But outside, he fell into step beside her.
Not because she needed guarding, but because he suddenly needed to see what she’d do next.
6
“Waves are peaking wrong,”Ryder murmured, voice almost lost to the wind.
Ivy bent to lace the heavy boots they’d been issued for the tour.
“Storm’s moving in faster than forecast,” Wyatt agreed.
The weather had shifted since they’d landed. Clouds scudded too fast across the sky, riding low, as if the horizon itself were dragging them under. The sea had that restless pitch Ivy remembered from childhood that warned you to respect its mood.
As a child, she’d counted seconds between lightning and thunder, thinking she could predict disaster if she listened hard enough. Now she knew better. Storms didn’t care how ready you were. They just came.
Ryder stilled, scanning the horizon. Shoulders squared. Jaw tight. Stillness born of instinct, not thought. There was something anchored about him. A man tuned to nature’s rhythm.
He hadn’t said more than a handful of words to her since landing. And now, up close, she noticed more. The wind catchingthe ends of his hair, tugging them into a curl. The rough shadow of stubble along his jaw. Lean hips, stacked shoulders. Not just muscle—substance.
Unshakeable. Capable. A man built for storms, not small talk.
Her pulse lurched. She blinked hard and looked away, heart thudding as if she’d leaned too far over the rail.
“Shall we begin?” Sinclair gestured toward the stairs leading down to the main deck. His smile gleamed—polished and insincere, like gloss paint hiding tarnish.
“That would be great.” Her voice came too fast. She was absurdly grateful for the distraction—for anything to cool her skin and lower her pulse.
The tour unfolded with the same corporate choreography as a hundred others—Sinclair flanking George, spouting stats and safety records with rehearsed ease.
Ivy hung back. She always did. It gave her the opportunity to notice anything they hoped she wouldn’t.
Fresh paint where there should’ve been months of salt-weathered wear. Safety signs that looked like they’d been bolted in yesterday. Work zones hidden behind ‘Maintenance in Progress’ tarps, angled just so to block sight-lines.
A show?
If this investment was supposed to protect her people—not just shuffle money around while problems rotted underneath—she needed truth, not performance.
Her steps slowed at a junction where pipelines converged, the connection points showing subtle signs of stress.
Boots scraped behind her. Someone else had noticed too.
Ryder had fallen back, matching her pace. Not hovering, not crowding—just there. Silent.
She finally snapped. “What, I need a chaperone now?”
He drew level with her, hands in his pockets, eyes on the same joint she was studying. “No. You don’t.” His head dipped. “Most inspectors would’ve missed that stress seam.”
The compliment landed like a sucker punch. When she turned, he was watching her with respect. Genuine respect. Heat climbed the back of her neck.
“What—didn’t expect me to hold my own?”
His mouth tipped at one corner, making him far too handsome. “Honestly? Figured you’d bail after the first whiff of crude. But then you started quoting displacement loads like a drill sergeant who actually did the math.”
Her lips betrayed her with a hint of a smile. There was something dangerously appealing about his directness. No polite deflection. No corporate varnish. Just blunt assessment with a dry edge.
His expression shifted, eyes narrowing. “You gripped that tablet pretty hard when you said seventy-five families. Like if someone called bullshit, you’d throw the whole rig at them.”
The observation cut straight through. She prided herself on control, on never letting anyone see what it cost to hold the line. But his words landed too close, too sharp. Raw, as if the air itself scraped against her bare skin. She crossed her arms to cover the ache, exhaling hard.
