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“Come on,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him.His voice drops just enough to make the invitation feel intimate, almost dangerous.“Let’s fix this mess.”

And for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I follow him.Maybe it’s the way his fingers brush my elbow, barely there but electric or the way his gaze lingers like he’s imagining things he has no right to.

I fall into step beside him, my pulse quickening, every nerve in my body on high alert.Whatever this is, whoever he is, I know I should walk away.

But I don’t.

Eamon

The Maldives.

A paradise for the rich, the reckless, and the desperate.I fit none of those categories—or so I tell myself.This place is a long way from Dublin, from the cold streets where my life is carved into stone, every move planned, every decision calculated.But some jobs aren’t about strategy.Some jobs are personal.

That’s why I’m here.

The deal isn’t complicated.A meeting to exchange money for information.No weapons, no bloodshed, just cold, hard leverage.It’s a simple enough task that one of my men could’ve handled.But this isn’t about efficiency.It’s about making sure the message is delivered face-to-face.They need to know I haven’t forgotten.That no one crosses me without consequence.

I should’ve finished hours ago.But nothing about this trip has gone as planned.First, the local contact was late.Then, their price went up.And now, the final confirmation is taking its sweet damn time to come through.My patience is wearing thin.

The resort around me feels like a mockery.Everything is pristine, artificial.The kind of place where couples sip champagne in infinity pools and pretend they’re happy.The type of place where people think they can escape their problems because they paid enough to leave reality behind.

Not me.I don’t drink the champagne, don’t watch the sunsets, and definitely don’t attend the nightly beach parties.But my business brought me here, and until it’s finished, I have to endure the noise.

The glow of torches and the thrum of music spill across the sand as I cut through the edge of the party.It’s unavoidable, as its the fastest way back to my villa, where I can finally get some goddamned quiet.My phone buzzes in my hand—a message from one of my lieutenants confirming the transfer is complete.About bloody time.

This deal has been a thorn in my side for weeks.But instead of satisfaction, I feel the familiar hum of tension, a sense that nothing is ever truly finished, not in my world.

I glance down at my phone to reply, the glow of the screen illuminating my hands.The music from the party thumps in the background, a mix of bass and laughter, and I remind myself I shouldn’t be this close to the crowd.

My eyes stay fixed on the screen as I type out my reply, not bothering to look up as I cross the packed pathway.And that’s when it happens.

It’s not a subtle bump or a brush of the shoulders.It’s a full-on, body-to-body collision that jolts me out of my focus.

“Jesus,” she curses, the frustration spilling over as a Gaelic curse slips past her lips.“Adhiabhal.”

“I’m so sorry.”I look up, and whatever else I’d planned to say dies in my throat.

She’s stunning, though that feels like too simple a word.Long red hair cascades over her shoulders, catching the torchlight and gleaming like liquid fire.Her green eyes, wide with surprise, burn brighter than any emerald, holding me in place longer than they should.She’s curvy but toned, the kind of figure that suggests strength and softness in equal measure.

Her purse has spilled onto the sand, its contents scattered.Keys, lipstick, and a small wallet, but my attention doesn’t linger there.Her drink, a vivid orange concoction, has tipped, spilling down the front of her barely-there white swimsuit.The liquid clings to the thin fabric, highlighting every curve as it soaks through.

My first reaction is irritation, the kind that flares hot and fast.But the second?Pure, unfiltered desire.She’s angry, and somehow, that only adds to the effect.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mutters, brushing at the mess as she glares up at me.

I crouch down without thinking, scooping up a lipstick tube and brushing sand off it before handing it back to her.“My fault,” I say, straightening to my full height.“I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Her gaze flickers over me, sharp and assessing, but she doesn’t seem intimidated.“You think?”she snaps, wiping her arm with a futile swipe.

“I’ll replace the drink,” I say, unaffected, slipping my phone into my jacket pocket.“And anything else I ruined.”

“You can start with my outfit,” she says, glancing down at the sticky mess on her cover-up.

A soft chuckle escapes me before I can stop it, the sound deep and low in my chest.Her fire amuses me.

“Eamon,” I say, holding out my hand.

She hesitates, her sharp green eyes narrowing slightly as though she’s trying to figure me out.I can tell she’s suspicious.She should be.After a moment, she takes my hand.Her grip is firm, her skin warm against mine.