I’m cutting it with the world’s dullest plastic knife, when my phone, which I swear I’m not checking, nudges my thigh like a chicken, which are many around here. I cave and switch airplane mode off for approximately thirty seconds.
A string of messages from Maeve come through, and the most recent of them are links to the latest news.
“State Favorite Suspends Exploratory Committee.” “Philanthropic Donations to Newside Project Announced, and They’ve Never Been Larger.” “Rumor Mill: Golf Club Altercation Between Famous Architect and Possible New Senator. Who Won?”
I choke on a chunk of mango. Not because of the donation headline—though that’s a doozy—but because the altercation rumor uses the word ‘architect.’ Is that aboutmyarchitect?
The mango turns sour in my mouth.
I drop the phone into the hammock and stare at the strip of ocean. The breeze smells like salt and algae, and I try to breathe the complicated out of me.
I’m engrossed in a meditation when a shadow falls over my ankles, and a familiar voice cuts through the salt air. “So, this is your plan? Trading New York for mangos and sand fleas?”
I jerk so hard the hammock swings and almost knocks me down into the sand. After trying to blink a few times, I still can see Noah, standing here like a hallucination in a wrinkled shirt,with damp hair pushed off his forehead and shoulders slumped slightly forward as if he’s in pain.
He’s holding a dust bag in one hand and a garment bag in the other, and somehow he looks both larger than life and, dare I say, uncertain.
For a full three seconds, I am many different people at once: the one who runs, the one who throws the mango at his chest, the one who climbs him like a palm tree, and even the one who bursts into tears. I end up being the one who snorts.
“You flew to Bora Bora,” I say, because my brain is on fire and this is the only thing that pops out.
He smiles. “I bonded with a middle seat and a man who ate at least three onions before boarding. All of us are very close now.”
The ridiculousness of it makes my lips twitch slightly. I sit up and swing my legs over the side while the hammock’s still swaying.
He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t fill the silence with his usual noise, which comes from his loud presence. No. Something else is happening—he doesn’t crowd me this time. And when he finally speaks, the words come out stripped.
He squares his shoulders, probably bracing for his speech and begins. “I was wrong. About everything. About my mother. Well, not about my mother, but about how I acted and spoke to you about my mother. About drawing lines around you and still asking you to step over them for me.”
I fold my arms over my chest so I don’t reach for him, even though I want to. Very much. “You flew across an ocean to say you were wrong?” Even though it seems pretty big if I do say so myself.
“And to give you these.” He lifts the bags in the air. “One is yours. The other is… not a gift.” He grimaces at himself.
I slide out of the hammock and stand; staring up at him is making me feel small and starstruck, even if he’s trying reallyhard to meet me where I am. Which is a hard thing to do because Noah King is extraordinary. Nothing changes when I stand up. He’s much taller than me even in the office when I’m wearing sky-high stilettos, and here, with me barefoot, I have to crank my neck up.
The effect I expect from standing up ends up being totally the opposite. The moment I am next to him, I feel small but in a bad way. I feel small like a person who wants to accept protection from someone they trust. And despite everything that happened, I realize that I trust Noah because he makes me feel safe.
“What’s in the not-a-gift?” I ask, eyeing the garment bag.
“The Executive,” he admits softly. “Maeve said it’s always been yours, which I realize sounds like a trap, because of rule number one. This—” He holds up the dust bag. His mouth tightens. “—is your grandmother’s. I got back the Chanel.”
My throat goes tight. “How?”
“A trade,” Noah says, his voice even but a bit shy—I’ve never heard that cadence from him before. “With the clerk you asked for the favor. Tori? I gave her what she wanted, and she gave me the bag.”
I blink at him, trying to process this information. Noah King, master of the universe, traded something for my grandmother’s bag. For me. A strange mix of gratitude and disbelief melts the first piece of ice around my heart.
“Why?” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the ocean breeze.
He takes a step closer while his eyes never leave mine. “Because it’s yours. Because you shouldn’t have had to give it up in the first place. Because I shouldn’t have created a work environment so hostile that you needed to hawk your own things to satisfy my demands.”
My breath catches in my throat. This man, this infuriating, arrogant, impossible man, flew across the world to right a wrong I was prepared to fix myself.
“Noah, I… I don’t know what to say.” The words come out as a helpless croak, and I hate that I sound so unsteady, but it’s his fault—he’s the one standing here with this impossible offering of something more than just a bag. We both know that.
My hand hovers in the space between us before I slowly let it drift forward. I carefully accept the bag, glance inside it, and pull the bag out. The leather is cool and buttery, the gold hardware catching the harsh tropical sun the moment it’s out of the darkness.
When I finally look back up, his gaze is pleading and direct. I don’t know what he wants from me, but I do know what he’s giving. He is offering his pride. Maybe his heart? Definitely his dignity, which is everything for a man like Noah King.
