I raked a hand through my hair. Gripped. Pulled until it hurt.
When I'd made that threat to Mr. Kahale, Aria and I were enemies. We could barely stand to be in the same room. The idea that we would ever be anything else, that she would ever look at me the way she'd looked at me last night, that I would ever feel about her the way I felt right now?—
It hadn't even occurred to me. Not as a possibility. Not as a fantasy. Nothing.
I'd been so sure I was going to lose. She had everything. The history, the heritage, the genuine connection to this place. All I had was money and ambition and a name that meant nothing to an old man who'd already turned down seven offers.
So I'd done what I always did. Found an angle. Applied pressure. Made sure I had leverage, because leverage was the only thing I'd ever been able to count on.
And then everything changed.
And I forgot. I actually forgot. The threat had faded into background noise, irrelevant, because suddenly all I could think about was her. Her laugh. Her eyes. The way she challenged me, pushed back, refused to let me get away with anything.
I'd fallen in love with her, and I'd forgotten that I'd already planted the bomb that would destroy us.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Margaret. Probably calling about meetings, about the life waiting for me in New York, about all the things that used to matter before Aria Kealoha walked into a principal's office and turned my world upside down.
I ignored it.
I couldn't operate. I couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but sit in this room that still smelled like her and wonder how I was supposed to keep breathing.
I was supposed to fly out tonight. I called the pilot and rescheduled. I couldn't leave. Not yet. Not while I could still feel her essence around me, not while some stupid part of me kept expecting her to walk through the door and tell me it had all been a misunderstanding.
It wasn't a misunderstanding. It was a betrayal. My betrayal.
I spent the day wandering the hotel like a ghost.
The garden where we'd kissed behind the hibiscus. The ballroom where I'd pressed her against the wall, dust motes floating around us. The kitchen where the chef had caught us stealing leftovermalasadasat midnight and just smiled and looked the other way.
Every corner held a memory. Every memory was a knife.
I ended up on the beach.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon, painting everything gold and orange and pink. The same colors as the first night we'd stood here together. The night I'd told her I wanted her. The night she'd taken my hand and whispered that she wanted me, too.
I sat in the sand and watched the waves roll in. Roll out. Roll in.
Footsteps behind me. Slow. Uneven. The tap of a cane against packed sand.
I didn't turn around.
Mr. Kahale lowered himself onto the sand beside me. It was a production, lots of grunting and careful maneuvering of elderly limbs. I should have helped him. I didn't move.
"I hear she left," he said.
"Yes."
"Actions have consequences, Mr. Dubois." His voice was mild. Almost gentle. "I thought you would have learned that by now."
I didn't answer. There was nothing to say.
We sat in silence for a while. The waves kept their rhythm. The sun kept sinking. A bird dove into the water and came up with a fish.
"You love her."
It wasn't a question.
