Dakota lay on the love seat, staring at the woven bamboo screen he’d closed between them.
The cushions were too short. His legs hung off the end at an awkward angle. A wicker support beam dug into his shoulder blade. In about two hours, his back would form a knot, and by morning, he’d be moving like an arthritic seventy-year-old.
He didn’t care.
The nightmare still clung to him—the heat, the dust, the moment when everything went wrong. But worse than the dream was the memory of waking. Of grabbing Jayden’s wrist hard enough to bruise. Of seeing his own wildness reflected in her eyes.
Did I hurt you?
No. You’ve got a strong grip, but I’ve had worse from overeager handshakes.
She’d made it sound casual. Like being grabbed by a man twice her size in the middle of a nightmare was no big deal.
What kind of hotel inspector had experienced worse?
The question circled back, insistent. The way she’d talked him down—calm, steady, knowing exactly what to do.
Decent negotiating skills for a hotel inspector.
So yeah, there was something more there, but that was a question for tomorrow. For daylight. For when his chest didn’t feel like it was being squeezed in a vice.
The rain drummed steadily on the roof. Beyond the screen, he heard her breathing settle into sleep rhythm. Soft. Even. The sound of someone who’d finally let go.
And despite everything—the nightmare, the shame, the love seat slowly torturing his spine—something in Dakota’s chest loosened.
Blame doesn’t help anyone.
He’d spent six years blaming himself. Six years running threat assessments on everything, trusting nothing, making sure he never missed another detail that could get people killed.
But lying in the darkness, listening to her breathe on the other side of the screen, Dakota felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Safe. Not in a way that turned off his inner radar, but . . . maybe in a way that loosened the fist around his heart.
Because somehow, with her on the other side of the screen, the ghosts had receded. The weight in his chest had lightened.
He closed his eyes. This time, the dreams stayed away.
Dakota woke to pale light filtering through the windows.
He lay on the love seat for a moment, cataloging the damage. His vertebrae were rusty hinges. His legs had gone numb.
Worth it.
He sat up carefully, testing each joint. Peeking around the screen, he could see the bed—rumpled sheets, abandoned pillow wall, no sign of movement. She was still asleep.
He grabbed his things and slipped out quietly.
The morning was impossibly beautiful. Storm-washed and clean, the air smelling of salt and sun and paradise.
Made a guy sort of not want to leave.
The main lodge was already buzzing with activity. Storm-stranded passengers clustered around the front desk, voices raised in frustration. Yes, flights were being arranged, but all were overbooked—might be days before they could get a seat.
Dakota found a corner table and tried to figure out his next move.
He needed to get to Sydney. Ham was expecting him. And if their guess about something going down while President White was in Sydney was right, they had just under a week to land this.
He pulled out his phone, started searching for options. Private charters were astronomically expensive. Cargo flights didn’t take passengers. The commercial airlines?—
