ago.

Tessa had been sure she was the only one up. Certainly the only one out. The movement was far away at first, well past the jetties the hotel had built to create a protected cove in front of the beach.

She assumed it was a large fish, maybe even a dolphin arching out of the water. Excited, she’d jumped up, squinting, trying to get a better look. It was still far away when Tessa realized the rhythmic break in the water was caused by a pair of arms. She’d watched, coffee forgotten, as it’d gotten closer and closer.

For a second, Tessa had thought she’d lost her mind. It had been six at the latest and he must have been hundreds of yards from the shore when she’d spotted him. Yet he’d covered the distance back in minutes. The water beyond the jetties looked calm on the surface, but Tessa knew the current beneath could be fierce. To swim it mid-day was bold. To do the same before sunrise was borderline insane.

Maybe he was insane. He was definitely odd. The stranger hadn’t returned to her kitchen since the night of the omelet, at least not as far as Tessa knew. None of her food looked half-eaten, so she figured he’d stopped coming.

Tessa, however, hadn’t stopped watching him from the shore.

You’re just making sure he doesn’t drown, she lied to herself. She could swim, but if he had any problems in the water the best she could do was call for a lifeguard to haul him out. She definitely couldn’t.

Tessa shook her head, silently scolding herself. She enjoyed the company. Which sounded so strange. They didn’t know each other. They didn’t speak to each other. She didn’t think he knew she was there. And she didn’t even know his name. But seeing him every morning had become part of her routine, and Tessa was oddly comforted by it.

She swore it had nothing to do with how he looked stepping out of the sea. Tall, broad, built, the swim back was evidence that those ropes of muscle weren’t just for show. The control he had over his towering body was impressive. Just think what he could do to yours, her brain nudged.

“Shut up,” she muttered out loud, then slapped her hand over her mouth as the man turned in her direction. “Shit!” Tessa squeaked and dropped behind the rock she’d been sitting on. Time to go.

He was yards away, but they were the only two people visible for miles. It wouldn’t be hard for him to spot her, even amongst the rocks. Whoever he was, Tessa didn’t want to get caught staring. That would be beyond awkward. Even worse, it might mean she couldn’t do it again.

* * *

“He just sent a text. He’s on his way,” Caleb updated.

Tessa anxiously shifted a plate of scones on the counter. She wanted to impress Mark’s cousin, but she was annoyed that he was late. Tomorrow would be her one-week anniversary on the island and he hadn’t introduced himself yet. Tessa doubted Grace would be happy to hear that’s how he was managing things while she was away.

Plus, the scones were better when they were still warm.

“Ah.” Caleb turned as the door opened. “Here he is.”

Tessa was thankful the plate was already on the counter. It prevented her from dropping it on the ground.

It was him. The man from the beach. The man who’d stolen her cake.

“Tristan, come meet Tessa.” Caleb waved him over and Tristan stopped just feet away. He shook Chef’s hand before turning to Tessa.

“Chef Armstrong, a pleasure to finally meet you.” He didn’t smile. Not even a little. He just looked down at her from his imposing height.

“Tessa,” Caleb continued, unaware of how still she’d become, “this is Tristan Hurst, Mark’s cousin and the man in charge while Grace is away.”

The kitchen was her domain so, surprised or not, Tessa refused to be taken aback. She extended her hand. He wrapped it in his. “Mr. Hurst. So nice to meet you. At last.”

It’s possible she imagined it, but Tessa thought his hand flexed around hers. She wiggled free and slipped that hand, now burning, behind her back.

“I’m sorry.”

Chef gave Tristan an odd look as Tessa frowned at him. “Sorry?”

“Yes,” he answered, his voice smooth but flat. “I should’ve introduced myself before. I meant to.”

His blue eyes were darker than Tessa remembered. He was dressed head to foot in black. His black hair broke over his ears and tangled in his eyelashes. He’d never been chatty, but the times they’d been in the kitchen together he hadn’t been this…cold. Contained.

“It’s okay,” Tessa found herself saying. “I’m sure you’ve been busy. With the renovations.” She waved in the general direction of the restaurant. “And the spa.”

“Still.” He shook his head. “No excuse.”

Caleb coughed, thrown off by their awkward exchange. Tristan shifted but didn’t look away from Tessa. The crease between his eyes was deeper than ever.

“How is the storm prep coming?” Caleb’s question drew Tristan’s attention.

“Just started this morning,” Tristan answered, “but we should be able to get most of it done before the end of the week. Long before the storm is expected.”

“Storm?” Tessa looked between the two men, her anxiety back in full force.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Caleb responded. “We’re smack in the middle of hurricane season. Haven’t had any this summer, but forecast shows one a few weeks out.”

“Hurricane?” Tessa’s voice was noticeably thin and both men looked down at her.

“Yes,” Tristan confirmed. “But we’ll have plenty of time to prepare.”

That didn’t make her feel any better. “Hurricane?” Tessa found herself repeating. “As in really big, crazy storm?”

Chef chuckled. “We get them every year, Tessa, and we’re still standing. Everyone on property has been through the drill. We’ll board things up, make sure we’re stocked up on supplies. The hotel isn’t full. We’re rarely booked up during off-season for this very reason. And with the restaurant and spa out of commission, we’re at even lower occupancy than usual. The forecasters will have a better idea of the storm’s path by next week. The remaining guests will clear out before it arrives.” Caleb touched his hand to Tessa’s arm and she noticed Tristan’s eyes follow the gesture. “We’ll make sure everyone’s safe. Don’t worry.”

“He’s right,” Tristan said, stern. “No point in worrying about it right now, anyway. We aren’t even sure we’ll be hit.”

Tessa shuffled her feet. Caleb was looking at her with a teasing smile, like she was a little sister he enjoyed harassing but didn’t want to scare so much he’d get in trouble. Tristan’s expression, on the other hand, was blank. Not cold. Just…absent. Tessa felt herself blinking up at him, trying to reconcile this man with the one who had caused the flutter of appreciation in her stomach on the beach that morning.

Caleb continued, changing subjects, “Since you’re here, Tristan, you need to try these.” He offered him a scone.

Tessa broke away from Tristan’s gaze and only then did he shift towards the other chef. “No. Thank you.”

“Seriously, man,” Caleb pushed. “Tessa made them this morning. Lemon-lavender. We’re going to add them to the room service breakfast menu. Try them.”

“No, really. Nothing for me.” Tristan was already turning, ready to leave.

Tessa was so confused. He was refusing her food. Only days after she’d yelled at him for pillaging cake from the fridge. Oh, shit! She’d told him not to steal her food. She couldn’t possibly have pissed him off, could she? That’s not the impression she wanted to leave on Mark’s cousin, no matter how odd he was. Not good, not good, not good.

“Tristan.” Tessa reached out, but he was already too far away. “Mr. Hurst.” He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “I made them for you. If you don’t want to eat them now, take them with you. I can wrap them up.” She was already pulling a resort-branded to-go bag from beneath the counter when he shook his head. His hair feathered across his forehead, making her want to push it back.

“Thank you, Chef. But I don’t want them.” He retreated without another look, only stopping long enough to mutter, “Welcome to the Seven Winds,” before disappearing through the swinging double doors.

Tessa watched him go, clutching the plate of rejected scones.

Caleb shrugged before patting her on the back and grabbing a pastry for himself. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get used to him.”

Shock receding, Tessa frowned. That was the second time she’d heard that this week. First, from Grace. And now, from Caleb.

She’d get used to him? What if she didn’t?

Even worse: why did it feel like she wanted to?