Tessa twisted her wet hair into one towel and scrubbed herself dry with another.

Her feet were sore, a burn on her index finger throbbed, and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed. It was six in the evening. She had enough time to eat some cereal, drink a glass of wine, and read a little before she passed out. Tessa closed her eyes in relief at the thought of more than eight blissful hours of sleep in her immediate future.

She had her sleep shorts on and was pulling a loose tank over her head when she heard the knock at her door.

She must have imagined it. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

The knock came again. Looking through the peephole, Tessa jumped back when she caught sight of a dark swath of hair and one ice blue eye behind it.

She forgot all about the towel on her head, or the lack of bra underneath her shirt, and opened the door.

“Mr. Hurst?”

“Tristan.” The one word was as dark as his facial expression.

Tessa started to close the door, too tired to deal with whatever weirdness this was, but he stopped it with one broad hand.

“Sorry.” He didn’t smile, but the frown was gone. They considered each other through the gap before he lifted his other hand. “Dinner?”

“Are you asking if I’ve had any or if I want some?”

Tristan looked down at his feet before meeting her eyes. The furrow was back. “I brought you some. Mark asked me to have dinner with you.”

“Huh. So Mark asked you if you’d have dinner with me, but neither of you asked if I wanted to have dinner with you. Didn’t realize you guys had a mini dictatorship going on here.”

The line between Tristan’s eyes deepened and Tessa wanted to laugh. He looked so uncomfortable. She was about to send him on his way when she caught a whiff of whatever was in his bags.

“Assuming I go along with this demand to feed me, what did you bring?”

Tristan handed her the food. “Dinner from Jo’s. Fresh seafood stew.”

“It smells amazing.”

“Everything Jo makes is amazing.”

Tessa wanted to stick her face into the bags and breathe deep. The stew smelled so good and she was starving. After an entire day in the kitchen, she had no desire to cook for herself. It was either this or a bowl of cold cereal. Her stomach grumbled, making its preference known.

Tessa opened the door wider. “Have you eaten?”

“No.”

Something about the way his eyes tilted down at the outside corners made Tessa’s heart pinch. She wondered what it would take to make them crinkle in a real smile.

“Here’s the deal,” she said, ignoring how much she enjoyed having his attention—so focused, so serious—all on her. “I’ll forgive this weird dinner ambush, on two conditions.” When he nodded, she continued. “One, you never do it again, either of you. And, two, you eat with me.”

“You’re sure?”

“About which part?”

“Either. Both.” For a second the sheen of indifference was gone and Tristan actually looked flustered. “The second part, I guess.”

“Sharing with you? Yeah, I’m sure.” Tessa waved him into her apartment. “Feels like there’s a lot of food in here. I’m starving. And from what little I know about you, you’re always hungry. Well”—she thought back to earlier in the day and her face fell—“almost always. No sense letting something that smells this good go to waste.”

She dropped the bags on the kitchen’s two-person breakfast bar and pointed to the cabinets. “Bowls, plates, spoons in there. Wine glasses too. Wine in the fridge. White okay with you?”

Tristan shrugged. She assumed that meant yes.

“You get everything set up. I’ll be right back.”

Tessa shut her bedroom door, pulled her arms out of her tank and put on a bra, before yanking it back down again. She ripped the towel off her head and wrapped her still-wet hair into a bun. She didn’t bother with anything else. She was starving and Tristan had crashed her house after hours. He was getting the bare-footed, wet-headed, makeup-free Tessa.

When she came back minutes later, Tristan had relocated everything to the small table that occupied one corner of the apartment’s relatively spacious living room-dining room combo. It was in front of the sliding glass doors that opened to a small balcony. The view wasn’t anything amazing, certainly nothing like what guests got at the resort. They were across the street and a little higher up on the peak, so the tips of the resort’s buildings were visible through the lush greenery. If Tessa looked carefully, she could occasionally see a glimpse of ocean when the palm trees swayed in the same direction at the right time.

The stew was already in the bowls and Tristan had found cloth napkins somewhere in the kitchen—she’d have to ask about that one—and had poured them wine.

Tessa hesitated before sitting at the place he’d set for her. “You didn’t want to eat in the kitchen?”

“I like this view better.”

“What view?”

“Any view outside.”

It was an odd answer, but Tessa wasn’t going to push. She had more important things to focus on. She’d heard wonderful things about Jo’s Cafe from Grace. It was a local favorite and the owner, Josephine, was a legend. Fresh food and Caribbean flavors cooked to perfection. If the smell was anything to go by, Grace hadn’t been exaggerating.

Tessa took her first sip and hummed in delight when the warm flavors hit her tongue. It was perfection. And exactly what she needed after a long day. Tessa kept her noises of appreciation to a minimum in the kitchen. They were distracting and unnecessary. If she was doing her job right, everything she made should evoke a reaction. But at home, she didn’t hold back. Little sighs and moans followed every sip, the warmth of the stew relaxing every exhausted muscle in her body.

After several minutes of silence, Tessa realized her dinner companion hadn’t moved. “Lose your appetite?”

Tristan was looking at her, something indecipherable in his eyes. The crease between them was gone, but one hand was locked behind his neck and, if the tension in his forearm was anything to go by, his fingers were dug deep.

“Tristan?” Nothing. Tessa laid down her spoon and touched his arm just above his elbow. That got his attention. He jerked back so fast he almost knocked his bowl off the table.

He was about to stand up, his large frame vibrating with an unnamed tension. Tessa looked at him, confused.

“Tristan,” she tried again, careful not to touch him. “What’s wrong?”

“I…uh…” Whatever he was trying to say dissolved into nonsense, his eyes wide and unfocused. He hovered halfway between sitting and standing. Tessa took it as a good sign that he hadn’t run straight out the door.

“Sit. Eat.” She moved his bowl away from the edge and tilted her head towards the spoon. “It’s wonderful, as promised. Hands down some of the best comfort food I’ve had in ages.” She watched him as she spoke, her voice calm, like she was trying to coax a wild animal out of hiding. Which, at that second, didn’t feel far from the truth.

Tessa returned her attention to her bowl, wanting to give him the space he obviously needed. Staring wouldn’t help. Better to give the guy a second to regroup after…well, whatever that was.

She relaxed when Tristan resettled in his chair. A few strained seconds later, he began to eat.

Tessa was nearing the bottom of her bowl when he spoke.

“Sorry. I…”

His head was bowed, his gaze fixed on his food. The spoon was balanced in one hand, but Tessa didn’t miss the fact that the other was gripping the table tightly. When he looked up, his eyes met hers immediately. The depth of the sadness she saw there would have knocked her down if she hadn’t already been sitting. As it was, Tessa had to force her stomach to not reject the stew she’d just eaten.

Tessa opened her mouth, about to say something—anything—but Tristan shifted. When he looked back, his eyes were flat, neutral, all emotion gone.

“I don’t do this often. Must be a little rusty.”

“This?”

“Dinner. With people.”

Tessa fell back in her chair and gaped at him. She couldn’t help it. There sat one of the most strikingly handsome men she’d ever met, scion of a powerful family, successful in his own right. Tristan Hurst embodied everything she expected a classically accomplished man to be. Yes, his hair was a touch longer than Wall Street types typically sported. And his all-black wardrobe was an odd choice for life on a tropical island. But everything about him spoke of grace and power and a preternatural understanding that the world and women would bend to his will. The idea that he didn’t eat “dinner with people,” as he put it, on a regular basis was laughable.

“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.