“You’re absolutely certain.”

“Yup.”

“Has he moved any money?”

“Not yet, but I’m keepin’ tabs, to see if he tries.”

“Fuck.” Tristan leaned forward on the suite’s sofa, the knotted bones of his neck all but crushed beneath his grip.

“He knows we have eyes on him,” Dean said after a moment’s silence. “There’s no way he understands just how much we’re seein’, but he knows we’re out there somewhere.”

Tristan thought through the implications of what his tech guru and old friend was telling him. The churning unease made his gut burn.  

“That’s not what worries me. Listen, Max Hurst is a lot of things, but we both know stupid’s not one of them. So, he knows we’re keeping tabs on him, fine. He’d expect nothing less after the shit he’s pulled. Remember, retaliation is a game he knows well. But if he starts to dig too deep into her accounts—”

“He’s gonna realize you’re supplementing her income.”

“And the deal we made is that I stay away, in every respect. Tamsin gets to live her life out from under the fucking noxious cloud that is my dad as long as I don’t break any of his rules. And being in touch with my mom, financially or otherwise, is definitely against the rules. Fuck, Dean. The longer this takes, the more time Max has to poke around. Which is more time he has to plan something really, truly awful.”

“Shit, man.” Dean’s disappointment was tinged with sympathy. “I wish I had better news. But that fucker is damn slippery. Every time I think we’re close to hammerin’ in the final nail, he sneaks back out of the coffin.”

“Christ, Dean. That’s morbid.”

“Yeah, but accurate.”

Tristan dropped his chin to his chest and tried to measure the space between his heavy, offbeat breaths. “We’re running out of time. We have to find something that’ll stick soon. The Hurst Corporation annual audit is a month away. We have less than four weeks to find that proverbial nail and hammer it down hard.”

“I gotcha. Loud and clear, man. I’m on it. Twenty-four-seven. I told you I was all-in on this, and that hasn’t changed. I’ll get everything we need to take him down, Tristan. Swear.”

Tristan nodded, knowing his friend meant everyone word. “Thanks,” he finally said. “I know. I appreciate it. So do Mark and Jack. I’m just trying not to lose my mind here, Dean. And it’s getting harder, the longer this takes.”

“Copy that. Let me get back to it, man. I’ll text you as soon as I have somethin’.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Tristan listened to the call disconnect, holding the phone to his ear long after Dean hung up.

Nothing was going the way it needed to. Not that Tristan was surprised. That was par for the course with Max. But that didn’t help him feel any less fucked.

It didn’t seem to matter how long his father’s trail of shady deals was. Maxwell Hurst knew how to clean up after himself, and well. The most concrete evidence they had against him was from several months ago, when he tried to get Mark and Jack kicked out of their own company.

The betrayal had hit the partners hard. Max had been an original investor in D&A International. Mark had never wanted to rely on family money to get the company off the ground, but he and Jack had run out of options, and Max had offered. Nothing about it had seemed off at the time. Max’s investment came with some strict stipulations regarding company shares and position as chairman of the board. But it wasn’t unheard of for investors of that size to make special demands, especially when they were family.

But that didn’t make the friends feel any better when Tristan’s father screwed them over. Max had shared insider information about a proprietary product with their largest competitor, fucking over the launch and costing them tens of millions.

That hadn’t even been the worst part. The real blow had come when Max had tried to use the loss as a reason for the board to cast a vote of no confidence, effectively kicking the two men out of their own company. Mark and Jack had managed to stop the vote just in time, but they’d come incredibly close to losing everything they’d spent their entire adult lives building.

All because of Tristan’s father.

The same man who’d bribed the hotel’s former general manager to attack Mark—and Grace, who’d showed up in the wrong place, at the wrong time—just to prove a point. One that came at the end of a very long, very sharp machete.

Maxwell Hurst, reigning patriarch of the Hurst family, CEO of Hurst Corporation, billionaire, absentee husband, unscrupulous businessman, consummate liar.

Tristan’s former boss and the man he could barely call “Dad.”

But Max’s reign, however terrible, was about to come to an end. Assuming Dean could help Tristan, Mark and Jack get the information they needed.

Tristan cursed under his breath as he responded to Mark’s text:

Nothing yet. I can’t make it out before the storm. If we still don’t have the info we need after it clears, I’ll fly to NYC myself.    

It wasn’t just the shit with his dad that was getting to him. Fuck, he’d been coping with that for more than half his life. No, “coping” wasn’t the right description. Surviving.

It was the same survival instinct that currently had Tristan’s body screaming for a swim. The swim he told Tessa he wouldn’t take.

The storm was close. He could feel it. The added pressure made the air just a little too heavy, dragging his thoughts and heart down with it. The birds had gone to higher ground, the day eerily quiet except for the gusts of wind rattling the treetops. Everything about it made him even more restless. Tristan was dying for the distraction, for the feel of the water tugging at him, giving his body a fight.

He was desperate for the weight to pull him away from everything. From the fear they’d fail. From the risk that nothing would change. From the looming threat to Tamsin and the pain at the top of his spine that refused to go away.

From the clock his brain now used to track time between visits with Tessa.

From the disappointment at having canceled their dinner the night before because of last-minute storm preparations.

From the memory of her body cradled against his. From the way her skin always smelled slightly sweet, and the knowledge it tasted even better.

From her fear of the storm. From the fact that he couldn’t stop it from coming.

And, God help him, from the unsettling agitation Tristan felt every time he got close to her. From the single fact that had solidified—fast, fierce, and undeniable—when he’d been crazy enough to kiss the inside of her hand: that of the considerable things that Tristan had weathered in life, Tessa would be the one to finally drown him.

She’d warned him away from the water. But she was the one threatening to pull him under.

“Fucking ridiculous,” he muttered, tossing his phone aside. Tristan felt like the floodgates had opened. His concentration was shot. His mood was as black as it had been in years. Curses came out of his mouth every other word.

He wouldn’t go for a swim. He’d promised. But he sure as fuck was getting out of that room, and then he was going to take the longest, coldest shower of his life.

Tristan had next to nothing in the suite. His laptop and phone charger, because that’s where he had power. One change of clothing, in case he spent the night. And, thank God, the pair of running shorts he’d grabbed earlier that morning.

The knock came just after Tristan stripped off his clothes and pulled on the shorts. “For the fucking love of God.” Seriously, you gotta get your mouth under control.

Which would be impossible, Tristan thought, the second he saw who was at his door.

“What do you want?”

Tessa blinked a few times before her deep brown eyes narrowed. “That’s not a very nice hello.”

Tristan propped one hand against the frame, barring entry. “I’m not in a very nice mood.”

“Apparently.” Tessa ducked and came in.

Tristan stared blankly at the spot she’d just been before slamming the door shut. “Let’s try this again. What do you want?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Of course I’m okay.” He stalked over to the suite’s kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.

“You missed dinner last night.”

“I had work to do. Last time I checked, work was still more important than our little get-togethers.”

Tessa eyed him from the middle of the room. “You’re being an ass. You know that, right?”

“What gives you the impression that’s not how I usually am?” The question came out as a dull roar. Quiet, but menacing. Tessa’s fingers clenched around the bag she was carrying.

He took one step towards her. Even though she was some feet away, she took two small steps back.

“What makes you think,” Tristan continued, “that you know anything about me?”

Tessa’s lips parted on a small gasp. He was being an ass. The little voice in the back of Tristan’s head told him to shut up. To get himself under control. To find the thread of sanity that he usually clung to and hang on for dear life.

But something about the way Tessa was looking at him—face flushed, breathing rapid, confusion and hurt flashing through her eyes—had Tristan toeing the edge. He couldn’t get a solid grip on anything. And every emotion he’d choked down and buried deep, day after day, year after year, was bubbling up to the surface.

You have to get her out of here, that little voice started to shout. Get her out of here before you do something she’ll never be able to forgive.

“Do you think a few hours eating and drinking together makes you an expert on me?” he continued, voice cold. “Do you think because you convinced my cousin’s partner to bully me into being your friend, that we actually are?”

Tristan was close enough to Tessa that he could see her pulse spike in her throat.

“Do you honestly fucking think,” he pressed, “that I’m some fucking pet you can train and reward with treats?” He jabbed his finger at the bag all but crushed in her hands.

One more long stride and they were face to face. All of the color had drained from Tessa’s face and her eyes were glassy. But she didn’t back away.

Tristan’s chest heaved under his barely restrained temper. Sometime between her knocking on the door and this moment, he’d devolved, his fight-or-flight instinct kicking in. And in the minefield that was his battered brain and love-starved heart, this was the answer he’d come up with.

Fight until she flees.

“We’re not friends, Tessa.” Tristan didn’t look away when she flinched. Or when the sheen of her eyes dissolved and dripped down her cheeks. First one trail, then two. Tristan made himself watch. Saltwater was the cure for everything, wasn’t it? And if he couldn’t be beaten by the ocean, Tessa’s tears would have to do.

“We are not friends,” he repeated. “We are nothing to each other. Nothing other than two lost souls who ended up on this dead rock in the middle of the fucking ocean. Because that’s the one thing we do have in common, isn’t it?”

“Tristan?” She wasn’t blinking. Tessa stared at him, her bottom lip wobbling as more tears ran along her jaw and streaked down her delicate throat.

If Tristan put his mouth there she’d taste salty and sweet. Bitter and bright. He would be so wrong, and he knew she’d feel so right.

For the love of FUCK get her out of here, Tristan, before you scare her out of her mind!

“We’re both lost. Both running. Both hiding from something that will not leave us the fuck alone.” For the first time since she’d arrived, true panic darted through Tessa’s eyes. Genuine and unmistakable. And so strong Tristan almost grabbed her hand. As if he had any right. As if it could possibly help. “I don’t know what secrets drove you here, Tessa. But I do know mine. And believe me,” he said, his voice drained of all emotion, “they are reason enough for you to stay as far away from me as fucking possible.”

Tristan leaned down so they were eye level. If he’d been anyone else, his heart would have stopped. Killed by the shattered hope on Tessa’s face. But he was Tristan Hurst. And even watching the warm, brilliant, beautiful woman fall apart in front of him couldn’t destroy what hadn’t existed in a very long time.

“I suggest you start now.”

For one second Tessa didn’t move. She didn’t say a word or pay any attention to the tears staining her chef’s coat. Then, in a whirl of dark hair and sugared air, she ran out of the room.

Tristan stood there a long time, his mind blank, residual tremors shaking his bare chest. Slowly, his surroundings seeped back in.

“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!” Tristan hurled the forgotten water bottle across the room. It exploded against the glass balcony door.

Holy fuck, what have you done?  

“You did what you always do,” he answered that little voice. “You did what you needed to survive. You do not feel. You barely live. You cannot love. This is your reality. And you just saved her from it.”

Liar.

The word, the truth, the still air of the suite was suffocating and Tristan did the only thing he could. He fled. To the beach.

The sky had gone dark, the clouds rolling in off the horizon. The world felt heavy, the pressure falling further as the storm got closer. The waves that lapped at his bare feet as he ran were angrier than they’d been the day before.

Tristan catalogued all of those important details as, pace after pace, that little voice repeated. Liar. Liar. Liar.

The farther he ran from the hotel, the colder reality became. And the louder that little voice got.

You’re a liar, Tristan Hurst. You didn’t save Tessa. You scared her off.

You scared away the only person who’s ever made you want to save yourself.